C. Box - Breaking Point

“You’re a bunch of lifers,” Joe said.

“And what a life it is,” Underwood said, warming to it. “I make good money, I have great benefits, and they’ll never fire me. I’m set, baby. I’ll retire making four times the money my father made the best year of his life. Tell me what’s not to like? You know how it is.”

“It’s not such a sweet deal on the state level,” Joe said.

“And it shouldn’t be,” Underwood said. “You people are jokes to most of us, out here getting your hands dirty for next to nothing. No offense.”

“Of course not,” Joe said, gritting his teeth. “So what you’re doing here-shoving aside the local sheriff and doing this paramilitary operation-that doesn’t bother you?”

Underwood said, “No, why should it? I’m doing my job. If I wasn’t here, somebody else would be. I’ve got nothing personal against the sheriff or that Roberson schmuck. He’s a killer, after all. I’ll get bonus pay for this since we’re way over forty hours this week, and if I’m lucky I’ll get ever so slightly injured so I can take some time off and get disability. I just don’t want to get killed, because I’ve got a vacation planned to Hawaii with the babe from Evergreen in November. Getting killed would really ruin my plans, so I’ll make sure I come out of this okay.”

Joe quickly changed tacks so he wouldn’t feel compelled to knock Underwood off his horse. He almost smiled when he thought how Nate Romanowski would have likely reacted to Underwood’s little speech. If Nate heard it, Joe thought, Underwood would be without an ear or even his head.

Joe said, “If they’re not sending a helicopter, what are they doing to find Butch Roberson? Another drone?”

“My lips are sealed,” Underwood said, but smirked to confirm Joe’s speculation.

“Why so heavy-handed?” Joe asked.

“I’m not the boss.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. Underwood was playing with him.

“So if it’s not you, and it’s obviously not,” Joe said, “who is driving this operation in such a frantic way?”

“Guess.”

“Julio Batista,” Joe said. “But why?”

Underwood scanned the trees on each side and the horizon in front of them, as if to see if there were agency spies lurking who might overhear him. Joe expected another nonanswer answer, but Underwood said, “The man has a bug up his ass. Actually, quite a few bugs. He’s vindictive as hell, and he really loves his power. Before him, I was used to military guys. They can be assholes, too, but there’s usually a sense of duty and tradition that keeps the really petty stuff out. This guy is different. It’s like he’s lived his entire life keeping a list of anyone who dissed him or disrespected him. He uses his position to get even. I’ve helped him do that, which is why I am where I am today.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“I’ll give you one example of many,” Underwood said, keeping his voice low so his agents couldn’t overhear. “When Batista got named director of Region Eight, his salary went up into the mid-six figures, so he wanted a new house in a ritzy neighborhood because he figured he deserved it. So he bought a McMansion in a gated horsey development named Summit Highlands out of Denver. Two-million-dollar home with five acres, or something like that. After he moved in, he hired a contractor to outfit the roof with solar panels. You know, to set an example of how people should exist. He’s big into that stuff-a true believer. Plus, he knows how to get tax credits and rebates for solar. That’s what the agency does, after all.”

Underwood grinned bitterly. “But Summit Highlands has a homeowners’ association and the bylaws say a house can’t be modified externally unless a majority of the owners agree. Apparently, those folks thought the solar panels were an eyesore. Batista fought them but couldn’t get the votes. He became obsessed with beating them.

“He called me into his office one day and asked about my background and wondered if I’d be interested in helping him out. He thought I looked intimidating, I guess.”

“Imagine that,” Joe said, deadpan. “Go on.”

“I got the message,” Underwood said. “So over the next several weeks I visited every one of the board members of the homeowners’ association. I asked them about the fertilizer they used on their lawns and on the golf course, and where the runoff flowed. I asked them how many lawn mowers and leaf blowers were being used and what the decibel level was. I mentioned possible violations of the Clean Water Act and the Clean Air Act, all innocent-like, and I took a lot of notes. See, the dirty little secret is, our agency oversees three things: air, water, and the earth itself. Think about it. That’s a pretty damned big area to cover, and it gives us a lot of options. I never threatened anyone or initiated any action, but they were smart folks and connected A to B.

“Next homeowners’ association meeting, the solar panels for Juan Julio Batista got approved by two votes. After that, I got bumped up to chief of the special agents.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Joe asked.

“Because the son of a bitch has gone too far this time. He told me a few minutes ago he used my name with some defense guys I used to work with to get something in motion.”

“What’s he done?” Joe asked, feeling a shiver roll down his back.

“You’ll see,” Underwood said. Joe noticed a vein in Underwood’s temple throbbing as he spoke. He was angry.

“Here’s another little tidbit,” Underwood said, leaning toward Joe and lowering his voice, “and if you ever repeat it to anybody I’ll figure out a way to make your life as crappy as we did that Roberson guy’s. Do you want to know my boss’s name before he changed it?”

“He changed it?”

“John Pate,” Underwood said, and laughed. “He grew up as a boring little white dude from Illinois named John Owen Pate. But after he left college, he changed it. His parents were whiter than white, but when they divorced, when he was in college, his mother married a dude named Batista. John Pate became Juan Julio Batista because he wanted to be more exotic, you know? He wanted a name that would stand out and get him noticed in the system those years. He’s naturally dark-haired and dark-eyed, so it worked out for him. And he took advantage of policies to promote people of color .”

“How do you know this?”

Underwood chuckled. “I’m an investigator, Game Warden. I investigated. I’ve got photocopies of his high school yearbook when he was John Pate, and I found his parents’ divorce record and his mother’s marriage announcement to Sergio Batista when John was twenty-one. He changed his name the year he left college. Isn’t that a kick in the pants?”

“So he lied to get the job,” Joe said.

“Nobody checks those things,” Underwood said. “You tick a box on your employment application and you get moved to a special pile. And even if it was exposed, I doubt he’d be thrown out.”

“Because he’s good at his job,” Joe said.

“That’s right. As we like to say in the agency, personnel is policy. Batista can get things done.”

“But not immediately,” Joe countered. “Not unless someone with real political juice knew how to turn that aircraft carrier around.”

“So we’re back to that, huh?” Underwood said, his face darkening. “Didn’t you hear me when I said I didn’t give a shit?”

“But I do,” Joe said.

Underwood sighed and said, “I don’t know who put him up to it. He didn’t involve me in this one.”

“Interesting. Is it possible he initiated the action himself?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Underwood said. “I doubt it, though. Batista is a political animal. He’s after big fish and headlines. Why would he waste his time on a couple of small-town losers?”