A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  What if he had moved a bit faster?

  What if it hadn’t been an accident?

  Was that what he was seeing, what the clues were pointing towards? Or was it just what he was hoping for, as Helen had said?

  The sound of a door opening, then closing echoed up from the landing below, followed by steady footsteps a moment later. Booker didn’t move from the wall, just waited until Helen reached him. She walked over, frowned, then took the empty e-cig from his lip and gave him her own.

  “Fresh mouthpiece,” she said. “No cooties.”

  “Thanks.” He inhaled, the tip flaring bright violet. The flood of cool vapor from a full cartridge made his head swim, and did a little to push down the hornets buzzing furiously in his stomach. He made to hand it back, but Helen shook her head.

  “I’ve never told you how I ended up ASAC, did I?”

  “No,” he mumbled around the e-cig.

  She shrugged, sitting on the bottom step of the next flight. “It’s a boring story. Ten years of playing politics, climbing the ladder. Nothing really interesting or insightful happened until right at the end, before I got the promotion.” She said the word without a hint of sarcasm. “I was working out of the office in Phoenix. This was five years ago.”

  “Shit,” Booker said softly.

  Helen smiled. “Yeah. I actually requested to be transferred out there. Wanted to be where the action was. They were -- and still are -- hemorrhaging personnel like a stuck pig, so there was nobody with the inclination to tell me no. Plus, my track record seemed to indicate that maybe I could actually do some good.” She snorted. “As if one person could make a difference in that meat grinder. You ever been to the Crisis Zone?”

  He shook his head. “Furthest west I’ve been is Nebraska.”

  “Good place to stop,” she muttered. “Phoenix was…I was lead on a case, inherited it as soon as I transfered. Chasing down this group that kept hitting all the water infrastructure. Sabotaging the pumps, fucking with the filtration equipment. Lake Pleasant Reservoir turned to pond scum for a solid month because they’d somehow intercepted a shipment of treatment chemicals and cut them with sugar. None of us could figure out what they were playing at. The water wasn’t being diverted, wasn’t being siphoned off. So far as we could tell, nobody was actually benefiting. Everyone was losing.”

  “Anarchists?” Booker guessed. “Eco-Millennialists, trying to hasten the end of the human race?”

  “Both good guesses. They were at the top of our board. It didn’t really matter, though. Whoever they were, they kept running circles around us. Eventually we got desperate, and those scribbles at the top of the board started looking a lot more appealing, even if we had nothing to back it up with. So we started shaking down known anarchist and eco-terrorist groups. This brought us to the Gila River Reservation. Call it profiling, if you want. Hell, it probably was. But, like I said, desperate. Me, especially. I’d gone out there to impress someone. Prove that I had what it took to be Director someday.” She snorted.

  Booker, who could feel the story approaching its conclusion, asked, “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. The Pima and the Maricopa tribes had nothing to do with it, at least not that we could find. Didn’t stop us from harassing them for a good three or four weeks, just to look busy. Meanwhile, the shit continued, so random we could never catch anyone in the act. Phoenix, already a wheezing pile of dust, started to collapse. And then --” She snapped her fingers. “It just stopped. A week passed, then two, then three. No more incidents. Soon the usual water-cutting started back up, local gangs brawling over wells, Four Corners agents doing their shadiest to accumulate all the water rights they could. Shit, but the kind that was predictable. Made sense. Phoenix returned to a state of equilibrium, more or less, and everyone forgot about the silly sabotage.

  “Everyone except me.” Helen extended a hand, and he gave her the e-cig. She didn’t bother swapping the antimicrobial mouthpiece for a fresh one. “Couldn’t let it go. Kept chasing phantoms, for months. Trying to make sense of the bullshit, to find order in the chaos. If I had just moved on, like everyone else, things might have been different. But I didn’t, and it hurt the office and my reputation. Mostly my rep. Word was, I couldn’t handle the pressure of failure, even a soft failure. Which was true. And so…” She raised both hands and smiled humorlessly, as if to say Voila.

  “Shitcanned,” Booker filled in. “To the ACT.”

  She nodded, inhaling a mouthful of vapor and holding it for a moment before letting the white tendrils trickled out into the stairwell. “A lovely little place, where it wouldn’t matter if I had a meltdown or wasted the few resources we have chasing geese. All because I couldn’t accept that sometimes, shit happens, and sometimes, you just have to get over it.”

  “That’s what this pep-talk was about?” Booker asked incredulously. “Just to tell me to move on?”

  Helen stood, tucking her e-cig into her jacket. “I’m telling you not to get hung up on your mistakes and your failures, Booker. Acknowledge them, learn from them, and then, yeah, move on. Don’t let them drag you down. You’ve got a lot of potential. Keep your head right and you might get out of the ACT in another year.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to get out,” he said defiantly.

  She pointed a finger at him. “See? That’s that shit I’m talking about.” But then she smiled. It was a tired expression. “Go home, Booker. Get some sleep. You’ll need it, for the inquest.”

  It was only later, as he was taking a car back to his apartment, that it occurred to Booker that Helen probably wanted there to be more to Jane Baum’s coma as much as he did. That, despite everything, some part of her was still chasing perturbations in the water and hoping to pull up a big fish. Something substantial enough that would lift the ACT -- and her career -- out of the gutter.

  * * *

  Booker didn’t sleep.

  His studio apartment was part of the Marina City complex, fifty stories up so that he had a view from his balcony across the Chicago River and right into the heart of the Loop. From behind the curtain of rain that draped over the edge of the balcony, Booker watched as the city lights shimmered. The river was dimpled like beaten silver by the rain. A couple drones buzzed through the canyons of the streets, and an auto-tug was trundling its way down towards the lake; but for that, the city was still and silent.

  Inquest. It would probably be the first time in the history of the department that the Art Crime Team would be investigated by the Office of Professional Responsibility for inappropriate behavior. Nobody had cared until now. Typical -- nobody paid attention until you screwed up.

  “Well, fuck it,” he muttered. He’d weather it. They all would, including Helen. And then maybe he’d consider her advice more closely. Consider where he wanted his life to be going, if the ACT was really the best place for him. It hadn’t been where he’d ever wanted to end up, in the beginning. He’d never been excited about a career in law enforcement. Maybe there was a reason for that.

  Get the skull back, then reconsider life choices. As for Jane…

  You could have saved her.

  Booker finished off the cartridge, then stepped back inside, closing the sliding door behind him and cutting off the sound of the rain. The coolness of his studio was refreshing, after the muggy air outside. The nicotine in his veins was starting to flatten the spikes of anxiety that had been jumping in the back of his mind. He returned to bed, determined to get at least a few hours of sleep before facing the music.

  In the end, all he did was stare at the ceiling as endless revisions of what he was going to say to OPR ran through his mind. When his alarm went Booker felt like he could maybe get out of the inquest based solely on how dead-tired and miserable his reflection looked in the bathroom mirror.

  It was not to be that easy. When, an hour later, he arrived at the office and made his way to the conference room on the third floor, he found two men he didn’t recognize in crisp suits waiting at
one end of the long table. Helen wasn’t there, and it was only then that Booker realized he had hoped she would be.

  “Good morning, Special Agent Hopkins,” said the one on the left as soon as he entered. He would’ve been an average-looking guy, except that he had a nose like a pug. “Shall we get started?”

  Booker settled into an empty chair far from the two men, setting his coffee on the table. “Just like that, huh?”

  “Just like that,” said the other man. This one could have been a model, the way he wore that suit. “Better to get these things done as quickly as possible.”

  “Ok, then.”

  “This inquest will be recorded,” said pug-nose, “via both of our lenses. We will begin to record…now.”

  Both men blinked, and Booker half-expected their eyes to light up red. The model agent began to recite the time, date, and OPR boilerplate in a flat, robotic tone. “Please state your name, rank, and department.”

  Booker cleared his throat. “Special Agent Booker Hopkins, Art Crime Team, Midwest Branch.”

  There was a pause, in which both men stared blankly at empty space and tapped at their wristbands. Booker assumed they were entering notes into their smart lenses, maybe double-checking that he was who he said he was. He took the opportunity to gulp down some more mediocre coffee. It should have eased the headache pulsing behind his eyes, but it only seemed to grow worse.

  “Thank you,” said pug-nose abruptly. “The purpose of this inquest is to examine the events that occurred on July 6th and July 7th in Detroit, Michigan, during the course of an operation led by Agent Hopkins that involved the CHS Jane Baum. Special Agent Hopkins, can you recount the purpose of this operation?”

  “Yes. It was a sting, with the goal of apprehending an unknown party involved in the robbery that occurred at the Chicago Field Museum on the morning of July 5th.”

  “And who was this unknown party?”

  Booker blinked. “Well -- we didn’t know. That was kind of the point of the op.”

  Model agent almost smiled. “What role did you believe this party played in the robbery?”

  “Oh. Right.” Idiot. “Well, according to my CHS, they were the ones who hired her and her colleagues to commit the robbery. Her client, if you will. But recent developments had led me to believe that they might also have been involved in the murder of her two partners.”

  Pug-nose sat up a bit straighter. “You believed that the, ah, client was the same person who killed your CHS’s colleagues?”

  “Well, I don’t know if they pulled the trigger themselves. But it seemed likely that they arranged the hit. Nobody else could have known where my CHS and her partners were going to be at that specific time.”

  “But if the…” Pug-nose paused for a second, eyes tracking as he searched his notes. “If the crystal skull had already been stolen, why would the client then murder the people they had hired to obtain it? Doesn’t that complicate things?”

  Booker shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe the client got cold feet and didn’t want any loose ends running around.”

  “Special Agent Hopkins, doesn’t it seem more likely that your CHS was responsible for the double-homicide? And that she made up this story about an invisible man to obfuscate her involvement?”

  Booker felt his neck grow hot. Had they gathered here just to poke holes in his theory? “No, I didn’t think that was likely. The behavior of my CHS and the implausible nature of her story -- I mean, if it was a lie, why not tell a more believable one? Look, aren’t we here to discuss what actually happened to Jane Baum?”

  “Of course,” said model agent. “We’re just trying to get the full picture. So the purpose of your trip to Detroit was to lure this third party, whose role in the robbery was unclear, out into the open. Is that accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you intend to accomplish that?”

  As he recounted his planning and execution of the operation, Booker found himself checking his own logic internally, looking for fatal flaws. At the time his thinking had seemed sound, but now he felt like a fumbling amateur.

  “But the operation did not succeed. No one showed up, and in the end you had an altercation with a civilian, is that correct?”

  This was said in the same politely neutral tone, but Booker could feel the tension in the room ratchet up a notch. “I wouldn’t necessarily characterize it as an altercation.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “Well… Alright, I confronted the guy. But he had been following my CHS, which led me to believe that he might have been who we were looking for. Turns out he was just some perv with a camera.”

  “Yes, the video has been making the rounds online since yesterday.”

  Shit.

  “So after this confrontation,” continued pug-nose, “you ended the operation, correct?”

  “At the time, I concluded that the…encounter with the civilian had compromised the operation. If the client or killer or both were present, then it was likely they had been scared off.”

  “So you returned to the lodgings you had arranged for yourself and your CHS.”

  “Correct.”

  “What was your relationship with Jane Baum?”

  The question felt out of place. “Ah -- she was my source.”

  “So it was a strictly professional relationship.”

  Booker’s face burned as he saw where this line of questioning was going, and he couldn’t quite keep the indignation out of his voice. “Absolutely. You can review the footage from my lenses, it’s all been uploaded to the servers. There were never any lines crossed.”

  “Of course,” said model agent with a polite smile. “No one is suggesting there were. Did you make any assurances to Jane Baum at the outset of your relationship?”

  Booker didn’t like how they were still using that word. “I indicated that her cooperation could earn her clemency. Reduce her sentencing, maybe. Mostly she wanted protection from the person or persons that had killed her partners.”

  “And were you aware that she was diabetic?”

  “No.” Booker opened his mouth, then hesitated. Both men watched him keenly.

  “Yes?” asked pug-nose.

  “Nothing, it’s just…” Helen’s stern face seemed to swim in the air before him. Carefully, Booker continued. “She was given a medical evaluation when the CPD processed her. There was nothing to suggest she had any sort of condition.”

  “Nothing to suggest,” pug-nose repeated. “But clearly that wasn’t the case. Seeing as how your CHS is currently in a coma, described by the intensive care specialists as having been triggered by insulin shock.”

  Booker said nothing. It seemed safer.

  “Do you have any alternative theories as to what this might be attributed to?”

  Had they already spoken to Helen? It seemed like an obvious fishing attempt, to get him to confess his theory. But would that help or hinder his case?

  “I cannot draw any conclusions at this time,” Booker said, selecting his words very carefully. “But the timing of the medical emergency seemed…suspect.”

  “In what way?”

  “I just felt that it tidied things up for anyone who might have wanted her out of FBI custody. Combined with the lack of any known preexisting conditions that could have caused her to slip into a coma…”

  “Special Agent Hopkins,” said model agent. “Are you suggesting that this was an attempt on her life, designed to look like a medical emergency?”

  They had definitely talked to Helen. That, or word of his idea had already spread throughout the office. Hearing it repeated back to him by this unknown face in a pressed suit was different, somehow, from discussing it with Helen. It sounded flimsy, childish.

  “I -- I consider it to be a possibility, yes.”

  “When do you believe this attempt on her life could have taken place?”

  “Earlier that day. She was out in the open and --” Booker cut off, feeling as if he’d just stumbled to th
e edge of a cliff.

  Both men were now watching him like carrion birds. “And you believe,” continued model agent, “that she was left vulnerable enough at that time to have been -- I don’t know, injected with something? Without your noticing?”

  Shit. Booker took a long drink of now-cold coffee to give himself time to think. He was trapped. If he stuck with his theory, then it looked like he had botched the operation, deliberately placed Jane in danger and then allowed her to be killed, or as good as. If he backed off, then they were back to square one -- that his own carelessness had caused her to go into a coma. That he had paid for the very meal that had done it, had expensed it to the Bureau. Neither option left him in a good place.

  It’s what they want, he realized. There was a hunger in their eyes that told him they’d already reached a conclusion: That he was responsible, that he and maybe the entire ACT would be taking the heat for this one. All that was left to do was determine how they reached that conclusion on paper.

  “Special Agent Hopkins?” prompted pug-nose.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I think happened. And I’m starting to feel like I’m the only one who understands what that means for this case.”

  Both men blinked as if they had rehearsed it. “What does it mean?” inquired model agent.

  “It means that there’s someone out there who wants to stay hidden. Someone willing to kill in order to make that happen. Someone with the skill and resources to do just that, in a way that looks like an accident even to the FBI.”

  His voice had started to rise. Neither of the men looked as if they had noticed. “I see,” said model agent. “And you believe this is all being done for a crystal skull?”

  “I don’t know,” Booker said shortly, turning away from those suddenly-smug expressions of polite inquiry. “I just know something is happening. Last time I checked, it was our job to figure out the details. Sorry -- my job. You guys just sit in cushy conference rooms with your spotless suits and try to trip up those of us doing actual work, don’t you?”

  He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was in the official record now, and would probably be added to the case against him. Both men smiled as if he had just complimented their haircuts.