“Lieutenant Bascombe, is that you?”
“Hold the door,” he says.
We push our way back out, ignoring grunts of frustration from our fellow passengers. Outside, a serious-looking blonde, maybe five-foot-two without her heels, in jeans and a fatigue jacket, extends a hand to the lieutenant. Her rolled-up sleeve reveals a man’s diver watch, worn backward with the face inside the wrist. FBI credentials dangle around her neck.
“I’m Bea Kuykendahl,” she says.
The lieutenant introduces himself, then turns to me.
“I’m familiar with your work,” she tells me. “I did a little digging when your name cropped up.”
“Okay.”
She pats my arm. “Don’t worry, it was mostly good.”
“That’s a relief. Should we go up?”
She looks us both over, as if making a decision. “No, actually, we’re heading somewhere else. I have something to show you.”
Bascombe and I exchange a look.
“Lead the way,” he tells her.
At first it looks like she’s taking us back outside, but before we reach the security scrim, Bea Kuykendahl guides me toward a secure door, using a key card to pass through. A flight of concrete stairs leads down to another door, then into a long, bare corridor. She keeps a few feet ahead, her heels clicking on the hard tile. My stereotype of FBI women includes pinstripes, pearls, and law degrees. They’re well put together, with a bit of attitude to go with it. To be honest, my wife Charlotte fits the mold.
Bea Kuykendahl, by contrast, has a short-haired, gamine look—half butch, half kid—her side arm jutting incongruously from her hip. Pale skin, fair hair, blue-gray eyes, and broad cheeks. She has more earrings in her ear than I thought the G-Man rulebook allows. She can’t be much older than thirty, and she dresses like an undercover agent on TV.
“Where exactly are you taking us, Agent Kuykendahl?” I ask.
“You’ve never been down in the basement before? This is where they keep the troublemakers. And call me Bea.”
We round a corner into another hallway, this one lined with doors. Bea uses her card again, ushering through an unmarked entry into a separate office suite.
“This is the bullpen,” she says, waving her hand to encompass a large open space with a long table at the center. On the walls, banks of computer terminals, maps, and a couple of whiteboards covered in scrawls of various colors. “We coordinate operations from here. You won’t be meeting the rest of the team, I’m afraid. I thought it would be better to keep things simple.”
She takes us through the open room pretty quick, like she doesn’t want us paying too much attention to the papers lying around. In back, there are several glass partition walls separating individual offices from the main area. She shoves open the one on the end, motioning us inside. The lights come on automatically, motion sensitive.
Bascombe sits in the available guest chair and I move to the corner. Bea grabs a rolling chair from outside and scoots it my way, then goes around the desk. In front of her, there’s an inch-thick stack of paper hidden inside a report cover. She drops it into a drawer, then edges her chair forward, clasping her hands in the empty space where the papers had been.
“Well,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”
Bascombe nods.
“You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”
Neither of us replies.
“Okay, let’s get the tough stuff out of the way first. As you can see, I’m not making you jump through any hoops. I could’ve made this hard, but that’s not my style. There aren’t any supervisors here to get in the way. No liaison officers or anything like that. I could’ve done this the usual way, but to be honest, I don’t think there’s time. I wanted to talk face-to-face, to lay all my cards out on the table. This seemed like the best way.”
She waits for a reply.
“Maybe you should start by putting us in the picture,” I say.
“All right.”
She opens another drawer, pauses, then shuts it. Then she rolls her chair to the side like she’s going to reach for something in the stack of files on her credenza. But she doesn’t.
“The thing is . . . Let me go back a little. . . .”
Under the fluorescent light, her face seems impossibly unlined, the skin taut as a child’s.
“Early yesterday morning,” she begins, “I got some unfortunate news. Your department submitted DNA samples to NCIC and they came back with a hit—”
“That’s news to us.”
She holds up her hand. “Bear with me. I delayed the results. I wasn’t sure what to do. What you have to realize is, the person you got a match for wasn’t dead.”
“I have a headless body in the morgue that begs to differ.”
“Yes, all right,” she snaps, her hands clasping again. A vein appears in her smooth forehead. “I understand that. But at the time, I wasn’t aware that he was dead.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I knew your victim, Detective March. He worked for me.”
“What?” Bascombe says. “You mean, here?”
“He wasn’t an FBI employee, Lieutenant. He was an asset. He was working undercover as part of this operation. The last contact we had with him was two weeks ago, and at that time everything was fine. So you can imagine my surprise when your test results popped up.”
“So you can identify my victim?” I ask.
The implications are electrifying. My John Doe not only has a name, but his death has a context. Under the circumstances, the FBI might be able to name not just the victim but his likely killer.
“I can identify him, yes.”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Bascombe asks, creaking forward in his chair.
She responds with a pained smile. It dawns on me that Bea has more than a name to give. She knew this man. She felt responsible for him, at the very least. To her, this is more than just a case to solve.
“I’m sorry if I was a little blunt before,” I say. “I realize what a shock this must be. But you’re in a position to help. Not only can you identify the victim, but I’m guessing you might have a good idea what happened to him—and where. If we’re putting all our cards on the table, the fact is, we don’t have much to go on.”
“I figured as much,” she says. “There’s a problem, though, and that’s why you’re here. Like I said, I could identify him . . . but I can’t.”
“You don’t really have a choice. You can’t obstruct a homicide investigation.”
“If I don’t,” she says, “then you’ll have another homicide on your hands.”
I start to answer, but Bascombe puts a hand on my arm. “Let her explain, March. Stop interrupting.”
Another deep breath. “Like I said, he was working undercover. It seems obvious that something went wrong, that somehow his cover was blown. If you release his identity to the media and start investigating his murder, then we’ll be confirming to the people who killed him that they were right.”
“Does that matter at this point?”
“It does,” she says. “He’s not the only person we have undercover. Someone had to vouch for him, and if his cover was blown, that someone is in a lot of danger.”
After a pause, Bascombe edges forward a bit more. “If they killed one, what makes you think the other isn’t already dead?”
“I know for a fact he isn’t. We’ve been in communication.”
“And he said he was in danger?”
“That’s why we’re here,” she says. “Let me spell it out. I can’t let you have an ID on your victim, because it would put the life of my last remaining asset in jeopardy.”
“So what are you asking me to do? Leave him in the freezer?”
She blinks. “I’m not asking more than that. You’re not going to like this, Detective, but I don’t see that you have any choice. Not unless you want to be responsible for a man’s death.”
“Go on.”
Bea’s hand goes back to the files, removing one from th
e top of the stack. She hands it across the desk to me. Inside, there’s a glossy photo of a Caucasian male in his mid-thirties, a curly-haired man with thick eyebrows and the hint of laugh lines on either side of the mouth. There are also photocopies of a Texas driver’s license, a CHL, and a U.S. passport. Behind a stapled stack of typed pages, there’s also a Federal Firearms License—an FFL, required for gun dealers.
The name on all the documentation is the same: BRANDON FORD.
“This is him?” I ask. “Brandon Ford.”
“It is as far as you’re concerned.”
Bascombe snatches the file. “Let me see that.” He flips through the pages quickly. “This is his cover, is that what you’re saying?”
“Correct.”
“What we’re looking for is a positive identification. This doesn’t do it. Brandon Ford doesn’t exist. We’re not in the business of investigating people who don’t exist.”
“Well, you are now.”
They stare each other down, the big lieutenant and the slender, slight FBI agent. Her eyes shine with—what? Anger? Determination? At least it’s obvious now why she didn’t bring in a bunch of supervisors and liaisons. She doesn’t have any institutional authority to assert. She knows what she’s doing is, at best, unorthodox, probably unethical, and possibly illegal. Not that things like this don’t happen. They just don’t happen officially. The only authority she can call on here is moral. Work with me or you’ll get somebody killed.
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” I begin.
“Detective, here’s what I want. You have to leave here determined to investigate the murder of Brandon Ford. He’s a licensed gun dealer, he’s underwater on his mortgage and in danger of foreclosure, he’s got an ex-wife and two kids who need support every month, and he’s desperate for cash. So desperate that he’d be happy to supply anyone who asks with any quantity of AK-47s they require. That’s who’s in your morgue, and that’s what you have to tell the media. When you do, the people responsible for . . . Brandon’s death will second-guess themselves. They’ll think their suspicions were wrong.”
“With all due respect,” I say, “this man wasn’t just executed. He was tortured. Presumably they were trying to make him talk—”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Don’t you think, under the circumstances, that you’d be better off pulling out your other asset? There’s no way of predicting what might happen.”
She glares at me, stony-faced. “That’s not an option, I’m afraid.”
Though she may look young, though she may look like a pushover, Bea Kuykendahl has a spine. She’s not about to give ground, which means we’re at an impasse. I can feel it, and so must Bascombe. He shifts uncomfortably, not too pleased with the choice before him.
“I can take this?” I ask, rising to my feet with the file in hand.
She waves her hand in permission.
“Ready, sir?” I ask.
I’m afraid he’ll say something. Afraid he’ll commit us to a course of action. I want more than anything to get him out of the room before that happens.
“Listen—” he says to her.
“We need to think this over,” I say.
Bea squeezes her clasped hands. “Fine. Just remember what I told you. You’re playing with a man’s life, Detective.”
She doesn’t move to escort us out. As we leave the bullpen, the door opens and a couple of agents who look as young and disheveled as their boss file in. They lock eyes with us, clearly knowing our purpose here. I push past them, ignoring the hard looks.
Bascombe and I don’t talk until we’re outside, back in the car, sitting with the engine running and waiting for the air-conditioning to cool us down.
“That’s not what I was expecting,” I say. “I don’t know what she expects me to do.”
“You know exactly what she wants.”
“Yeah, I just don’t know how to go about doing it. How do you investigate someone who doesn’t exist? Leaving him on the slab is one thing—that’s bad enough—but going through the motions, pretending I’m on the case. That’s just a waste of time.”
“I don’t know,” he says.
I look at him, but he doesn’t look back.
“It wouldn’t require much. Just put the story out there, make a little bit of an effort. If that’s enough to get her insider off the hook, maybe it’s worth doing.”
“You’re serious, sir?”
He grips the wheel thoughtfully. “I think I am. That girl, I like her spunk. She’s putting it on the line and I don’t feel like disrespectin’ that, not if we don’t have to.”
“I’d rather know whose murder I’m really investigating.”
“You’re a detective, March. Go find out.”
The file feels heavy in my hand. Bending the rules doesn’t bother me, and in a good cause I don’t mind a little trouble, but I can’t think when I’ve ever been in a situation like this. It doesn’t feel right.
“What do I tell Lorenz?” I ask. “What do I tell the captain?”
He sighs. “Listen here. I wasn’t gonna say nothing, but since keeping secrets is the order of the day. The captain’s turning in his papers.”
“What?”
“You remember last year, during the runoff elections? He got sucked into the politics and started making alliances. Well, Drew Hedges is a good man, but he’s no kind of politician. What he did is, he alienated a lot of people. Burned himself good. And the result is, his job is up for grabs. There’s a shakeup coming, and he’s out. That’s all there is to it.”
“Hedges is out? But he’s a cop’s cop.”
“Between you and me, he’s ready. He told me after Ordway’s retirement party that he felt like a dinosaur, and if he was never moving up, then what was keeping him from moving out?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the job. It got to him.”
“So what does this mean?” I can hardly keep up, hardly process it all. “Who’s moving into his office—you?”
He gives a mirthless laugh. “That what you think? No, man, it’s not gonna be me. Maybe when Lee Brown was still mayor . . . but no. I don’t have no idea. All I can tell you is, you need to ready yourself. And don’t dump any of this on the captain now. He doesn’t need the headache.”
The sun beats down on us the whole drive back. I can feel myself getting hotter and hotter. Maybe the air-conditioning’s giving out. Maybe the ozone up above is spread particularly thin. Or maybe I’m out of my depth for once, not sure what I’m about to get myself into. A man’s life is at stake, Bea said, and for me that’s new territory. Avenging the dead is my job. With this new mission I don’t know where to begin.
And now the ground underneath me isn’t solid anymore. Hedges gave me a second chance when everybody else—Bascombe included—wanted to kick me to the curb. One thing I never imagined was that I’d outlast Drew Hedges in Homicide.
CHAPTER 5
The file from Bea Kuykendahl’s office rests in my battered leather briefcase along with my old Filofax, a couple of digital audio recorders, a camera, some cuffs, a spare mag, and a mess of loose pens and paper clips and plug-in chargers. When I reach my desk, I transfer the file to a locked drawer for safekeeping, then hang my sport coat—an unlined, lightweight hand-me-down from my wife’s father—on the back of my ergonomic chair.
Lorenz pops over the cubicle wall, a satisfied grin on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Take a guess.”
“Come on, Jerry.”
He produces a stack of paper from behind his back. “While you’ve been off doing whatever it is you do, I’ve got a name for JD. The match came back a half hour ago, and I’ve been doing some research. Guy’s name is Brandon Ford. Age thirty-four, six-foot-one, and there’s a Houston address. And guess what he does for a living. No? He’s a gun dealer.”
I take the printouts from his hand, flipping through the pages. Agent Kuykendahl is sure ma
king this easy. But what kind of strings do you have to pull to seed the criminal database with false information? I wouldn’t have credited her with having this kind of pull. And if she does, what was the point of bringing me into the picture? Handing the stack of pages back, I sink into my chair.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “We need to get moving on this. I found a number for the victim’s ex-wife, so we can start with the death notification.”
“Right.”
But there won’t be an ex-wife, of course. Brandon Ford only exists on paper. That’s why Bea Kuykendahl needed to clue me in. She realized that with a little digging, we’d discover soon enough that we were investigating a lie.
“You ready to roll?” he asks.
“I just got here.”
“What’s the deal? You don’t seem too jazzed about the big break. Yesterday we had nothing and now—”
“Okay, okay. Just give me a second and I’ll catch up.”
While he grabs his gear, I head to Bascombe’s office to let him know what’s going on. The computer match doesn’t sit right with me. The more I contemplate the matter, the less I believe a special agent in the Houston field office can snap her fingers and make something like that happen. Whatever’s going on, I know Bea wasn’t straight with us this morning.
The lieutenant’s office is empty. I ask around, and one of the new detectives points in the direction of the captain’s door. The blinds are shut, so I approach with caution, tapping lightly on the doorframe. No answer.
Just leave it.
I turn to go. Heading out, I see Hedges coming from the break room with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He gazes at his feet like he’s afraid of tripping or possibly lost in thought. Based on the news Bascombe shared, I’m sure he is. As I pass, I’m almost afraid to interrupt.
“Sir?” I ask.
He pauses, steadying his mug with his free hand.
“I’m looking for the lieutenant. He’s not with you?”
Stupid question. He glances side to side and cracks a halfhearted smile. “I don’t see him. Do you?”
“Never mind.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
I should be asking him the same question. “Fine, sir.”
Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) Page 5
