J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

There is, but I’m not going to ask. I already know the kind of answers she’d give and how far I could trust them. When you’re in the dark and you suspect there’s a brick wall, there’s no point running into it just to prove you’re right.

On my way out, though, I make a point of pausing at the big whiteboard. With a glance in Bea’s direction I flip it back over, taking a long look at the man she’s identified as Robert Johnson. He has a long, thin face with dark eyes and a cleft chin. His jet-black hair is cut short. A thick, muscular neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. I can imagine him swallowing. I can imagine the axe falling across his throat.

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” Bea says.

“Maybe so. I just want to know why he was killed.” I touch the edge of the photo, some of the red marker coming off on my finger. “There’s something you should know. When Chad Macneil was killed, a lot of people thought it was Reg Keller who did it. You know about Reg, I assume. If he’s connected to this somehow, then I need you to realize this: he’s mine.”

“He’s yours,” she says. “Message received.”

My eyes trail across the board, resting on Lodge’s face. I remember him turning at the sound of my voice, his legs planted on either side of Lorenz, my pistol in his hand. I remember his eyes, the mask hiked up over his forehead, the millisecond’s worth of surprise before he was hidden behind the Krinkov’s flash.

Bea puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t let it get to you. It had to be done.”

I’m conscious of everyone in the room, their eyes on me, but when I turn, they are all looking away. All except for the outlier, the older man, who stands apart from the rest with his arms crossed, barely concealing his disgust.

Leaving the field office and its air-conditioning via the front entrance, the sauna effect hits me outside, steaming my sunglasses at the bridge of the nose. As I walk, I’m conscious not only of a twinge down my leg but also a leftward tilt brought on by the weight of my briefcase. Even empty, the bridle leather is a handful, but now it’s stuffed to capacity with all the gear and paperwork I lug around on a daily basis, mostly without being conscious of the load. Remembering the doctor’s words about heavy lifting, I tell myself it may be time to retire the old bag, or at least dump some of the ballast.

“Hey, you,” a voice calls.

I wheel around to find the outlier from Bea’s squad breathing down my neck. “You got a problem with me?”

He gets up in my face, eyes flashing. But I see right off that I’ve misread the signs. He’s not confronting me. He’s putting an arm around my shoulder, hunching down, whispering something he doesn’t want anybody to overhear.

“Listen here,” he says. “What’s going on back there, we’re crossing all the lines. We’re doing things we’ve got no business doing, taking risks we’ve got no business taking. She’s sucked you into it. Don’t argue with me now. I can see it. I can read the signs for myself. I know because I’ve been there myself.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“What I’m trying to do is warn you. She’s got her hooks in you good. She calls the tune and you put on your dancing shoes. But this is gonna end bad for everybody involved. I’m telling you right now to walk away.”

“This is sour grapes,” I say. “Bea somehow maneuvered herself into the job you wanted, and now you’re out for revenge. What’s the matter? Can’t handle having a woman for a boss?”

“What I can’t handle is having a snake for a boss. She’s not the victim here, partner. She’s calling the shots.”

“I’m not your partner.” I shrug myself free.

He throws his hands up. “Fine. You’ve been warned. And I won’t feel sorry for you when you take the fall.”

After he’s stalked away, I open my car door and sling the briefcase to the passenger side. It lands on the edge and falls over. The straps that hold down the top flap are buckled loosely, leaving enough play around the opening for some of the smaller items to spill onto the floor mat. Bending over, I retrieve my digital recorder, my beat-up little camera, and Jeff’s dog-eared copy of The Foxhole Atheist , which I’m still carrying around.

By the time everything’s packed away, my forehead’s beaded with sweat. I start the engine and adjust the air vents, pausing a couple of minutes just to cool down. Then I reach into the glove compartment for some pain pills.

I’m not sure what to make of that guy. He doesn’t like Bea, that much is obvious. As for the rest, I may be a fool to trust her, but what choice do I have?

I let the air-conditioner blow as I dial Wilcox.

“Have you made any progress?”

“If I had anything worth sharing, I would’ve already called.” He takes a breath. “Look, if Englewood was an investor in Keller’s business, there’s no paper trail I can find. Maybe that in itself says something. The man does what he wants and never leaves a trace. He knows how to keep invisible.”

“Speaking of invisibility, is it possible that Englewood made Keller disappear when we were hunting him? He’d have the connections, presumably.”

“Anything’s possible,” he says. “Proving it, though, that’s the problem. Can I be honest with you, March? Maybe we’re out of our depth. You’re over on the sideline, I’m coming up with nothing, and the idea that any of this is going to end up in court. .”

“What are we supposed to do? Ignore it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m flailing around here,” I say, “but it’s better than doing nothing. So keep looking, okay?”

Silence on the line, which I interpret as consent. I’m about to say goodbye when he clears his throat. “I shouldn’t say anything,” he says, “but I’ve seen the preliminary report on your shooting.”

“And?”

“They’ve got nothing.”

“That’s good. I mean, I knew there was nothing, but still. . I’m relieved.”

“They’re sitting on it, though. Keeping their options open.”

“Still,” I say. “Thanks.”

When I turn off Justice Park Drive on my way to the Northwest Freeway ramp, the donut shop on W. 43rd calls out to me. I steer into the lot, putting the car in park and bringing my briefcase inside with me. Inside, a couple of sun-weathered old-timers are drinking black coffee across from each other, the morning paper scattered in sections on the table between them. One of them wears a white sleeveless T-shirt over cigar-wrapper skin, a flat cap low over his eyes. The other has one hand tucked into the waistband of his powder-blue stretch jeans. They look me over with indifference before resuming their conversation.

At the counter I line up behind a couple of refill-seeking seniors, then order coffee and a glazed donut, which I take to an empty table up front with a view of the parking lot and the feeder road beyond. The coffee is weak, but the donut tastes pretty good in a soft, sickly sweet sort of way. I have to give my fingertips a good scrub to get the glaze off, and even then, as I unpack my briefcase, spreading the papers out across the Formica tabletop, my touch seems to raise sticky welts on everything.

I sip some coffee and start flipping through The Foxhole Atheist . The marginal note with the safe house address isn’t the only annotation. In fact, many of the pages feature underlining and one- or two-word notes. Sometimes he’s written GOOD or EXACTLY next to a line from the day’s devotional reading. Sometimes he limits himself to an exclamation mark beside a telling passage. Clearly he’s spent some hours with this book, so it’s no surprise that when needing to write the address down, The Foxhole Atheist was at hand.