Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  WHEN I PULLED INTO the parking structure off 36th Avenue, I glanced at my watch.

  As badly as I wanted to talk to Streeter alone, I needed a few minutes to make a quick stop at the canine kennel to see Beulah, where Streeter would have brought her this morning after the long weekend with him. It was 6:45. Coworkers would be arriving soon. I hesitated and then decided I had to see my dog first. One quick hug wouldn’t hurt. I missed her so much. Streeter would have to wait.

  Claudia, the groomer and caretaker for what she called the fed’s “daycare for doggies,” hugged me before letting me in. Before the kennel door was barely open, Beulah launched into my arms, licking my face. The other bomb-sniffing, cadaver-recovery, and tracking dogs—mostly German Shepherds—howled with envy.

  The reason Streeter asked me to join the FBI was because this dog, this bureau asset, had lost her handler, my friend, who was murdered by De Milo, a demented killer, in my house. It was Beulah who motivated me to avenge my friend’s death. But I hadn’t realized how attached I’d become to the dog as a companion. I had missed her so much these past few weeks.

  I settled Beulah into the environmentally controlled kennel and told her I’d be back as soon as I could to take her home.

  I ran through security, sharing greetings with all the guards, and sprinted to the elevators, anxious to find Streeter. Speed walking toward his corner office, I was happy to see that no one else had arrived yet.

  My heart raced when I smelled his cologne.

  Drawing a deep, anxious breath, I stepped through the open glass door. He was sitting at his desk, studying papers in a casebook splayed out in front of him. Before I could say anything, he glanced up, and our eyes met. I could see the expression on his face was one of concern.

  The single word that escaped his lips fell heavy and rushed. “Liv.”

  I smiled. “Do you still have my letter?”

  He paused before reaching into his top drawer. He withdrew a single sheet of paper and extended it to me. My resignation.

  I tore it in half. Then in quarters. Then in shreds.

  He rose to his feet, slowly. He appeared unsteady, keeping the fingertips of one hand resting on his desk, as if letting go would cause him to topple. “You came back.”

  I nodded. “To stay.”

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more. As did I. But neither of us said another word.

  I rounded the corner of his desk and wrapped my arms around his waist. He hesitated and then returned the hug around my shoulders. With the palm of his hand on the back of my head, he pressed my cheek closer against his chest.

  He felt warm. Familiar. His heart pounded against my ear.

  A lump was threatening to block my throat and make me cry. I had no idea I’d have this reaction to a simple hug. Clearly, I had needed one. I had craved his company for days now. I had missed him. I felt so isolated without him.

  I didn’t want him to let go.

  But I wanted to tell him exactly how much I had missed him. How badly I needed him in my life.

  Then I heard Manny’s voice out in the hall. The others were starting to arrive. I let go of him, but he held on a moment longer. I couldn’t look at him. I felt stupid. All the things I’d thought to say and now I couldn’t find the words.

  I stepped back, straightened the jacket of my pantsuit, smoothed my hair, and wiped a tear from my cheek.

  “Good talk.” I exited without looking back.

  What an idiot.

  I had practiced for hours during the drive so many ways of telling him how I felt. How much he meant to me. How to thank him for being there for my family and me. How much I valued his friendship. But all I managed to do was rip up my resignation letter and cling to him like a barnacle to a docked boat.

  At least I managed that.

  He smelled good. He felt familiar. He hugged me back.

  Manny immediately hugged me and ushered me to the break room.

  Disregarding office policy, Bessie padded her way out of the bulletproof reception area when she saw us walking down the hall. She disappeared around the corner and reappeared through the heavy metal doors to the agents’ offices. Arms outstretched toward me, she folded me into her heavy bosom. “Come here and give me a hug.”

  So many hugs. And it was barely seven o’clock.

  I grinned and bent down to hug her. Finding myself lost in Bessie’s bearlike embrace, the familiar aroma of a sweet mixture of vanilla and mint encircled my nose.

  “How are you, Bessie?”

  “What are you thinking, child?” she scolded as she held me by the forearms. “The question is, how are you? What are you doing back so soon? You need time. To heal.”

  “I’d go crazy if I had to spend another minute cooped up at home,” I answered honestly.

  She wasn’t finished. “And what did I hear about you trying to save Jack’s life by flinging yourself on top of him during that shoot-out? You could have been shot. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  The memory of my decision to protect Jack slammed into my head. The explosion of gunfire. The smell of gun powder and blood. PTSD, I guess.

  I was pulled from the flashback instantly when she clucked her tongue. “I’m sure of one thing. You are certainly not as smart as I once thought you were.”

  I chuckled. “That’s fair.”

  More arms hugging. Lifting me off my feet. Welcoming me back to work. Manny Juarez, Steve Knapp, Kyle Mills, Jon Tuygen, Tim Gregory, Pauly Horwitz, George Nichols, Laurie Frumpley, Raymond Martinez. For an hour, we never left the break room.

  We drank coffee, ate donuts, and caught up on office gossip. The entire gang was there, except Phil Kelleher, who wouldn’t arrive until precisely 8:00 a.m.

  And Jack, of course.

  I had missed them all.

  “It’s so good to see you again.” I hugged Steve’s massive arm. “You’re all a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Except for Knapp, right?” Mills shifted his glance from me to Steve. “He’s so ugly that when he was born, the doctor slapped his mother.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Steve pouted. “Knock it off, Mills, or I’ll have to slap you.”

  As always, in an attempt to smooth the rough waters stirred by the cynical Kyle Mills, Manny Juarez changed the subject. “Grab another donut. Meeting’s about to start.”

  We followed Manny and his box of donuts to the conference room. “Is it hot in here? Are you guys as hot as I am?”

  Steve answered, “It’s always hot in here. And you ask that every time we have a meeting. And did you just take the one donut with sprinkles again? I think the only day you come to work early is when you know you can get the best donut.”

  “Some things never change.” I said it more to myself than anyone else.

  Pauly Horwitz squeezed my shoulders. A sideways hug. “This place was very dull without you.”

  Considering he rarely said anything without whining or complaining, I was surprised by his compliment. “Thanks, Pauly. Maybe some things do change.”

  I hadn’t meant for the comment to draw so much laughter.

  Phil Kelleher, one of the senior agents, walked swiftly into the conference room with a natural air of sophistication. He stopped short at the sight of me, caught off guard by my presence. It was uncharacteristic of the man who was always prepared. “Liv. You’re back. Already. How did you manage to … recover so quickly?”

  I simply smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders.

  He sat beside me and patted my forearm. Closest thing to a hug I would ever get from Phil. And he liked me.

  Raymond Martinez, the quietest of all the squad members, squeezed my shoulder and sat on the other side of me. “I was worried about you. I heard you went to Jack’s memorial, but I wasn’t able to go that day. I was on a case. And I didn’t come see you at the hospital because I’m scared to death of those places. I had a bad experience once.”

  Unable to restrain himse
lf, Mills mocked, “Whoa, Martinez. That’s more than I’ve ever heard you say in the seven years you’ve been here. My God, Liv, look what you did to him? He’s a regular chatterbox.”

  Embarrassed, Raymond lowered his head.

  Ignoring Mills, I gently placed my hand on Martinez’s forearm. “Thank you for worrying about me, Ray. And don’t feel bad about not coming up to the hospital to see me. I wasn’t there long. I don’t like those places either.”

  Raymond smiled shyly and whispered, “I’m so sorry about Jack.”

  The sentiment was touching. And unexpected. I almost lost it.

  The thought of losing Jack hit me hard. Again. My happiness instantly disappeared, and my mind drifted to private moments with him. In my reverie, I hadn’t noticed the room had become quiet.

  I had been blessed with both Jack’s and Jenna’s friendships over the past year, but I had somehow become more distant with Streeter. Now that my doctor had begun sharing the truth about Jenna’s real motivations, her duplicity, I realized she had been using me just like she’d been using the bureau. But Jack hadn’t. He had just wanted vindication for his child’s death.

  I completely understood that.

  What I worried about now was how Streeter was coping with the news about Jenna Tate.

  She’d had her meat hooks in him from the instant she arrived and likely used him more than anyone else to get what she wanted.

  Poor Streeter.

  I felt protective of him now more than ever. Not because I had intentionally asked to be assigned to the Denver division just to learn from the legendary agent. And not because he had chosen to work with me after I helped him solve a couple of cases last year as a civilian. It was simply because I cared about him.

  I understood why Streeter had turned down promotions in the past. He clearly preferred to be a field agent rather than be stuck behind a desk. But the doctor told me Streeter had accepted the acting SAC role when Cal Lemley accepted a sudden promotion in DC. Must have been important. And urgent. Because he was able only to leave me a message with his goodbye rather than to offer me one in person.

  What had surprised me was how easily Streeter seemed to take on the reins. Something I hadn’t expected he’d want to do. Streeter’s skill and keen intuition in the field were unmatched. And I had no doubt he’d make a great SAC. I just wouldn’t have predicted him leaving the field. For any reason.

  But I didn’t pretend to know everything. Like what had happened to his wife.

  Almost immediately upon my arrival at the Denver division from the academy, I had heard the rumors of her death.

  Paula Jacobs Pierce. Or Winzig, as everyone in Lead, South Dakota, had called the tiny woman.

  Instantly, I became very protective of Streeter and intensely jealous of other women in the bureau who seemed to set their sights on him. Like Jill Brannock, SAC Calvin Lemley’s personal assistant. Now Streeter’s. Ugh. And Jenna Tate in particular.

  He was the most intriguing, eligible bachelor in the federal building. I had no right to feel so possessive of him. Especially considering he had been no more to me than a boss. And possibly a somewhat distant friend.

  But I felt very differently about him. I always had.

  I tried hard not to think of Streeter or to entertain any thoughts of a relationship other than as subordinate and boss. But it had become more difficult now, knowing how much time he had willingly spent with me while I was at the hospital being checked out and how diligently he had called my mom and sisters to find out how I was doing.

  I couldn’t deny that he did care for me. Yet I wouldn’t allow myself to hope for anything more. But that hug. If it meant anything, I wouldn’t really care if I got OCRed for an interoffice relationship. Screw it. I’d quit.

  While my thoughts were on him, Streeter entered the small, stuffy conference room, with the entire squad in attendance for the first time in weeks. Probably since I had taken my leave of absence.

  In his deep, gravelly voice that seemed to resonate in the room like a teenager’s stereo adjusted for maximum bass, Streeter began his weekly meeting. “Liv, welcome back. As you all know, we’ve been three agents down for a few weeks. Four, counting me. Now I’m working the desk. Calvin’s job. Temporarily.” Streeter stared directly at me. “So we’re all particularly pleased you’re ready for work.”

  I said, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t take on anything you’re not comfortable handling. That’s an order.” Then a gentle, boyish grin played around his lips and his steely blue eyes danced with life.

  Smiling in return, I answered, “I won’t. I’m just glad to be back. Ready to work.”

  Streeter explained the process of replacing Jack Linwood and Jenna Tate, the commendation Linwood had received from the president of the United Stated posthumously, and the scheduling for Jenna Tate’s trial. He reminded everyone about how to handle questions from the public and the press, speculating that a renewed effort by the press to dig up dirt was inevitable with my return.

  No pressure there.

  Thankfully, he moved on to discussing the trial.

  “Tate is not representative of the quality of federal employees who work hard to protect individuals every day as special agents. And Linwood is a hero for revealing her. As is Liv. So protect her from the press. She’ll need your help more than any of us.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was saying until he slid a newspaper my way. On the front page was a photo of Jack Linwood and Jenna Tate. The first line mentioned me.

  “Damn.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  Streeter said, “They don’t have a photo of you yet. So let’s not make their job easy, people. Protect Liv. Along with fame as a hero comes the strain of recognition.”

  I blushed. I never thought of this ever happening. And hoped it never would.

  Laurie Frumpley raised her hand like a kid in grade school. Odd, but not for Laurie.

  “Mr. Pierce, they’ve already called. Bessie held them off and eventually transferred the calls to me—Denver Post, The Gazette, Daily Camera, Chieftain, Sentinel, and the Times. They all wanted a photo of Special Agent Liv Bergen. And to know where she was from.”

  Streeter asked, “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  Her lips tightened with disdain, and she shook her head.

  “Good. And please don’t call me Mr. Pierce. How long have we been working together now? Eighteen years? Nineteen?”

  Laurie pushed her glasses up her sharp, shiny nose, and her doughy face stiffened slightly. “Eighteen years, four months, and sixteen days. You were the first to greet me.”

  He sighed, thanked her for her service, and asked each of the field agents to debrief the group on the cases they were assigned. Then, he asked us to brief about our expected activities for the coming week.

  He looked at me. “We need to get you out of here.”

  That stunned me. Everyone else laughed.

  “Because of the nosey press.” Then he leaned back slightly in his chair and held his folded hands against his rugged chin. “We had a call two weeks ago from a man named Matt Juzlig. He operates a small concrete operation in Glenwood Springs. Has for many years.”

  My ears pricked up. My family was in the ready-mix business, too.

  “He called to report extortion by a federal employee. We get so many calls that just don’t amount to anything so, initially, I didn’t put much stock in the call. The guy hasn’t been in business long and even though he sounded sincere, I was leaning toward believing that he had misunderstood the federal inspector in some way.”

  “And now?” I asked. My curiosity was certainly piqued. This was an industry with which I was familiar. And federal employees, I understood.

  Streeter turned and faced me. “Then, late Friday, we received another call from a man named Bert Ridgewood. He runs a little asphalt company in Buena Vista.”

  “We have a limestone operation nearby.”

  “The Bergen family? Do you have ai
r permits?”

  I nodded.

  “Ridgewood said Juzlig had warned him about this guy, and the same EPA inspector called his secretary on Friday. The inspector said he’d be up on Tuesday to see Ridgewood. Before he could get there, Juzlig had encouraged Ridgewood to call us.”

  “Interesting,” I said, feeling my left eyebrow arching. I already wanted this case.

  “Ridgewood has been making ‘insurance payments’ to this guy for months.” Streeter actually motioned the air quotes. “Thought it was just common business practice in the Rocky Mountains. Apparently, this inspector threatens to issue a notice of violation, or worse, a cease and desist of operations if the owner doesn’t pay.”

  “Extortion,” I whispered.

  “Has it happened to you, your family?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of. But I’ll call my brother.”

  “Juzlig wanted to not only file a complaint against the federal agent but also to offer proof through his friend Ridgewood. If we can get someone up to Buena Vista tomorrow morning, they think we can hear for ourselves what this guy is up to. Are you up to it?”

  “Absolutely.” I was sitting so far on the edge of my chair that I almost tipped over.

  He slid the file my way.

  “What’s supposed to happen tomorrow morning?” I asked.

  “Ridgewood said his secretary told the EPA guy that her boss was out of the office and would be returning Tuesday morning. Which is tomorrow. So the EPA inspector will likely be back to collect his quarterly cash payment. Although only the secretary and no one else in his company knows about the ‘protection.’” Again, Streeter made air quotes.

  I wondered if my brother Ole or any of our employees had heard of this EPA inspector.

  “You want me to arrange for an arrest? Theft of government property or bribery and conflict of interest?” I remembered the charges under the bureau’s jurisdiction from my Quantico training.

  “Neither,” Streeter said simply, surprising me.

  “What I’d rather have you do is find out how deep this guy’s hand is in all the operators’ pockets. If we have two who called us, there are probably several more who didn’t. You’re from that industry. See if you can find out how much he’s extorting. Our case will only get stronger.”