J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

As biker bars go, this one’s pretty tame, sandwiched between a supersized Spec’s Liquor and a retail chain cantina. The crowd packed onto the outdoor deck doesn’t look particularly tough, mostly white suburbanites. The only cowboy boots are on the miniskirted ladies, the only motorcycles plastic imports with bold racing stripes. I pick my way through, dodging a waitress loaded down with sweating Dos Equis and Coronas.

The music inside is live. That’s all it has going for it. Even the early evening drunks are having a hard time with the dancing. There’s a lot of neon on the walls, a lot of yelling from table to table. It takes me a moment, scanning the darkness, to single out Bea Kuykendahl.

She may be small, but she knows how to take up space. She sits in a lazy sprawl, one arm draped over the back of her chair and her crossed legs resting on the opposite seat. Thick-soled work boots, faded jeans, and a tight, cap-sleeved black T-shirt revealing more muscle definition than I would have expected, reinforcing my earlier impression that she looks more like a teenaged boy than a grown woman.

Circling around, I approach her table from the side. I grab the back of the chair her feet are under, then yank it free.

“Hey, that seat’s taken!” she barks. Then: “ Oh .”

I spin the chair around and sit, crossing my arms over the back. “You can say that again, Bea. Or do you prefer to go by Trixie?”

“You followed me here?”

“I’m a man of many talents. I think we need to have a talk. I figured we might be able to converse a little more freely outside the office.”

She leans forward over the table. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t intimidate very easily. Throw your weight around all you want, Detective. Just be careful you don’t throw your back out.”

For a crazy moment I wonder if she’s heard of my fall. But there’s no way that could have reached her. Just a lucky jab.

“That story you told me, it doesn’t add up. When I got back to the office, we had a match on Brandon Ford. I have a hard time believing you’ve got enough pull to make the computer spit out false identifications. If you could, why bother bringing me and my lieutenant into the picture at all?”

“You tell me,” she says.

“At first I thought you had to, because with a little digging we’d have poked enough holes in the cover story to realize Brandon Ford wasn’t a real person. But he is real, isn’t he? I spoke to his ex-wife today, then I walked through his house. After that I did some asking around. The local gun dealers say he’s been around on the scene a couple of years. Either this is the most elaborate cover story in history, or. .”

“Or what?”

“Or you lied to us this morning.”

“I lied to you? Knowing that you’d see right through me the moment you did a cursory check. Give me more credit than that.”

“Ford’s ex-wife gave me a description of a woman who was with him before his death. This woman told Ford’s kids to call her Trixie. That was you.”

“And?”

“And I want to know the truth about what’s going on.”

She glances around. “You really think this is the place to do this? I’m actually meeting people here. Why don’t we handle this in a professional way-”

“This is a professional courtesy. You asked for a favor and you got it. You said there was a life at stake-fine. But now I think you were spinning us a tale, and even if I don’t know what your angle is yet, I’ll find out. I’m giving you a chance to clear things up right now, before it’s out of your control.”

Up onstage, the song ends, prompting desultory applause and a few tipsy hoots from the dance floor. The singer tips his straw hat back and says they’re taking a break. The clapping intensifies.

“You’re making a mistake here, March.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“You’re making this complicated when it ought to be very simple. Is it so hard for you just to follow my lead? If you go along and don’t screw this up, at the end of the day you’ll have a high-profile clearance you can add to your resumé. The alternative is, you get a man killed and torpedo a Federal investigation.”

“I already heard the pitch,” I say. “I want to know what’s really going on.”

“You know as much as you need to. More than that, actually. Tell me this, if what you say is true and Brandon Ford is too real to be a cover, then why would I bother handing you the file? If I knew you were going to get his name from NCIC and when you checked him out you’d be convinced, what was the upside for me?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would explain that.”

She shakes her head. “You’re a piece of work. Now, will you get out of here? I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you. Do whatever you want.”

All the replies that come flooding to my lips would only sound ridiculous. The set of her jaw says she’s unmovable.

“You’ve had your chance,” I say, in spite of myself.

She greets this with a smirk.

On my way out I glance back. Bea still sits alone at the table. I’m tempted to hang around and see who’s joining her-a friend, a colleague, someone I might be able to place? — but then the band members start climbing onstage again, reaching unsteadily for their microphone stands. I push my way through the loiterers at the door, glad to be back in the balmy night air. From the smell on the breeze I’m guessing we’re in for more rain.

While I’m driving home, Charlotte calls from London. It’s good to hear her voice, though she sounds too close to be so far away. She tells me about the people she’s met, the places she’s been taken to eat. She asks if I’ve been watching the news, because there are demonstrations on the streets. I haven’t. She sounds disappointed.

“When things wrapped up in the city,” she says, “the boys took a flight up to Scotland to play a few rounds at St. Andrews. I ditched them and went on my own little adventure. You really should have come, Roland. I went to Cambridge and to Ely Cathedral-it’s the oldest Norman cathedral in the country-and I met a real-life vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”

I make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate intervals. I’m still preoccupied by the conversation with Bea, and getting angry about it. I need to focus.

“And what about you?” Charlotte asks. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Working.”

“Just working?”

“We caught a nasty one after you left. But we don’t need to talk about that.”

“Are you all right? You sound kind of funny.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I fell down the other day. I think I pulled something.”

“You should go to the doctor, Roland.”

“That’s what Hedges told me. Speaking of which-” But no, there’s no point in getting into that, either. “Never mind. I don’t want to bore you with the office gossip. When does Ann get there? I saw Bridger the other day but forgot to ask.”

“Tomorrow.” Again, she sounds disappointed, like I should already know the answer. She went over her plans with me more than once before leaving. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“You should go see the Robbs,” she says.

That old standby. I must really sound bad.

“I’ll do that,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way, I saw Cavallo the other day, too. She says hello.”

“That’s nice. How was she?”

“I think there might be some trouble at home.”

“Really?”

The words are out before I can stop them. I’m as surprised as Charlotte is. I try to hedge a little, saying something about the stress Cavallo’s husband is probably under, reintegrating into civilian life after so many tours overseas. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t ask anything more.