Chapter 2
“You are Detective Fonseca?” Special Agent Constantine said across the foldout table. He looked me up and down like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.
Maybe I was; we sure contrasted: Constantine in his tailored black suit, me in corduroys and my vintage, fur-lined, leather bomber. I took my smokes out of my pocket and flipped open the lid of the box. Constantine proceeded to scowl in a fashion that told me, in no uncertain terms, that smoking was not allowed in his GI Joe Mobile Command Center.
“That’s right,” I replied, putting away my pack of Kools. I only wanted a smoke to have something to do with my hands. They felt like two slabs of pork hanging from my arms. I had no idea what to do with them.
“Sasha Isaac Fonseca?” Constantine rolled my name around in his mouth like he was chewing on marbles. “What sort of name is that?”
“Sephardic Jew,” I said, not really thinking about who I was talking to. “Via North Africa and Mexico, pre-Porfiriato.”
Oh fuck. That had done it. Now Constantine was giving me that look, the look like I was one of them. I wasn’t totally sure exactly which “them” I was silently being accused of being, a kike or beaner. Did it matter? Ascension to power had not meant the NeoCons had lost their Social Conservative, Good Ol’ Boy, Southern roots. If the special agent ranked anywhere in the NeoCon’s New World Order, he’d be a true believer.
“But I was born in Cleveland, if that helps,” I added, feeling the need to apologize for my lack of WASPness. I tried putting my hands in the pockets of my jacket, but that was no good. It was uncomfortable sitting in the chair like that, so I pulled them out. Man, I needed a cigarette.
“You were the LI on this case?” Constantine held up a printout that was undoubtedly the Montavez case.
“I guess.” I played dumb.
“Female, twenty-three,” he read. “No identification or distinguishing marks...a Jane Doe?”
“That’s right.” I scratched the stubble on my chin.
Constantine leaned back in his folding chair and looked me over. “A Jane Doe who up and walks out of the Morgue in the middle of the night. All on her own?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. But you’re the lead investigator on a murder case without a body. Doesn’t that interest you at all, Fonseca?”
“Sure,” I said, sarcastically, “that’s real interesting.”
Constantine didn’t like my tone. “Aren’t you, at least, a little curious as to what has happened to her?”
“No, not my department.”
“Oh?” Constantine crossed his arms and gave me a self-satisfied smirk. “How’s that?”
“I’m Homicide,” I chuckled. “She’s dead. She can’t get murdered twice.”
“Cut the bullshit, Fonseca. I know you falsified this report.”
I said nothing.
“I know what DNA match Forensics got back on the body.”
“Hey—” I started.
“You and I both know who the girl was,” Constantine interrupted. “I’m not upset that you falsified this report. On the contrary, this was some quick thinking. If I had my way, we’d pin a goddamn medal on you. But, what I need to know, Fonseca, is who else did you tell about this girl before you got it in your head to change the names?”
“Nobody,” I answered quickly. For once, I could tell the truth.
“As I said, cut the bullshit.”
“No, seriously.” I held up my hands in surrender. “The God’s honest truth.”
“Somebody knew where this body was, Detective. And who she really was.”
“If they did, they didn’t hear it from me.”
“It would be very serious mistake to interfere with my investigation at this critical juncture,” Constantine said formally. Me? Cut the bullshit? He needed to cut the bullshit. He was treating me like a perp. Hell, I’d used that line myself a thousand times. Did he think I was an idiot? What back-of-the-matchbook, FBI correspondence course had he just graduated from?
“Your investigation?” I asked defensively. “Last I checked, Special Agent, I was still the LI on this girl’s case.” I tapped the sheet of paper before Constantine.
Constantine gave me a look like I’d just crapped on his loafers.
“The murder might be your case, Detective,” Constantine said slowly, “but the theft of Vivian Montavez’s body—”
“Then you do admit that the dead girl was Vivian Montavez?” I leapt forward, interrupting.
Constantine swallowed his words. “The theft of the dead girl’s body...”
I relaxed in my seat.
“Is a Federal matter.”
I didn’t want to call him out on it, but I seriously doubted there was any Federal Code against body-snatching. Maybe something from the 19th Century...but really? One stolen corpse was hardly a Federal case, even if she had been Vivian Montavez. “I’ll find you the girl’s body,” I answered. “There was no need for you to...” I looked around at the bustling command center. “Invade...”
“You’ll forgive me if I lack confidence in the local administration,” Constantine smirked. “We can’t rule out the possibility that local officials might be among the perpetrators. We’re well aware that most here in this city are...sympathetic...”
“Sympathetic?” I laughed. “We’re only missing one body here, Special Agent. This isn’t exactly Al-Qaeda.”
“Nevertheless...”
“Nevertheless, nothing. We can handle it.”
“The Bureau has more then enough resources in country to hand this case,” Constantine said, flatly.
In country? They were at war.
“Your assistance will not be required.”
“You are in the City of Seattle,” I said. “It is customary to liaison with—”
“It’s not the City of Seattle, anymore,” Constantine interrupted. “The Federal Courts have taken supervision of the city government. As officers of the court, the FBI now exerts executive control over this city.”
I met Constantine’s comment with silence. I was dumbstruck. “What?” was all I could manage.
“The City of Seattle is now a ward of the Federal Courts, Detective.”
“You can’t do that!” I exclaimed, a cigarette almost to my lips.
“That will be for the SCOTUS to decide. Next year, when they’re in session. Until then, there is precedent. Title IV of the Civil Rights Act. Geneing and related drug criminality, being a disproportional menace, borne on the backs of minority communities. It is beholden on the Federal Government to intervene where local, entrenched institutions are unable to protect those most vulnerable.” Constantine sounded like he was reading his speech from a note card. But he wasn’t. They’d made him memorize it.
“This is an occupying army,” I said in disbelief, looking around at the gathered throng of armed men.
“The Federal Courts will oversee the civil administration of this city until such a time as the Geneing menace has been combated.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, Detective, I certainly am not.”
“All to get Montavez’s body back? You’re insane.”
“No,” Constantine shook his head. “This has been a long time coming. President Cassidy won election on the platform of combating the Geneing epidemic head on. Look around you. This is what combat looks like.”
“But...you can’t...you can’t do this,” I said, panic gripping my insides. “The people won’t stand for it.”
“They will, and they’ll thank us for it,” Constantine said, raising to his feet. “This is what the people of Seattle voted for – what the people of America voted. Action. Not talk.”
“You can’t invade an American city,” I said, hoping there was some legal truth to such a statement.
“We can, Detective,” Constantine said, without a hint of mirth. “To save it from itself.”
He was fucking i
nsane. There was no other explanation.
“Thank you for your assistance, Detective Fonseca,” Constantine continued, tapping the sheet of paper on the table. “But the murder of this Jane Doe, and the subsequent abduction of her body is now a Federal matter.”
He was about to give me the bum’s rush. I could feel it. I’d gotten it plenty in my day.
I was about to find myself out of a job.
But I still had one card to play.
“I suppose you know where she was living?” I said, matter-of-fact. They might. I had no idea what they might know from the Sen. Montavez end. It was possible he knew where the girl had been living. But I doubted it. And all the girl’s personal effects, everything incriminating, from the dumpster...well, they’d sort of disappeared between the crime scene and the station. Into a garbage can on Second and Pike, to be precise.
“Well,” Constantine hedged, “we are investigating...”
I had him. I had something he needed. I wasn’t out of a job just yet.
“‘Cause it’s possible that there might be a few personal effects of the deceased that didn’t quite make it into the chain of evidence...”
“If you’re withholding information, Detective…” Constantine leaned forward across the table, fixing me with an accusing finger. “…I won’t hesitate to prosecute you to the full extent of the law.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to do my job, Special Agent.” I smiled, looking at the tip of his angry finger. “You’ve just got to let me do it.”
Constantine looked at me. For the first time all day, he was speechless.
“I guess that makes us partners, then,” I said with resignation, reaching for my smokes. If I was going to be stuck with this hick jack-ass, he was going to be stuck with a bad case of second-hand smoke.
That Nietzsche Thing Page 2
