T. Parker - The Famous and the Dead

The next morning Hood arrived early for work, parked in the semi-secure tenants’ lot, and pulled his war bag from the front seat of the Charger. He set it on the roof while he got his coat on and locked up, then used his reflection in the car window to adjust his felt fedora and snug his tie. He was wearing his best navy power suit and highly polished black Allen Edmonds cap-toes to ward off the sense of defeat that had hounded him since the death of his father and the OGR hearing. As he approached the stairs, a woman with a large microphone and a man with a video camera were waiting for him just outside the small lobby of the elevator bank. He recognized the reporter. The man was already shooting and the woman surged into Hood’s airspace with a flourish of hair and lipstick. “ATF Agent Charlie Hood, I’m Theresa Brewer with Fox News in L.A. How are you today?”

“A little early to tell.”

“What can you tell us about the gun allegedly used to kill Congressman Scott Freeman in San Diego last Saturday?”

“That’s not our investigation.”

“But you testified to Congress earlier this week about the gun.”

“It’s an automatic machine pistol made by Pace Arms of Orange County.” Hood pulled the fedora brim low and stepped past them into the elevator lobby. But the woman followed him and the videographer was still shooting.

“Is it true that you personally visited the accused assassin, Lonnie Rovanna, just five days before he murdered Congressman Freeman?”

“I interviewed him as part of an ongoing investigation.”

“What were you investigating?”

“I can’t comment.”

“Is it true that ATF lost track of one thousand such weapons in a botched investigation in two thousand ten?”

“It wasn’t botched. We got outmaneuvered.”

“But the guns went into Mexico, correct?”

“We believe so.”

“And now, apparently, at least one has come back to kill a United States congressman.”

Hood hustled up the stairs to the second-story ATF offices. The steel steps made a ringing sound that echoed in the concrete stairwell. He heard Theresa Brewer’s footsteps behind him. “Representative Darren Grossly accused ATF of ‘irresponsible actions’ regarding these automatic weapons. He said the Department of Justice is, at the highest levels, quote, ‘trying to cover up these actions by stonewalling’ his investigation. Is this true?”

Hood stepped onto the first floor landing and turned to face the journalist. “I testified. I didn’t stonewall. Have a nice day.”

“Did you act alone?”

“We always work in teams. Good-bye. I’m going to go to work now.”

“Before you testified, did your superiors at ATF ask you to protect their superiors? Maybe even the attorney general himself?”

“Don’t be silly.” Hood tipped his hat and unlocked the ATF suite with his name tag chip. Dale Yorth glanced at him from the water-cooler in the hallway. Theresa Brewer was asking another question as the heavy door locked behind Hood. He made it to his cubicle, aimlessly enraged, his heart beating hard.

Yorth soon stood looking down at Hood over the low fabric partitions of the workspace. “Fox News?”

“They must have seen me on C-Span.”

“So did everybody else. I’m so sorry about this, Charlie. Can I come in?”

Yorth sat next to Hood’s desk in the crowded cubicle. He had a slip of paper in his hand. “I just got off the phone with San Diego. Frank’s gotten interview requests from The New York and Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, Time. . ” He looked down at the paper. “Well. . I couldn’t write fast enough. They all want to know about the Love Thirty-twos and they all want interviews with you. Soriana referred them to Washington but you know damned well they’ll be back. That Union-Tribune story yesterday really caught fire. Shit. Hold on.” Yorth pulled his cell, checked the number and answered, then was quiet for a long while. “Yes, sir. Okay. Now that’s a damned shame. He’s here now. Yes, sir, I will. No, sir, he won’t.”

He hung up and shook his head. “Lansing just let IA loose on you, Charlie. You’re officially jammed as of right now. ATF has to show that something is being done. So I’m to put you on administrative leave. The leave is paid-you just have to stay home and be accounted for. In a way it’s good. It will let you dodge these reporters. You know how it is-they’ll lose interest in a few days. Sorry, but this is direct from Lansing.”

“Can I keep working?”

“AL is fully paid.”

“It’s not about the pay . It’s about Wampler. For all we know he’s still got that Stinger and he intends to use it.”

“Do what you need to do, Charlie. Bust Wampler’s ass. But I don’t want to know about it. Just pick up the phone when IA calls. Be there. Act good. I’m on your side.”

“I’m taking the laptop.”

“I don’t hear you.”

• • •

Hood went to his office and called Mary Kate’s parents and siblings. Only her brother knew of Clint Wampler at all, and he knew very little-just some badass punk from a few towns over. But they all admitted to having told friends and neighbors about Mary Kate’s move to California. Her mother had to inform the school district, that was the law. Hood realized that scores of people in Russell County could know she’d gone to L.A. and the ones who knew her might assume she’d gone to stay with her old friend, Amy. All it took was one of them to be an acquaintance of Wampler and the circuit was complete.

When Hood reached Amy by phone in L.A. she sounded vague and dismissive. Hood smelled fear. It took a few minutes of earnest cajoling but she finally admitted that Clint Wampler had showed up at her apartment when Victor was working. He’d put his hand on her throat and demanded to know where Mary Kate Boyle had got to and said if she went to the cops he’d come back and strangle her and leave her for Victor to explain. I’m real afraid , she said. Is Mary Kate okay? I shoulda called the cops. I shoulda, I shoulda.

Hood told Mary Kate by phone, and for the first time in the several hours he’d spent with her, she was temporarily speechless.

“Where are you now?”

“Walking to work.”

“Are you close?”

“Yeah, another two blocks.”

“Good. Once you’re inside, don’t leave. Make sure you aren’t alone there.”

“Hard to be alone, with a crew of four.”

“I’m going to make arrangements with a motel we work with in San Diego. It’s a decent place. I’ll send a cab for you at work and it will bring you there. Figure about one hour. Don’t go back to the Windsor Arms. Don’t pack. Don’t panic. Just do your job and get into that taxi when it arrives. You’re going to vanish for a few days, Mary Kate. Be invisible. Can you do that?”

“That hick bastard. I’m gonna lose my job and my room because of him? I got rehearsal later, you know.”

“You’ll get back everything. Right now, just stay invisible.”

“I don’t scare easy but he gives me the genuine creeps, Charlie.”

Hood read the news to ATF Buenavista: The crazy with the Stinger was on to Mary Kate Boyle, and probably on to them, too.

• • •

An hour later Yorth scouted the parking lot for reporters, then Hood locked the laptop in the trunk of his Charger and climbed in. The car bounced into the bright sunlight of Buenavista. He drove toward Castro Ford listening to the reports of rain in San Diego and he looked out at the endless blue sky overhead. He felt betrayed but free. ATF would fire him soon and loudly, he thought: damage control. It was a perilous feeling to know how very small he was within the bureaucracy, how unimportant and discardable, a single-use man. He wondered if the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department would can him, too.