UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  Leoni stalked from the room, still holding the iced tea glass. Crockett sighed and looked at Stitch.

  Stitch smiled. “I got a feeling this shit is about to get interesting,” he said. “That fucker is freaked.”

  “And I,” Irwin piped, as he and Clete walked into the room, “have a feeling that Mister Leoni and Mister, uh, Chewbacca is it?”

  “Wook,” Stitch said.

  “ And Mister Wook may engage in some revealing conversation when they are reunited in what they assume will be a sanitized office. Perhaps I should return to the motel and monitor their exchange.”

  Crockett nodded. “Good idea,” he said.

  Irwin stole a shy glance at Whisper. She strolled to the snack bar and gathered up a short white robe that was draped over one of the stools.

  “I’ll go with ya,” she said and headed for the door. Suppressing a smile, Irwin followed her outside.

  “Hope that boy keeps his cinch tight,” Clete said.

  “How’s your cinch, Stitch?” Danni asked, getting to her feet and walking toward the rear of the house.

  Stitch grinned and stood up. “Ah, you two dudes tighten up, man,” he said. “I’m gonna go check the perimeter for, like, insurgents, ya know? Don’t want no Zips getting’ inside the wire an’ shit. Air-Cav, motherfuckers.”

  Crockett watched him leave and turned to Cletus. “Looks like it’s just you an’ me, Doris,” he said. “You wanna shower first?”

  “Aw, hell,” Clete replied, and flopped on the couch.

  After Crockett wiped down the kitchen counter he carried a fresh glass of iced tea over to Cletus and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table.

  “Got your computer with you?” he asked.

  “Where’s yours?” Clete replied.

  “I don’t have one.”

  Clete shook his head. “You ride a hundred-year-old motorcycle, carry a wheel gun, and don’t have a computer. Son, sooner or later somebody is gonna have to drag you into the 1990’s.”

  “Better be a real big somebody,” Crockett said.

  Clete grinned. “Yes, I have my laptop with me. How may I be of service to you?”

  “I need to know a little more about the Missouri State Police divisions and command structure.”

  “Uh-huh. To what purpose?”

  “I think you and I need to make a trip to Jeff City tomorrow.”

  “Again, to what purpose?”

  “See if we can’t light a fire under the constabulary.”

  “You’re fixin’ to go in there an’ kick a bunch a shit over, ain’t ya?”

  “I am going to make some inquiries.”

  “And you expect me, drool on my chin and flies circlin’ my head, to wade in there with ya’ll, while you piss off a bunch a folks wearing’ guns?”

  “I have every intention of being nice to people.”

  “How’s that usually work out for ya?”

  “Well…”

  “My laptop’s in the car,” Clete went on, levering himself off the couch. “I’ll go git it.”

  Crockett chuckled. “Am I to assume that you are going to accompany me on this errand?”

  “It’s what I do,” the Texican grunted, and headed for the garage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The next morning the two of them were sitting in an IHOP on the outskirts of Jefferson City for a late breakfast. Clete peered across the table at Crockett’s two poached eggs and dry toast.

  “That all you fixin’ to eat?” he asked, drizzling honey on his flapjacks.

  “Yep.”

  “You feel okay?”

  “Feel fine.”

  “I don’t see the customary gravy an’ hash browns on your plate.”

  “Satin commented that I was possibly gaining a little weight. Thought I might consider losing a pound or two.”

  Clete grinned. “Or twenty,” he said.

  “Fine,” Crockett sighed. “Now is the time when people like you, with the metabolism of humming birds, get to fatmouth those of us that had to get our third grade back to school clothes in the husky department. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

  “Pass the butter, willya?” Clete said. Crockett complied and Cletus continued. “Who’s this ol’ boy were goin’ to see?”

  “Mason Riley. According to the Highway Patrol website, he’s the director of the division of drug and crime control.”

  “You make an appointment before we left the house?”

  “I thought we’d surprise him.”

  “There ya go,” Clete said around a bite of pancake. “Anybody else wants to see a feller like that, they call first. Not you. Not ol’ Crockett.”

  “If I’d called first, they’d have shuffled me off to one of his staff. I don’t wanna see one of his staff. I want to see him. You’re kinda bitchy this morning, Doris.”

  “Yeah, I am. I hate takin’ this to the police. The law’s got too many things in the road to get anywhere in a hurry. The fellers responsible for all this need to get what they deserve, an’ that little gal needs what she’s got comin’ to her for her kids an’ such. She’s been waitin’ a long time.”

  Crockett eyeballed his toast, grimaced, and dropped a twenty on the table. “Let’s go see a cop about a cop,” he said, and got up.

  Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the parking lot at 1512 Elm Street looking at a three-story beige building perched atop a low hill.

  “Ain’t exactly what a feller’d call a imposing structure, is it?” Clete said.

  “What would you like, dear?” Crockett asked.

  “Well hell! Maybe we need to be impressed. How ‘bout some big ol’ steps and a couple a marble columns with a bunch a Latin an’ shit over the entrance? They don’t know who they’re dealin’ with!”

  Grinning, Crockett shrugged into his suit jacket and headed for the door. “Neither do we,” he said.

  A young officer with Corporal’s stripes greeted them in the lobby. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  Crockett smiled. “We’d like to see the director of the D.D.C.C. I believe that is Mason Riley.”

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Just a moment, please,” the young man replied, and picked up a phone.

  Crockett and Clete withdrew a few steps and waited. In a minute or two they were approached by a rather large black man with a no nonsense attitude, sergeant’s bars, and a row of hash marks up the sleeve of his uniform. The name tag above his shirt pocket read “Pelmore”.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “You’d like to see Director Riley?”

  “Yes, we would,” Crockett replied, resisting the urge to call him Master Chief.

  “In regards to what?”

  “A dead trooper.”

  Pelmore blinked and raised one eyebrow. “That would be a serious matter.”

  “Yes, it would,” Crockett agreed.

  “Do you have some identification, sir?”

  “Yes, I do,” Crockett relied, making no move to produce it.

  Pelmore smiled. “If you gentlemen would be kind enough to wait a moment,” he said, “I’ll see if Director Riley is free.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Crockett said. “We’ll wait for him right here.”

  Clete watched the big man walk away and turned to Crockett. “Subtle as usual,” he said.

  In about five minutes they were approached by another uniformed officer. In his mid-forties, he was half-a-head shorter than Crockett, very trim, with dark hair graying at the temples. He was wearing rimless glasses, his brass was polished to a blinding luster and he could have sliced a tomato with the creases in his immaculate shirt.

  “I’m Director Riley,” he said. He did not offer to shake hands.

  “Good of you to give us a moment, Director,” Crockett replied. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s talk outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “Please. I hate to waste the weather and I’d prefer our conversation to be priva
te.”

  As they stepped onto the landing, Riley shifted his position so the sun was at his back. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “About four years ago a young man named Daryl Hansen was found executed over in Hart County. Are you familiar with the case?”

  “I am not. Four years ago I was in traffic control in St. Louis. What you describe is not a State Police matter anyway. It would be municipal or county.”

  “Usually, that would be the case. In this instance, however, there appeared to be drugs involved. The county sheriff at the time, a man named Boggs, brought the matter to the attention of your division. An undercover officer named Paul McGill was assigned to infiltrate a group of suspects and investigate the case. Not long after, Paul McGill vanished. He has not been heard of since. He left a pregnant wife and small daughter behind. They are entitled to major benefits they are not receiving. The certainty of his death and his widow’s financial distress are situations that need to be addressed. That is why we are here.”

  “I have nothing to do with insurance or benefits.”

  Clete jumped in. “You got anything to do with dead cops and their widows, Director?” he asked.

  “I’m not familiar with this situation.”

  “This McGill kid was workin’ out a the division you head up, son. This boy is deader than Sam Houston, an’ his wife an’ fambly ain’t gittin’ what they deserve. Anybody around here looked into this? Anybody around here investigatin’ why one a your cops just disappeared? Anybody give a rat’s ass about a dead kid that carried the badge an’ the sonabitches that killed him?”

  “I don’t like your tone,” Riley said.

  “Ya goddam right you don’t. My tone would be a lot nicer if you boys was doin’ your jobs, but you ain’t. An’ you fuckin’ know you ain’t. You oughta be ashamed a yourself. This here is a dead cop! Somebody’s gotta do somethin’ about this, an’ if it ain’t gonna be you, by God, then it’s gotta be us. We know a damn site more about this case than you do anyway, an’ we ain’t had it layin’ on the kitchen table for durn near four years.”

  “Just who are you?” Riley blustered. “Let me see some identification.”

  Clete smiled and lowered his voice. “When you’re big enough to git it outa my pocket, son, you can take a peek at it. Until then, kiss my ass. Ya’ll have a nice day. I’m goin’ to the house.”

  “Aw, gee,” Crockett said, after Clete stomped off, “you made my partner mad. This probably isn’t gonna work out well for you. Thanks for your time, Director. Nice shirt.” He followed Cletus to the car.

  “And you called me subtle,” Crockett said, changing lanes in reasonably heavy traffic.

  “There’s a Sonic over there on the corner,” Clete replied. “Pull in. I need a sammich.”

  “You just had breakfast.”

  “I just had half a breakfast. You left in the middle a things.”

  Crockett turned into the lot and parked beside a menu/speaker. “You yelled at the nice man,” he said.

  “Push the button,” Clete said. He ordered a number two with a Dr. Pepper. Crockett asked for a Coney dog with cheese fries and a large Coke.

  “I thought you were on a diet,” Clete went on.

  “Your emotional outburst has stressed me way too much to consider such things,” Crockett replied. “Your recent conduct pretty much screwed the pooch with the director, Texican. You need to work on your self-control.”

  “My self-control was workin’ just fine,” Clete said. “If it wasn’t, I’d a pounded that squared away little shit two feet down into the cement. They’d a had the only high an’ tight lawn jockey on their block with a fuckin’ badge.”

  Crockett was trying to work the second bite of his Coney dog out of the wrapper without a wardrobe disaster when an unmarked state police car pulled into the next slot. Sergeant Pelmore exited that vehicle, crossed to theirs, opened the door, and slid into the back seat.

  “You ladies go ahead on and finish your repast,” he said. “When you’re done, we’ll chat.”

  Clete held up a small, grease-soaked bag. “Somethin’ in a tot, Sarge?” he asked.

  A little over an hour later the three men were seated at a picnic table in a public park.

  “So is that the whole story?” Pelmore asked.

  “Most of it,” Clete replied.

  “All I need to know, right?”

  “You’re pretty much up to date,” Crockett said.

  “I was new to the D.D.C.C. when the McGill kid went missing,” Pelmore went on. “Got a transfer from the academy where I was teachin’ squeaky little recruits how to be super troopers. I was never involved in the investigation. It was above my grade at the time. Seemed to me though, that it was a little on the down low.”

  “You goin’ street on us, Sarge?” Clete asked.

  Pelmore smiled. “I mean it all pretty much stayed upstairs. Not a lot of publicity, even in the division. I thought it was strange at the time. I still do. A street cop gets nailed and the media is all over the place. Very public. Doing his official duty and shit. An undercover cop disappears and the situation is different. Nobody wants a lot of public speculation on the subject. Did he go bad? Did the division fuck up? Who’s responsible? The whole thing was soft-pedaled. After a year or so it just died down. That’s about when the director, a guy named Prior, retired.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Crockett said.

  “He died a couple years ago. You’ll need a psychic or something.”

  “He’s got them comin’ out his ears, Sarge,” Clete said. “This ol’ boy’s got broadband to the netherworld.”

  “What?”

  Crockett tried to stay on the straight and narrow. “You think there was a cover-up?”

  “Let’s just say that it seemed to me the case did not receive the attention it deserved inside or outside the division.”

  Crockett’s smile was grim. “Until now,” he said.

  “Our current director, as I’m sure you realize, is button-down worthless. You two also know that those recordings and the information you have are as worthless as he is unless this thing goes to trial and you testify in open court.”

  “Can’t do that,” Clete said. “We can’t expose ourselves as informants.”

  “What can you do?”

  “We can follow this some more, see that justice is served, and apply enough pressure on your organization that McGill’s widow gets what she has coming to her.”

  “You think you can lean on the state police?”

  Clete grinned. “Son,” he said, “we got a friend that can lean on Mount Rushmore.”

  Pelmore looked at him for a moment. “Justice is a lot more important than the law now and then,” he said. “I wish you luck.”

  “We appreciate your help, Sergeant,” Crockett said.

  Pelmore stood up. “Girlfriends, it has been my pleasure,” he said, “and no, I don’t want to know who you are. As far as I’m concerned, this meeting never happened.”

  “What meeting?” Clete asked.

  “Semper Fi,” Crockett said.

  “Oo-rah,” Pelmore replied, and headed toward his car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The boys were unusually quiet on the ride home. As they neared the Odessa exit Crockett broke the silence.

  “It seems,” he said, “that the highway patrol is somewhat less than enthusiastic about our cause.”

  Clete grimaced. “That director is a dick. I seen it a bunch a times. So have you, son. Ya git some cop on the promotion ladder an’ he turns into nothing more than a goddam bureaucrat. Politics and career become more important to him than bein’ a cop.”

  “Nature of the job,” Crockett said.

  “Aw, hell. I know it. Promotions is mostly political, so a feller’s gotta be mostly political to git very far up the ladder. Advancement is considered to be achievement, but it ain’t. Achievement is gittin’ the job done.”

  “You’re preachin’ to the choir, Texica
n.”

  “I know that, too.”

  Crockett smiled. “So what’s our command structure?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clete said. “Maybe we need to follow a good example. Who was in charge, Abbott or Costello?”

  “I’m not sure, but ‘I Don’t Know’ was on third,” Crockett said.

  Clete grinned. “Maybe we oughta put ol’ Stitch in charge.”

  “That’d work. I bet a black helo landing in the parking lot would get Director Riley’s attention.”

  “Scare the shit outa that pipsqueak,” Clete replied. “Some ol’ hippie stormin’ into the lobby yellin’ about zips inside the wire, needin’ reinforcements on the perimeter, callin’ in some fast movers with willie-pete! God, almighty!”

  After the two of them settled down, Crockett continued. “What are we gonna do?” he asked.

  Clete thought for a moment. “Son,” he said, “sometimes ya gotta let the beans boil a spell longer before ya add more salt. Leoni don’t wanna give up on this. He’s too stupid an’ too greedy to let it go just because you tossed him out.”

  “So you would advise us to continue with the current façade in anticipation of further overtures from the subject in question that might possibly produce additional variables to our present circumstance and a resultant evolution of opportunity for the advancement of our agenda.”

  “Yeah,” Clete said. “Took the words right outa my mouth.”

  When Crockett and Clete arrived back at the house, they found Irwin alone at the snack bar, laboring on a laptop.

  “There you are,” he said. “How was your trip?”

  “Less than productive,” Crockett replied, glancing around the room. “Where are the girls?”

  “On the roof with Mister Stitch.”

  “You get anything from Leoni’s office bug last night?”

  “There was some sound of movement, then the door opened and someone came in. Mister Leoni attempted to recount the details of his last meeting with you. He began by saying, they know about the cop. At that point I heard Mister Wook say one word. Outside. There were footsteps and the sound of a closing door. There was nothing else.”