Chris Jordan - Torn

“Did you call my contact numbers?”

Chumley shrugs. “I called the first one. Monica whatever.”

“FBI Assistant Director Monica Bevins.”

“Yeah, her. I left a message. Assistant Director, that’s a really high-ranking individual.”

“That’s right. She reports to the Deputy Director.”

“I’m impressed. Thing is, she hasn’t got around to returning my call. So either she doesn’t know you, doesn’t respond to inquiries from state investigators, or she’s busy with some really important FBI stuff and can’t be bothered. Which pretty much leaves us back where we started.”

“Me reporting a crime.”

“You reporting your suspicion-I believe you called it a ‘gut instinct’-that a woman was abducted from this airport.”

“Or nearby.”

“The car-rental lot, yeah. Happens to be on airport property.”

“Have you found her vehicle?”

Instead of answering, Chumley chews on a torn cuticle, spits it out. Cuticle chewing in public is, in Shane’s opinion, a felony offense, but the investigator doesn’t seem the least ashamed of his rude, disgusting behavior. Probably talks on his cell while urinating; he’s that kind of guy.

Shane tells himself to cool it, that the more personal this gets, the less he’ll accomplish. What matters here is Mrs. Corbin, not minor bruises to his own ego.

“If you think I’ve been interfering in an investigation, I apologize,” Shane says. “It won’t happen again.”

Chumley shrugs lazily. “Oh yeah? I know how you operate. You’re all over the Internet. Testimonials from grateful parents. Very moving.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the Net.”

“Oh, I don’t. All that stuff about Randall Shane never giving up, taking the law into his own hands, gathering evidence without warrants, impersonating a law officer, making local investigators look like clowns. You really did all that, you’d have been prosecuted and I checked-you haven’t. So the testimonials are bull. The big deal former FBI Special Agent, that’s bull, too, isn’t it, Randy?”

“If you say so.”

“I mean, come on, it’s not like you were out there recovering kidnap victims when you were with the agency. You weren’t exactly kicking down doors, right? You were, quote, developing print recognition software, unquote.”

“That’s right.”

“A computer geek. Big guy like you? My guess, they discovered you were useless in the field so they stuck you back at the lab, gave you your very own pocket protector.”

Shane nods agreeably. “I still have it. The pocket protector. Better than a flak jacket.”

“My point exactly,” says Chumley, attempting to loosen his collar with a plump pink finger, bleeding around the torn cuticle.

“It’s true,” Shane says, shamefaced. “I’m a complete fraud. I’ve been taking credit for work done by real police. I’m completely out of my depth. That’s why I reported Mrs. Corbin missing, because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Chumley’s piggy little eyes brighten. “So you admit you misrepresented yourself to the attendant at the car-rental lot?”

“Not intentionally, no. I’d never do that. But he may have gotten the impression I was an active agent, rather than retired.”

Chumley sits up straight. “You badged him?”

“I don’t have a badge. I showed him a leather folder holding my business card. You have that, along with my wallet.”

“Guy thinks he saw a badge.”

“It was snowing. I woke him up. He fell asleep listening to the shopping channel. There was alcohol on his breath. You probably noticed that, being a senior investigator and all.”

“Don’t smart-mouth me, pal. Yeah, the guy is a drunk, that doesn’t mean he didn’t see a badge.”

“Double negative, I think.”

“What?”

Shane sighs, tries to look ashamed. “You got me, Trooper. I put all that stuff on the missing children forums myself, the testimonials, the pictures of kids reunited with their families. I’m in it strictly for the money, taking advantage of grief-stricken parents. When I was with the agency I hid behind a desk because I was afraid to kick in doors. I faint at the sight of blood. I suck.”

“I knew it,” says Chumley. He has the hungry, can’t-wait-another-moment expression of a man about to gobble up a big juicy jelly doughnut.

“But in this particular instance I didn’t break any laws,” Shane adds, almost sorrowfully. “I did not impersonate an officer of the law. I no longer own a badge, not even a commemorative or courtesy badge, and if I did I wouldn’t use it because that would be illegal and I’m a coward and afraid to go to jail.”

The trooper sucks his teeth, looking irritated. “She’s rich and crazy and you took advantage of her. How much you get?”

“Nothing yet. We hadn’t agreed on a fee.”

“Oh yeah? Is that your story? Maybe I never worked for the feds, but we got our sources, and I happen to know that Haley Corbin withdrew ten grand in cash within the last few days.”

“Wouldn’t give it to me,” Shane says. “Showed me the cash, said I had to produce results. Very hard-nosed lady, Mrs. Corbin.”

“It’s illegal to pose as a private investigator.”

“I’m a consultant. That’s legal.”

“Where I sit? All you fake P.I.s and unlicensed P.I.s and so-called consultants, all you do is take advantage of folks don’t know better. Vultures.”

“You got me. I’m scum of the earth. Did you locate her vehicle?”

“I’m asking the questions here, and so far-”

He’s interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. A young, uniformed trooper leans in. “Sir? Major Seavey on the landline.”

Chumley scowls, gets to his feet. “Stay where you are, please,” he says to Shane, exiting.

The lock on the door clicks.

Shane leans back with his fingers laced behind his neck, feeling much better, thank you. From the sound of it Major Seavey would be Chumley’s boss at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the troopers plainclothes division. A wiser mind, no doubt, or he wouldn’t have risen to such a high rank at the BCI. At that level he’d have had many dealings and links with various federal enforcement agencies, be less inclined to react like S.I. Chumley, nursing his resentments.

That, or he’d order Shane be formally held on a trumped-up charge until the BCI boys could sort it out. Fifteen minutes tick by with the alacrity of paint drying on a rainy day. Shane studies his fingernails. Wishing he had his laptop, or failing that something to read. Newspaper, magazine, novel, cereal box, whatever.

Centuries pass. Eventually S.I. Chumley reenters the room with a new attitude. From his expression, one might assume the new attitude has been achieved by having his fingernails extracted.

Shane relaxes.

“Follow me,” says the newly forlorn investigator.

Shane follows him out of the interrogation room, down a series of narrow, windowless hallways, to a room not much larger than the one he’s just vacated. Chumley holds the door, says nothing as Shane passes. The room is crammed with small surveillance screens, floor to ceiling. Flat-screen LCD monitors, and most have been divided into four separate feeds from video cams positioned throughout the airport. He doesn’t bother counting but there have to be more than a hundred cameras in the system.

“Impressive,” Shane says to his silently brooding host.

It isn’t particularly impressive, but he’s trying to be nice. No sense rubbing the man’s nose in the mess he made. The practice rarely works with puppy dogs, never with humans.

Without meeting Shane’s eyes, the burly investigator explains. “Assistant Director Bevins has requested that you be afforded full cooperation. My supervisor has ordered me to comply.”