David Putnam - The Replacements

I watched the clock on the wall. The red second hand swept around the dial once. The door opened. Three men and one woman came in, all wearing suits. They didn’t sit down. The men folded their arms and leaned against the wall. The woman said, “Just to be fair, we don’t think you have anything worth trading, not enough to let you go on a murder charge. We are here at the express request of Montclair Chief Wicks.”

“First off,” I said, “I know you’ve had the time to check out the case that this murder warrant is based on. I didn’t kill Chantal. She was my friend and, if it goes to trial, there is every likelihood that I will walk.”

I didn’t want to tell her that Robby Wicks, my old supervisor, my friend and husband to Barbara Wicks, had killed Chantal. Any defense put forward would have to put Robby out front, and I didn’t know if I could do that. Even after all that Robby had done.

One of the men, shorter, stout through the shoulders, wearing a blue suit with gray pinstripes, said, “And there’s the other matter of the kids.”

Was he now referring to the kids I had taken down to Costa Rica? I had left no evidence behind. They knew about Wally, but not the others, not for sure they didn’t. They only had rumors, supposition, circumstantial evidence. When Robby was alive, Robby had been hunting the children. He and I had played a little game of fox and hounds. I was sure he had told no one. Now that Wally had been reunited with his father, the pressure had come off. What they had was conjecture, speculation, and, most of all, embarrassment for being outsmarted.

I played dumb. “What kids?” When I said it, I remembered they had me on video putting Jonas in the trunk at the mall. They thought I had the two children, the little girls Jonas had taken, Elena Cortez and Sandy Williams.

Blue suit said, “Chief Wicks told us you didn’t take those kids. But you did grab Jonas Mabry, and you will have to answer to that if and when we capture him.”

He had tipped his hand, the first to give up something. I might grow to like him. I looked at him. “FBI or AUSA?”

He shrugged.

“Tell us what you have,” said the woman.

I looked her in the eyes for a long moment, then shifted back to blue suit, where I was getting a little slack. “I know the FBI set up Karl Drago to be killed by the Sons of Satan in order to get a RICO on Clay Warfield.”

His eyes twitched. He wasn’t ready for such a large serving of truth and reacted with his expression. I had him.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. She hadn’t known. She wasn’t a Fed. She recovered and said, “Speculation and conjecture. Not enough to trade for a murder charge.”

I looked back at her. “You’re County, aren’t you? You’re with San Bernardino County District Attorney’s office?”

She smiled. “Wrong. Los Angeles. Your murder occurred in LA county. And because of all your past crimes, I’ve been instructed not to negotiate with you.”

“I told you, it’s not my murder. You drove all the way out here not to negotiate with me?”

She dropped the smile. I looked back at blue suit. “I have enough circumstantial evidence to go to the press with you using Karl Drago as a staked goat.”

He held eye contact and shrugged. “Do what you have to do.”

They turned in unison to leave.

“I can give you Clay Warfield and most, if not all, the SSs in Southern California. I can do it with one predicate crime.”

They froze and slowly turned back. Blue suit asked, “How?”

I’d said the magic words. “Ill-gotten gain, proceeds obtained through a criminal enterprise that will also establish tax evasion.” The same thing that took down Capone. I wasn’t handing him a murder and mayhem predicate, but RICO carried a lot of years, and the blue suit would understand that you put enough defendants under that kind of pressure and they will start to roll. The whole SS organization would fall.

“Where is it?”

“I need a signed, court-authorized agreement that all charges will be dropped on me and John Mack and Karl Drago.”

“No, not all charges,” the woman said. “Reduced time only. You are not in any position to negotiate.”

“And you said you were told not to negotiate at all. You just gave up reduced time.”

Blue suit pulled a chair out and sat down. He offered his hand. “Special Agent Dan Chulack.”

I took it and smiled. He’d been the man Barbara called and told that we had recovered Eddie. Chulack was the special agent in charge-the boss. He had not broadcast his authority when he walked in. I liked him that much more.

“What do you have?” asked Chulack.

I let go of his hand. “I need a signed agreement first.”

“You were a deputy, a street cop, and, from what I understand, a very…ah, effective one,” he said. “You know how this works. We don’t jump through a bunch of hoops with a load of legal red tape until we have a proffer that can be validated.”

“You’re right. I do have a great deal of experience. So here’s the deal, Dan. If I tell you here and now, I give up my leverage. You’ll simply walk out, and I’ll never see you again. So I guess you’re going to have to trust me.”

“You have evidence?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“There again-”

“This is absolute bullshit,” the woman said. “We are not going to go along with something this thin. Especially not without an offer of good faith.”

“I know I don’t have the best reputation but, I promise you, I can deliver to you the SS organization on a silver platter.”

A gold doughnut platter, anyway .

Dan looked from her, back to me. “We’ll bring you the agreement and it will be signed, but I won’t hand it over until you give us the information, and then only when that information is deemed satisfactory.”

“It has to be completed within two hours. I have to be walking out the door in two hours.”

Dan was getting up and stopped. “That’s impossible. Why two hours?”

“Jonas Mabry has Eddie Crane, Elena Cortez, and Sandy Williams.”

He nodded.

“Jonas also has my wife, Marie. Chief Wicks didn’t tell you?”

“No, she didn’t. I’m sorry. But what can you do if you get out? This doesn’t make sense. Do you know where she’s being held?”

“No, and when I get out, I’m going to track Jonas down.”

I held his eyes a long time.

Finally he broke, turned, and said to the others, “Let me have a minute.”

They didn’t argue, but went out and closed the door.

“You don’t know me, but I am going to ask you to trust me,” he said.

I hesitated for a second, worried about the room camera. But he wasn’t. I shook my head “no.”

“Barbara told me what she did, how she flew down to Costa Rica to find you.”

I sat down. “Is she in trouble?”

“No, this isn’t going any further than me. This conversation goes no further. I believe everything you’ve told me, and now you’re going to have to trust me. You know how long this kind of thing takes. The contract has to be drawn up, it has to be reviewed by both sides, supervisors then managers have to approve it, and then we have to get a judge to sign off on it. We’ll be lucky to have this deal cut in two days, let alone two hours.”

He was right. “So what are you asking?”

“I’m asking you to trust me.”

“The FBI?”

“That’s right.”

He didn’t look away for a long drawn-out moment. “My way is the only way you’ll have a fighting chance at finding your wife.”

I nodded. “How do you want to do it?”

“Where is this evidence?”

“It’s in the clubhouse. There’s proof there that will support a RICO indictment on Clay Warfield and, by extension, all his henchmen.”