P Deutermann - The Moonpool

Special Agent Mary Myers had apparently come to the Bureau with a high creep threshold if she was still partnered up with Brother Caswell. She was a well-fed, late-thirty-something blonde, five-seven or -eight, with watery blue eyes, a bunny rabbit nose, and round, horned-rim Wall Street eyeglasses, which framed a permanently puzzled and near-sighted expression on her otherwise unremarkable face. I figured she probably had an accounting degree and was one of those tenacious detail miners the Bureau used in complex white-collar financial crimes. Her Missed-it Mary nickname had arisen in the course of a stakeout incident during her first and only assignment as a street agent. Mary thought she’d been fired upon from a parked car and had emptied her service weapon in return, hitting three other parked cars and managing to set two of them on fire, while leaving the suspect vehicle untouched and her fellow agents watching in awe from beneath their own vehicle.

“Special Agents,” I said as they approached my corner table. I had not actually worked with either of them before, so they introduced themselves, flashed the appropriate picture-plastic, and sat down.

“So, how can I help you?” I asked, addressing myself to Caswell. Even sitting, he seemed to tower over me and the table, and I’m six-foot-plus. He began rubbing those undertaker hands together.

“We understand,” he began, “that Ms. Gardner was an employee of your company and that she was pursuing evidence of marital infidelity, involving one or more officers of the court?”

“I think just two philandering lawyers, actually,” I said. I saw Special Agent Myers discreetly opening her notebook. “I’ve gathered up the details of Allie’s investigation for you right here,” I continued, and handed a written summary to Myers so she wouldn’t have to take so many notes. She looked at it warily and then handed it to Caswell, who fished out some Silas Marner glasses and scanned it for a moment.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Richter,” he said, folding the two fax pages lengthwise and sliding them into his suit jacket pocket. “It is ‘mister’ these days, am I correct?”

“Absolutely,” I said, knowing full well that Caswell was telling me I’d been vetted before they came to see me. I had some history with the Raleigh Field Office, not all of it pleasant. “I haven’t been in law enforcement since I declined to testify in the cat dancers case.”

“Yes-s-s.” Caswell nodded, a bit startled that I would bring that up. “I do remember that case, but not why, exactly, you declined to testify.”

“Because I couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore,” I said. “And I had a civilian to protect as well. So: Where’d the hot stuff come from?”

Myers rolled superior eyes and looked away. Caswell gave me a patient if somewhat disappointed smile. “You know how this works, Mr. Richter. We ask the questions. You do your civic duty and help your Bureau. Or perhaps not, I suppose, in your case.”

It was my turn to smile. “It’s not my Bureau, Special Agent,” I said. “But nothing’s ever forgotten, is it.”

“Almost never, Mr. Richter. You’re quite right there. Quite right. Now, back to Ms. Gardner: Did she report anything at all which might have a bearing on how she died?”

I decided to quit sparring. “Nothing at all. As I told Detective Price, the case was entirely routine, to the point where Allie said she was coming back early. She had the goods, and that was it.”

“May we have access to ‘the goods,’ as you put it?”

“If our client is willing, we certainly won’t get in your way. But I should warn you, the client’s a Georgia redhead, and she’s really pissed off. In Georgia, that’s usually a legitimate pretext for gunfire.”

“Thank you for the advice, Mr. Richter,” Creeps said, peering at me over those antique specs. “As you may remember, we’re always extremely grateful for advice. And even if the client is not willing, may we please have her name and address?”

“Sure,” I said. I knew perfectly well that they could get that information, one way or another.

Caswell turned formally to his partner. “Special Agent Myers?”

“Do you have any idea why Ms. Gardner was at that particular gas station?” Mary asked.

“Getting gas?” I said. Her eyes narrowed. “Or do you mean her being over in the university district?”

“The latter, Mr. Richter,” she said patiently, pen and notebook poised.

I’d wondered about that, too. “Two possibilities, I think. She was just out for a drive, saw that she’d need to get gas before coming back the next morning, and hit the first station she came to. Or.”

“Or?”

“Or, all of the above and then whatever she drank got to her before she could get back to the hotel. She felt ill and found the nearest bathroom. I never did hear a time of death.”

“Where would you have heard a time of death?” Myers asked.

“At the county morgue?” I said.

“You were at the morgue?”

“I was. I was asked to make the ID for Detective Price. Talked to an assistant ME. Or rather, listened to one.”

Myers looked at Caswell. It was obvious she thought my talking to the assistant ME represented a grave breach of some federal procedure or another. Caswell nodded, rubbed his hands, and changed the subject.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Ms. Gardner?” he asked. Myers, back in her box, subsided and resumed taking notes.

“Her ex would be a long shot,” I said. “He left her for another woman, but that was eight, maybe nine years ago. She divorced him and then whacked him financially, at least as she tells it. Told it. But Allie was a pretty tough lady, so that’s not really likely after all this time.”

“And at work? At your, um, company? Everything okay there?”

I grinned at him. “It’s a real company, Special Agent. Licensed, bonded, the whole nine yards. We can even carry guns if we want to. And, yes, indeed, Allie was fine at work. Lots of boys and girls having trouble keeping their pants on, apparently.”

Myers sniffed, as if the notion of people without their pants on disagreed with her. I got the impression that lots of things probably disagreed with Special Agent Mary Myers, and that she always kept her pants on. I wondered if she even knew what her unofficial handle was.

“Was she personally involved with anyone that you know of?” Caswell asked.

I shook my head and had a sip of beer. I hadn’t bothered to offer the agents a drink. Bureau people are always on duty. Always. It’s one of the things that makes them formidable. “I think the both of them-Allie and Mel Lindsay, her partner in the firm-were tired of men and their bullshit.”

Myers blinked. Actually, she almost smiled at that. The lounge was starting to fill up.

“A relationship there?” Caswell asked.

“No, just work. They often traveled together. They were lethally thorough and enjoyed their specialty. Mel was seeing some guy for a while, but then discovered that he was married, so that ended abruptly. But, no, they were not a pair in that sense.”

Caswell almost looked disappointed. Creeps indeed, I thought. He looked at Myers and raised his eyebrows. She closed her notebook. We were done. I exchanged cards with Caswell. He asked me to call or e-mail him if I thought of anything else, and reminded me he needed Allie’s client’s name and address. He started to push back his chair and then stopped.

“You’re an investigator by trade, Mr. Richter,” he said. “Please tell me you are going to stay out of this one, correct?”

I looked at him. That was a question and a warning. “Sure, Special Agent,” I said, perhaps sounding more casual than I felt. “With you guys on the case, who needs me, right?”