Russell Andrews - Midas

“Cool,” Gary said. “Who is he?”

“He’s a she.” They gave that same confused stare and Justin said, “Her name’s Regina. Reggie. Reggie Bokkenheuser.” And then, for some reason, he said, “That’s Danish.” They nodded, satisfied, turned to walk away again, and Justin said, “She’s got a lot of experience. She’s going to be second in command here.”

This time the two young cops didn’t just look confused, they registered some hurt. Justin said, again, “She’s got a lot of experience.”

Neither Gary nor Thomas said a word. They just nodded one more time, went back to their desks, and began working the phones and the Net.

Justin thought, Hey, that went pretty well. As he started to go through the mail, mostly junk or crank mail that came in to the police chief-unsigned notes complaining about barking dogs, angry letters decrying the mess left by the weekend tourists-he decided, Maybe this management thing’s not as bad as I thought.

The smug feeling didn’t last very long. In fact, it lasted less than a minute, because that’s when Justin looked up and saw the man in the dark gray suit standing in the front door of the station house. The guy was wearing a dark overcoat, unbuttoned, so it flapped open. He was in his late forties to mid-fifties, hard to tell exactly because his hair was light and cut too short to reveal much gray, and dark sunglasses hid his eyes. He was tall, a little over six feet, and lean; he didn’t look as if he could have weighed more than one-seventy, one-seventy-five. The muscles on his neck were taut, and Justin had a feeling the rest of him was probably just as taut. A Fed, Justin thought. And after that he thought, I already don’t like him.

The man didn’t hesitate, walked over to Justin’s desk and stood over it.

“Justin Westwood?” he asked. And when Justin nodded, the man said, “Hubbell Schrader, FBI.”

“You guys should think about neon,” Justin said. “It’d be a little less obvious.”

Hubbell Schrader grinned. “It’s in the handbook,” he said. “We have to look like this.”

Justin had to return the grin. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Schrader said. “I thought I should check in with you, though.”

“About what?”

“For one thing, Chuck Billings. I was dealing with him and he was a good guy, damn good at his job.”

“So this is a sympathy call?”

“I know all local cops are supposed to hate us Feds, but maybe you can give it a rest for a while. I don’t have any hidden agenda here and I’m not looking to bust your balls.”

Justin’s warning light came on. He remembered what Billings had said about this guy: an asshole. And worse, an asshole who didn’t want to get to the meat of the case. He’d basically told the bomb experts what to think and what to say. The warning light glowed only brighter at the words “I don’t have any hidden agenda.” That meant that Special Agent Schrader was out for blood. He was a magician masquerading as a cop: anything that was revealed was going to be fake; anything he placed in plain sight was not going to be real.

Justin looked up at Schrader and bit his lip, his expression as full of regret as he could muster. The guy wanted to throw around the bullshit, Justin could toss it with the best of them. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry. What can I do for you?”

“Is there an office or someplace a little more private?”

Justin hesitated, then stood and led Schrader back to Jimmy Leggett’s office. He flicked the light switch and the fluorescent light flickered on for the first time since Jimmy had been killed.

The two men sat-Justin a bit uncomfortably behind Jimmy’s desk-and the FBI agent said, “I’ve been one of the men in charge of investigating the Harper’s explosion. One of the reasons I’m here is that I know Billings took you there, gave you a little look-see.” When Justin didn’t say anything, Schrader went on quickly. “I said I’m not looking to bust your balls and I’m not. I don’t know why he took you there and I don’t really care. I assume he had his reasons. What I want to know is if he might have told you something that could in any way be useful.”

Justin hesitated, then said, “He didn’t really tell me anything.”

“So can I ask why you were there?”

Justin made a show of shrugging, as if apologizing for what he was about to say. “My boss, the guy whose office we’re in, was killed in the explosion.”

“Jimmy Leggett. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is, I made a promise to his wife. She was kind of hysterical and asked me to find out why he was killed. I asked Chuck to show me the site, no reason really, just so I could tell her I saw it. I mean, there’s not much I’m going to be able to tell her-what the hell can I really do or find out? — but I at least wanted to make it look good.”

“So was it helpful?”

“No. Mostly it was just depressing as hell.”

“Did Billings give you any of his theories on what happened?”

“He tried. Not in any great depth or anything. I have to say, I wasn’t able to understand most of what he was talking about. It was a lot of technical bomb stuff, and that’s hardly my area.”

“Kind of a self-effacing guy, aren’t you?”

Justin shrugged again. “Just telling you what happened.”

“Did Chuck discuss with you anything about a notebook?”

“What kind of notebook?”

“His notes on the case. Anything he might have written down about his investigation.”

“No. I don’t think he was carrying anything when he gave me the tour. I hate to use that word, but you know what I mean.”

“He didn’t have a casebook with him?”

“No. But we weren’t really there on official business. He was just showing me the site as a favor. I wasn’t really picking his brains and he certainly wasn’t picking mine.”

It was now a little after twelve-thirty, and Justin glanced up from the desk because Stanton “Don’t call me Stan, my name’s Stanton” Carman from the East End post office was tapping his thin, nervous fingers on the doorframe. Stanton, a small, wiry guy with a thin mustache that looked like it had been penciled on, had worked in the post office for fourteen years. He liked to think he was both tough and cool, although he was far from either. In keeping with his self-image, he flirted with every single woman who mailed a letter or picked up a package, and on his lunch breaks he often stopped in at the police station to chat, annoying the hell out of everyone. He was harmless, and sometimes he’d take mail from them, saving a trip and a wait on line, so the cops all tolerated him. He always came in with a little swagger-the closer he got to the police station, the more he swaggered-and even lounging in the doorway his body language was self-important. Justin’s eyes were raised but he didn’t speak, because any opening for conversation was an invitation for Stanton to talk your head off, so the post office clerk just dropped a large manila envelope on the desk.

“Came for you this morning, Chief,” Stanton said. “You in this office now?”

Justin looked up at him. Usually they were on a first-name basis. This “Chief” thing was new. He shook his head, a silent answer to Stanton’s question, and did his best to look as if Stanton should get the hell out now.

“Looked like it might be important, so I thought I’d drop it by.”

Justin nodded again. He knew if he said a word, he’d be stuck for the next ten minutes. Maybe longer. Even with Hubbell Schrader in the room. Stanton never seemed to care if he was interrupting even the most important business conversation.

“Expecting something?” Schrader asked.