J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“There’s nothing to it?”

“What do you think?” He laughs again. “Sure, a couple of HPD patrolmen are hiring themselves out as underworld hit men.”

“There’s such a thing as a corrupt cop,” I say. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Seriously, this was a righteous shooting. Nesbitt drew and fired. Case closed.”

We round the block, turning back onto his street. “I wish it was always that easy.”

“You mean your own shooting?” He adjusts his seat belt so he can face me. “I was sorry to hear about what happened to Lorenz. I didn’t know him that well, but he was a good man. I know that can’t have been easy for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, really meaning it. “They’re coming down on me pretty hard.”

“We really shouldn’t talk about that.”

“What was I supposed to do-let him put one in Jerry’s head?”

“It’s the automatic weapon,” he says. “They found something like sixteen entry wounds.”

“Sixteen?” It’s the first time I’ve heard the exact number. “It was over in a heartbeat. I didn’t even know the gun was full-auto. I just grabbed what was near to hand.”

I pull up in the driveway behind the Land Rover. He reaches for the door handle, but doesn’t pull it.

“Listen, Roland. I shouldn’t even be saying that. There’s a lot of pressure on our people. We’re not stupid. You shot a cop-killer in the middle of the act. Nobody wants to come down on you for that. A lot of us think you deserve a medal. But like I said, there’s a lot of pressure from up top. They want every aspect of this thing scrutinized.”

“It’s like a traffic stop,” I say. “They’ve got me on one thing and they’re trying to turn it into something bigger.”

“Pretty much. So keep your head down.”

He opens the door and starts to exit.

“One last thing. You heard about Hedges, I assume? Now Wanda Mosser’s in charge. I’m not sure why, but she seems to be gunning for me, too. I don’t suppose you have any insight into the back-room deals?”

“All I know is this: Hedges made a big play during the runoffs, thinking he had a shot at the chief’s office. I assume some promises were made, but I can’t say. In the process, he put a target on his back. Meanwhile, Wanda has a lot of friends in the new mayor’s office. Homicide was her reward for backing the mayor’s choice for chief. I think you’re wrong about her gunning for you.”

“It looks that way from where I’m sitting.”

“Well, you still have a job, don’t you?” He gets out of the car and shuts the door, then leans back through the open window. “If she wasn’t looking out for you, I’m not sure you’d even have that.”

“Thanks, Stephen.”

He taps the roof. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

As a testament to how well our conversation went, before I’m home Wilcox calls me with the name of a contact-an ex-intelligence man-who proved immensely informative during the investigation of Nesbitt’s death. “His name is Englewood and he’s the real deal.” Apparently the club of retirees Nesbitt had chaired appointed this Englewood as an informal liaison, empowering him to give the detectives the lay of the land, answering questions with surprising candor, though always off the record. Wilcox only met him once, but kept the man’s card. He rattles a phone number off while I copy it into the open Filofax on my lap, trying not to steer into one of the parked cars on my right.

I dial while idling in my own driveway, mentally preparing myself for some song and dance. Just because he’s helped the police once doesn’t mean there’s a permanent shingle out on his stoop.

“This is Tom,” a voice says.

“Tom Englewood?” I introduce myself, mention the fact that I’m a homicide detective, and launch into a vague soliloquy about lingering questions surrounding the Nesbitt shooting. He cuts me off midsentence, leaving me to expect the worst.

“Tell you what,” he says. “You know the Downing Street Pub? I’m usually there between ten and eleven, enjoying an evening cigar. Why don’t you drop by this evening and we’ll have ourselves a little chat.”

“I’ll see you then.”

In the first ten minutes, Tom Englewood reveals himself as a former Northeasterner, an Ivy Leaguer who during the course of a rich and varied life sloughed off his regional identity, trading it for what I can only describe as Latin elegance. Engine-turned cuff links sparkle at his wrists, and his watch has a skeleton face that reveals the jeweled movement inside. A puff of silk erupts from the breast pocket of his glen plaid suit jacket, with a sterling clip holding his silk-weave tie in place. He wears his hair slicked back and keeps a tightly trimmed mustache.

He holds down his side of the table like it belongs to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a brass plaque on the edge with his name on it. When he offers me a cigar, he clips the cap himself before passing it over, like he doesn’t trust anyone else to do the job right.

Before I can ask any questions, he starts lecturing me on the virtues of American bourbons, switching in midstream (after catching my glance at the band on the cigar in my hand) to a denunciation of anyone who says the best Honduran cigars don’t equal or better the much-vaunted Cubans. During the 1980s, he says, he spent a lot of time down in Honduras ( wink, nod ) and during the cigar craze of the nineties considered going back to get something going on the cigar front-easy enough to do, he hints, with contacts like his.

“Mr. Englewood,” I say.

“Please. It’s Tom.” He makes a flourish with his cigar hand, leaving a trail of smoke in the air, granting the favor of his first name with noblesse oblige . “I know you didn’t come out tonight to hear my theories on life. You said you have questions about Andy Nesbitt, is that right?”

“There seems to be some confusion about whether he really worked for the CIA or not.”

Englewood gives me a big smile. “Uh- huh .”

“Where do you come down on that question?”

“I knew Andy really well,” he says, “but only after I settled down here. That doesn’t mean much, of course. My own work was more of an analytical nature-I was a big-picture guy-whereas he always claimed to have been operational. Wherever he got his experience, I can tell you he was good at putting together networks and producing high-grade intelligence product.”

“He continued to do that kind of work, you mean? After retirement?”

“None of us retires. Not if we can help it.”

There are two paths, Englewood explains, which he dubs the High Road and the Low Road. Returning to the private sector, a former intelligence officer can sell his services to the government, either through an existing private security company or by creating his own. Since 9/11, there are plenty of opportunities for ex-officers with Middle East experience. “And even if they don’t have it, there are ways and means.” This kind of work, suckling at the government teat, whether directly through the intelligence community or indirectly via government contractors, is considered the High Road.

“And the Low Road?”

“Corporate money,” he says. “A lot of us in H-Town, we’re Low Roaders, I guess you could say. The energy companies do business all over the world, so wherever you happen to have contacts, there’s usually somebody you can provide with some added value. Think about it: you could spend your whole career with Langley, sweating it out at some station in Africa, a thankless backwater where you could always be kidnapped and shot just for being seen at the embassy, without any of the compensating charms. . ” He chuckles at the thought of said charms, but doesn’t elaborate. “And when you retire, there’s a Houston oil maverick looking to drill wells off the coast of your old stomping ground, and only you can tell him which palms to grease. It’s a beautiful thing.”