Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3)

by Bertrand, J. Mark

  “And?”

  “And I want to know the truth about what’s going on.”

  She glances around. “You really think this is the place to do this? I’m actually meeting people here. Why don’t we handle this in a professional way—”

  “This is a professional courtesy. You asked for a favor and you got it. You said there was a life at stake—fine. But now I think you were spinning us a tale, and even if I don’t know what your angle is yet, I’ll find out. I’m giving you a chance to clear things up right now, before it’s out of your control.”

  Up onstage, the song ends, prompting desultory applause and a few tipsy hoots from the dance floor. The singer tips his straw hat back and says they’re taking a break. The clapping intensifies.

  “You’re making a mistake here, March.”

  “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

  “You’re making this complicated when it ought to be very simple. Is it so hard for you just to follow my lead? If you go along and don’t screw this up, at the end of the day you’ll have a high-profile clearance you can add to your resumé. The alternative is, you get a man killed and torpedo a Federal investigation.”

  “I already heard the pitch,” I say. “I want to know what’s really going on.”

  “You know as much as you need to. More than that, actually. Tell me this, if what you say is true and Brandon Ford is too real to be a cover, then why would I bother handing you the file? If I knew you were going to get his name from NCIC and when you checked him out you’d be convinced, what was the upside for me?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you would explain that.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re a piece of work. Now, will you get out of here? I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you. Do whatever you want.”

  All the replies that come flooding to my lips would only sound ridiculous. The set of her jaw says she’s unmovable.

  “You’ve had your chance,” I say, in spite of myself.

  She greets this with a smirk.

  On my way out I glance back. Bea still sits alone at the table. I’m tempted to hang around and see who’s joining her—a friend, a colleague, someone I might be able to place?—but then the band members start climbing onstage again, reaching unsteadily for their microphone stands. I push my way through the loiterers at the door, glad to be back in the balmy night air. From the smell on the breeze I’m guessing we’re in for more rain.

  ———

  While I’m driving home, Charlotte calls from London. It’s good to hear her voice, though she sounds too close to be so far away. She tells me about the people she’s met, the places she’s been taken to eat. She asks if I’ve been watching the news, because there are demonstrations on the streets. I haven’t. She sounds disappointed.

  “When things wrapped up in the city,” she says, “the boys took a flight up to Scotland to play a few rounds at St. Andrews. I ditched them and went on my own little adventure. You really should have come, Roland. I went to Cambridge and to Ely Cathedral—it’s the oldest Norman cathedral in the country—and I met a real-life vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”

  I make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate intervals. I’m still preoccupied by the conversation with Bea, and getting angry about it. I need to focus.

  “And what about you?” Charlotte asks. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Working.”

  “Just working?”

  “We caught a nasty one after you left. But we don’t need to talk about that.”

  “Are you all right? You sound kind of funny.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “I fell down the other day. I think I pulled something.”

  “You should go to the doctor, Roland.”

  “That’s what Hedges told me. Speaking of which—” But no, there’s no point in getting into that, either. “Never mind. I don’t want to bore you with the office gossip. When does Ann get there? I saw Bridger the other day but forgot to ask.”

  “Tomorrow.” Again, she sounds disappointed, like I should already know the answer. She went over her plans with me more than once before leaving. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  “You should go see the Robbs,” she says.

  That old standby. I must really sound bad.

  “I’ll do that,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way, I saw Cavallo the other day, too. She says hello.”

  “That’s nice. How was she?”

  “I think there might be some trouble at home.”

  “Really?”

  The words are out before I can stop them. I’m as surprised as Charlotte is. I try to hedge a little, saying something about the stress Cavallo’s husband is probably under, reintegrating into civilian life after so many tours overseas. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t ask anything more.

  “Was it hard for you,” she asks, “when you first got out of the service?”

  “That was a lot different. I spent my time at Fort Polk, Louisiana, not Bagram. In my day, we considered Grenada quite a military operation.”

  “Those were the days,” she laughs. “Such an innocent time.”

  “Right.”

  I reach my exit on I-10 but I keep driving. I listen to her voice, cruising absently through the cones of light arcing down onto the highway. Just talk, baby. Talk. Let me hear the words crash in my ears like waves on the beach, so much reassuring white noise. When she’s said all she can think to say, we sit together silently. I listen to the road under my tires and the sound of her breath over the international line.

  ———

  “What can you tell me about Brandon Ford?” I ask.

  The man across the counter crosses his hairy arms, the jeweled dial of his Rolex catching the morning light. His name is Sam Dearborn, proprietor of Dearborn Gun and Blade. He helped me on a case last year, proving himself to be a source of all kinds of knowledge.

  “What makes you think I know more than the other guys you’ve talked to? Brandon’s all right in my book. He’s a small-timer, though. For the most part, he goes after the black rifle market, the weekend warriors with money to spend. Those guys aren’t so interested in the craftsmanship or the history. You tell them this is the rifle Delta Force is currently using to punch holes in the mullah’s turban, and all they wanna know is, ‘How much?’ I think he was also selling some big-game rifles to fellas daydreaming about going on safari.”

  “I already know all this.”

  He rolls his eyes. “What did I just tell you? You don’t need me for this.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to get it out of the way.”

  “Okay, then. Shoot.”

  “Here’s the real question, Sam. What do you know about the Mexican cartels buying rifles in bulk from Texas dealers?”

  At first he doesn’t react, like he didn’t hear the question. Then he glances down the length of his counter, scratching at the gold necklace dangling in the opening of his shirt.

  “You’re serious?” He snorts the words out. “This is for real?”

  “Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. If anybody knows what’s going on out there, it’s you. If anybody’s got his finger on the pulse—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Spare me. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. That kind of business, it doesn’t go through guys like me. Just so we’re clear.”

  “Understood. So how would it work?”

  The simplest way, he says, is for a straw purchaser to walk into a gun store from off the street. Flush with money from the cartel, he buys five or ten assault rifles in his own name, then hands them over once he’s taken possession.

  “A straw purchase is illegal, but if I’m the one selling the guns, how do I know you’re not buying them for yourself? You pass the background check, you get the weapons.”

  A gang making straw purchases, even in small quantities, can amass quite an arsenal over a short period of time, stockpiling the rifles for transport
to Mexico. Assuming they spread the activity out, it might go unnoticed. If they hit the gun shows, buying from private sellers to take advantage of the so-called loophole, then they can fly under the radar longer.

  “But if a guy wants twenty rifles,” I say, “and he’s covered in tats and takes a rubber-banded wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for them, that’s gonna raise some red flags, right?”

  “You ever heard of racial profiling? That’s against the law.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Sure, common sense dictates that if a gangbanger walks in wanting twenty-five identical assault rifles, something’s up with that. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t have common sense. And honestly, even a gun dealer’s gotta feed his family. You know how it is. Didn’t you say your uncle used to be in the business?”

  “My uncle wouldn’t have sold to somebody he got a bad vibe from. He reserved the right not to serve whoever he didn’t like.”

  “Those were different times.”

  “And anyway, you don’t make a living by arming the cartels.”

  He shrugs. “The guns may flow down, but the drugs are flowing up. We may be hurting them a little, but they’re hurting us a lot.”

  I hold up my hand. “You’re not helping yourself with that argument. They’re not just killing each other down there. They’re killing cops.”

  “I’m not saying it’s right. You wanted to know how it works, so I told you.”

  “Let me ask a different question. If I was a gun dealer and I wanted to get in on the action, how would I go about it? The way you’re talking, it sounds like that initiative’s on the cartel’s side. What if I wanted to make a big score?”

  “And by ‘you,’ you mean Brandon Ford?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Brandon doesn’t hustle the cheap stuff. If you want a Romanian AK, which sells for four hundred, you don’t call in a specialist.”

  “For the sake of argument, though, assume he wanted to sell to the Mexicans.”

  “He’d have to know somebody, I guess. They’re not a number you can call to volunteer your services. I assume he could have made a contact. If you’re asking me for a name, I don’t have one. This is pure speculation.”

  A name is exactly what I want. If I push too hard, I know he’ll dig in. Before Sam Dearborn will cooperate, he needs a little time to think it over. I decide to give it to him.

  “I appreciate your help,” I say. “And if you think of anything else, you’ve got my number. It never hurts to have a cop in your debt.”

  “If you say so.”

  Back in the car, I unsnap my briefcase and pull the Filofax out. I keep a plastic divider tucked in next to the blank note sheets. Before I forget, I write down everything Dearborn told me. Looking at the process on paper, I’m baffled. The FBI operation must be about guns and the cartels, otherwise what would it have to do with Brandon Ford? What I can’t figure out is why they would need him. The straw purchaser scenario doesn’t fit here. Like Dearborn said, Ford would need some kind of contact with the cartel, someone he could approach with an offer to supply guns. But then I’m back to the original problem: what’s the point of a sting operation targeting a notorious cartel? Is it really so hard to make a case against the drug lords?

  I dial Lorenz on the phone.

  “How’d it go?” he asks.

  “Nothing here. But I just had a thought. Where are the guns we’re thinking Ford wanted to sell? I didn’t see a gun safe when we went through the house.”

  Silence.

  “Maybe you should swing by that office he rents. If there are crates of AK-47s lying around, we might want to know.”

  “I’m on it,” he says. “You wanna meet me?”

  “I trust you, Jerry.”

  He sounds gratified as he hangs up. The fact is, I already know what he’s going to find. There won’t be any guns in the rental office, just like there weren’t any at the house. Whatever Brandon Ford was up to, however it connects to Bea’s Federal operation, it doesn’t have anything to do with assault rifles, and maybe nothing to do with drug dealers, either. There’s something here I’m not seeing. A connection I have yet to make.

  Maybe what I need on this is a fresh set of eyes.

  CHAPTER 7

  I shoulder my way through the entrance to Homicide and sense right away something’s going on. The detectives stand clustered in groups of three and four, conferring in hushed tones. The ringing phones go unanswered. Lorenz has already left, so after slinging my gear into my cubicle, I raise my eyebrows at a passing colleague. He raises his back but says nothing. Not good.

  Through the open door I can see Lt. Bascombe poised over his desk, all the weight on his fingers like a runner in the starting blocks. He looks up at me without acknowledging my presence. When I start over, he comes around the desk, intercepting me outside the door. He puts a hand on my chest.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  He scans back and forth across the room, still looking through me. Like he’s making sure I’m alone. Then he pulls me inside and closes the door.

  “It’s official,” he says. “The captain’s pulling people in one at a time to break the news.”

  “He’s leaving?”

  “That’s the story. But like I told you before, what’s really happening is, he’s getting the push. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”

  Remembering my encounter with Hedges the day before, I shake my head. “He seems like a shadow of his former self.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not entirely his fault.” He sits on the edge of his desk, motioning me into a chair. “I can’t believe they’re rushing him out like this. It’s the politics, March. You end up on the losing side in this department and, I swear, they’ll cut your throat.”

  “Maybe I should go see him.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush,” he says. “It’s depressing. When they do you like this, they don’t just can you. They also write the script. Not only do you have to leave, but you leave on their terms, giving their reasons, or else.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid.

  “Anyway, can I run something past you, boss? I think that FBI agent is spinning us a yarn.”

  “You’re one of those people who tells jokes at funerals, aren’t you?”

  “What do you want me to do? I think she lied to us.”

  Bascombe goes around the desk and slumps into his chair. The cushion hisses as it takes his weight.

  “Go ahead, then.”

  I bring him up-to-date on everything, including Miranda Ford’s description and my after-hours confrontation with Bea. As I talk, his expression goes from bored to mildly interested. By the time I’m done, he’s leaning forward, elbows on the desk.

  “Well, something’s not right,” he says.

  “I know. So what should I do about it?”

  “What can you do? Seems to me the only thing is to ignore what she told us. Pretend that meeting never happened. What does it actually change, after all? You got a hit on your victim, the identification’s made, and he’s a real person with a real history.”

  “Yeah, but Bea’s working some kind of angle—”

  “So what? If you take her story and set it aside, what are you left with? Some forward movement on your case. Whatever the FBI is or is not up to, we do one thing here and that’s clear homicides. So that’s what you do.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Unless something changes, I don’t see what else you can do.”

  “I was hoping you would make some phone calls and see what you can find out about Bea and her operation.”

  “It was making phones calls that got us into this.” He sighs. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect any miracles, though, because I have my hands full at the moment. For the time being, ignore the FBI and just do your job.”

  On my way out I pause at the door. “Who’s moving into the captain’s office?�
�

  He raises his palms. “I still don’t know. And that right there should tell you something.”

  ———

  When my turn comes, I file into the captain’s office, surprised to find his personal belongings—the books and knickknacks, the framed photos and diplomas—already packed into a row of boxes along the credenza. The skin on his head shines through his flinty close-cropped hair, making him seem older to me than he ever has before.

  “I should have done this a long time ago,” he says.

  The euphemisms flow, and I sit there receiving them passively, not daring to question the script Bascombe says “they” have prepared. I owe this man. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. Out of respect, I don’t question anything he says. I nod in agreement, like I’m happy for him, like this is the best news he could have shared. Any other reaction would risk humiliation.

  “Sir,” I say, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. “It’s been a real pleasure working for you. It won’t be the same here without you.”

  He holds my hand a beat longer than is required, fixing his piercing eyes on me.

  “Thank you, March. You know you’ve always had my respect.”

  I pull my hand back. “You’ve always had mine, too.”

  It’s not fair.

  Closing the door behind me, I walk out of Homicide and take the elevator down to the ground floor. A man like that, with the years he’s put in . . . I go through the lobby past the front desk, pushing through the revolving doors out onto the sidewalk, into the searing brightness of midday. To go out like this, a whimper not a bang, and for what? For being ambitious. For getting on the wrong side of people who play the game better than him. But they don’t run homicide squads better than him, because no one does. I take a deep breath, let it out. Take another. I close my eyes and try not to think. He doesn’t deserve what they’ve dealt him. I’d pay them back if I could, if I even knew who they were.

  Cars rush by, leaving the smell of exhaust in their wake.

  I will know soon enough. When someone else takes his place.