“The one and only.” He smiled self-consciously. “Hope you don’t disapprove of a little harmless nepotism.”
“Nepotism in the FBI? The Bureau is a meritocracy, Crandall. Didn’t they tell you that in the academy?”
“They told me. Kept a straight face, too. Then they sent me straight to the LA office after graduation. Kind of a plum assignment for a new recruit, don’t you think?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Six months. Still got my training wheels.”
“What were you doing before this? Law school?” A lot of agents had legal training.
“Two years in business school and three years proving I couldn’t run an actual business. My last start-up was a Web-based retail outfit.”
“What did you sell?”
“Salmon. Flash-frozen, packed in dry ice and shipped to your door. The plan was to start with salmon, expand into other seafood, then beef and poultry, and before long we’d corner the market on Internet grocery shopping.”
“How long did that last?”
“Eight months. After which, I surrendered to the inevitable and decided to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“They’re good footsteps.”
“So he’s been telling me since I was six years old. He used to call me his junior G-man.” He winced. “Don’t tell anybody I said that, okay?”
“My lips are sealed. I wouldn’t knock having family connections. Take advantage of your…advantages. If being Ralston Crandall’s son helps get you where the action is, so be it.”
“I just want to earn it, you know? The way you did.”
Pray you don’t have to, Tess thought.
The car hooked onto Main Street, drawing close to downtown. Tess didn’t like seeing the skyline. It reminded her of the last case that brought her to LA.
Back then, she had been simply Special Agent McCallum of the Denver office. Now she was Denver’s special agent in charge, the head honcho. To be an SAC at the age of thirty-seven was an accomplishment for anyone—doubly so for a female agent. The Mobius case had gotten her there. Single-handedly stopping a serial killer who’d gotten hold of a canister of nerve gas would enhance anybody’s résumé.
She had parlayed her celebrity status into the Denver ASAC job—assistant special agent in charge. Six months ago, when the Denver SAC was reassigned to Chicago, Tess had replaced him. She’d expected to be happy. The money was good, Denver was her favorite city, and there were no more than the usual ego clashes and prima-donna antics among her staff.
But she had discovered the truth in the platitude about being careful what you wish for. The top management job consisted mostly of politics and paperwork. She didn’t like wasting her time on either. In her new position there was no fieldwork. Suddenly she had joined the rubber-gun squad, the desk jockeys she’d always despised.
Then the Greco case had come along, with its terrible resolution. And she had discovered that there was something worse than boredom. There was guilt.
Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see Danny Lopez. Whenever she tried to sleep…
All in all, things had been tough. The emotional rewards of her job were gone. She had only the drudgery of managerial responsibilities by day and the torment of bad dreams at night.
Until this morning, when she’d been called to LA to join the STORMKIL investigation. She had no idea why she was needed, whether there was an unannounced connection between this case and Mobius, or a lead to another of the two hundred cases she’d cleared during her career. It didn’t matter. The call had pulled her back into the field, given her a chance to rediscover the purpose and meaning of her work.
And maybe something more. A chance at redemption—if that was possible.
Crandall glanced at the dashboard clock. “I really hope we’re not late. I’ll catch hell for it.”
“You can say my flight was delayed. I’ll back you up.”
“Thanks, but they already know it landed on time. They’re monitoring the airline’s Web site.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well…it’s an important meeting.”
“Is something going on here that I should know about?”
“Agent McCallum, I’m just doing my job. And my job is to get you downtown by five P.M.”
She was sure he knew more than he was telling, but she didn’t press the issue. “You get any music on this radio?” she asked.
He switched on an AM station. The song that emerged from the speakers surprised her. Sinatra, “All the Way.”
Tess smiled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Rat Packer.”
“Never used to be. I just got turned on to this stuff. Now I can’t get enough.”
“You’re an old-fashioned guy.”
“What can I say? I appreciate the classics.”
He drove into the garage below City Hall East. When the Crown Vic was parked and Sinatra had been silenced, he led Tess to an elevator, which had taken her, last time, into the subterranean bunker used for coordinating the city’s response to a terrorist attack. This time it lifted her and Crandall to the third floor.
A short walk down well-lit corridors brought them to the pedestrian bridge that linked City Hall East with the original City Hall. Night had dropped over the city, and the building’s terra-cotta tower was lit up, bright white against the darkness. Tess looked skyward as she and Crandall crossed the bridge in the open air. There must be stars, but they were hidden by cloud cover. Beside her, Crandall whistled “All the Way.”
She envied Crandall. He was young and enthusiastic. Maybe he even had a girlfriend. She hadn’t had much of a personal life in recent years. One semiserious relationship that ended after a few months. Occasional dates that only left her feeling tired. Men outside law enforcement were intimidated by her—they made dumb jokes about her job, asked if she was carrying a gun, or maybe handcuffs, ha, ha—while the men she worked with in the Bureau were her subordinates, off-limits for intimacy. She was wary of the media people she encountered, and turned off by the community activists she’d met, most of whom knew nothing about law enforcement except what they saw on TV.
“They’ve booked you into a nice hotel,” Crandall said. “The MiraMist in Santa Monica.”
“I’m familiar with it.” Her voice was flat.
“You’ve stayed there before?”
“No. Mobius killed a woman there. In room 1625, as I recall.”
“Oh.”
“I hope they didn’t book me into that room.”
Crandall was uncomfortable. “It is a nice hotel, though. The AD made the reservations personally.”
Tess managed a smile. “I’m sure he did.”
“He must have forgotten the connection to Mobius.”
“He didn’t forget.”
Mind games. Bad enough that she had to deal with the twisted psychology of killers and kidnappers. Worse, she had to counter the stupid thrusts of her own colleagues.
Their FBI creds got them past the security checkpoint at the entrance to what was known as Old City Hall, built in 1928 and recently renovated. The third floor, home of various ceremonial chambers, was a maze of marble floors and walls, the ceilings decorated in murals of Malibu tile, the ornately carved doors sprouting bronze handles.
“Not a bad place to come to work,” Crandall said as they proceeded down a glistening hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“Mayor’s office. Just off the rotunda.”
He led her through an anteroom, waving away a receptionist with a flash of his badge. Tess found herself joining a crowd in the spacious expanse of the mayor’s office. A drone of conversation rose to the high, painted ceiling. Marble archways linked decorative columns. The place looked like a movie set—appropriate for LA.
Across the room she saw the AD, who was making an effort to draw as close to the mayor as possible. The room was large, and ordinarily she might not have recognized someone from a distance in a crush of people. Bu
t there was a reason the assistant director had acquired his nickname, and it helped him stand out in a crowd.
Resolutely Tess made her way toward ADIC Richard Michaelson, a.k.a. the Nose.
Michaelson had risen far in the three years since they’d worked together. She wondered how much higher he would climb. All the way to the top, possibly. He had the right combination of political canniness and narrow ambition. He was smart enough to get ahead, but not so smart as to threaten anybody. He was obsequious toward his superiors, contemptuous of those lower in rank—exactly the personality profile they looked for in Washington. And he’d never been much good as a field agent—another plus in the minds of those who did the promoting, most of whom had never been any good on the street, either.
She might be looking at a future director of the Bureau. Now, there was a thought calculated to keep her up at night.
Michaelson caught sight of her as she drew near. He left the mayor and intercepted her.
“Agent McCallum.” His voice was more nasal than she’d remembered. His nose seemed longer, too, as if he’d been telling lies. No doubt he had. “You’re almost late.”
“If I’m almost late, then I must be on time,” she said with a smile. She had promised herself she would not allow him to irritate her. Failing that, she would not allow him to see that he’d irritated her. “I’m not sure exactly what the occasion is, though.”
“Crandall didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“He was supposed to bring you up to speed.”
Tess was sure this was untrue. Michaelson had probably instructed Crandall to give her no information whatsoever. That would be more his style.
“Up to speed about what?” Despite her promise, she was beginning to feel irritated already.
Michaelson shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “The media event. It starts in”—he glanced at his watch—“four minutes.” Media event was Michaelsonese for news conference.
“A news conference?”
“About the Rain Man, yes.” He saw her look of confusion and added in a confidential tone, “That’s what we’re calling him. Because of the video.”
Tess remembered the video from the FBI report. Efforts had been made to determine whether the kidnapper had known about the rental in advance, perhaps because he worked in the video store. Those angles hadn’t panned out.
“Rain Man,” she said. She disliked the name. It trivialized the suspect. “Who came up with that?”
“I did.”
Naturally, she thought.
“Of course,” Michaelson added, “that term is not for public consumption. Officially he’s the unknown subject.” He checked his watch again. “Almost zero hour.”
“Why exactly are you holding a news briefing?”
“Well, it’s a progress report, of sorts.”
“I was under the impression we weren’t making any progress.”
“That’s why there’s been a change of organization. The Kidnapping Squad supervisor is no longer the case agent.”
“Who is?”
“As of today, I am.”
Tess had been afraid of that. “So that’s the announcement—that you’re taking over?”
“Not entirely.” Michaelson’s eyes shifted away. For someone with so much experience in prevarication, he was remarkably unskillful at it. “There is another purpose to the event.”
“Which is?”
“Well…you.” His face brightened in a poor imitation of a man delivering good news. “We need to announce that you’re joining the investigation.”
She let a moment pass. “Me?”
“I expect you to say a few words. I had my assistant write up some remarks, just to save you the trouble.”
“This is all about me?”
“You’re a big name in this town, Tess.” He rarely addressed her informally. She knew he was pulling out all the stops to make nice. “A local hero. Some of the journalists call you Super Fed.” His smile grew larger, but the muscles of his face were tight. “You saved the whole damn city.”
“And now I’m on the job again.”
“Exactly.” He relaxed, pleased to think she’d bought into it. “If you could stop Mobius, you may be just the one to nab the Rain Man. Excuse me—the unknown subject.”
“I see.”
“Let me get you those notes, and we’ll make our appearance. You’ll be standing between the mayor and the chief of police. The whole thing is timed to lead off the five o’clock news, live. It’ll be canned and recycled at six, ten, and eleven. Front-page coverage in the Times tomorrow. It’s been orchestrated—”
“Forget it,” Tess said.
Michaelson looked at her, at the expression on her face, and he knew the game was up.
“Agent McCallum…” No informality now.
“I’m not doing it.”
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. You hijacked me from Denver to put me on display like a mannequin in a department store. It’s not going to happen.”
“Your attitude—”
“You knew all about my attitude. That’s why you didn’t let me know why I was brought here. You figured you’d trap me into being part of your public relations ploy.”
“The Bureau’s image in the eyes of the public is hardly—”
“You don’t expect me to contribute a goddamn thing to this case. I’m a prop, that’s all.”
“Time,” someone called out.
“We have to get out there,” Michaelson said.
“You have to get out there.”
“I’m ordering you—”
“All right.” She shrugged. “Then I’ll go.”
That stopped him. “You will?”
“Certainly. If it’s a direct order, I can’t refuse, can I?”
“No,” he said warily. “You can’t.”
“So it’s settled, then.” She waited for him to register a faint smile of triumph, then added, “But don’t bother giving me that prepared statement. I’ll make some extemporaneous remarks.”
His smile was gone. “What sort of remarks?”
“Oh, how the LA office values image over substance, that sort of thing.”
He stared at her, assessing her seriousness. “You really would,” he said finally, “wouldn’t you?”
“Sure.” She doubted she would actually commit career suicide in front of a battery of TV cameras, but she was happy to let Michaelson think otherwise.
He gave in. “I’m not going to forget this, McCallum. You just screwed yourself, big-time.” He stalked off, hustling after the mayor and the other dignitaries headed for the rotunda.
Tess released a slow breath. She should have known. Of course they hadn’t wanted her for her expertise or insight. She was only a symbol, the heroine of the Mobius case returning to slay another dragon.
Sometimes she hated this job.
She recrossed the room and found Rick Crandall by the door. “Car keys,” she said, palm out.
“What? Aren’t you…?”
“I’m not ready for my close-up. Car keys. Now.”
“Technically the car wasn’t assigned to you.”
“I outrank you. My luggage is in that car. Keys, Crandall.”
He surrendered the keys. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Agent McCallum.”
“I always know what I’m doing.”
Tess left the room, thinking that Michaelson would have laughed if he’d heard that last declaration.
What was worse, he would have been right.
3
Tess didn’t calm down even after she’d pulled out of the parking garage. As usual when she was in a state of serious rage, there was a part of her that seemed to stand back, observing her anger with slightly amused detachment. She knew enough about psychology to recall that this irritating presence was called the witness. Its purpose was to preserve some sense of perspective when the ego went haywire.
In this case the witness was wonder
ing, in its quiet voice, exactly why she was so upset. From a public relations standpoint, Michaelson’s arguments made sense. The Bureau had taken a black eye after the death of the second victim. Bringing in the woman who’d bagged Mobius was a way to restore public confidence. It was also a kind of tribute to her. If she’d played it smart, she could have used her importance as leverage for a position of authority in the investigation. She could have enhanced her status in the eyes of the honchos in DC. And, heck, she could have been on TV.
Instead she had stormed out, further alienated Michaelson, reinforced her reputation as a loose cannon, and damaged her career prospects. The witness wanted to know why.
“Because I won’t be used,” she said aloud. “I won’t be put on display….”
Like a department-store mannequin—yes, she’d sung that tune already. Not entirely convincing, was it? Truth was, she had allowed herself to be used at other times in her career. Every agent did. No one in this business could escape from politics and bureaucratic games.
No, there was another reason, one that the witness, in its infinite smugness, already knew.
Danny Lopez.
That was why she’d recoiled from the prospect of the show Michaelson had arranged. That was why she hadn’t been willing to face the cameras and accept the accolades.
She couldn’t stand there preening, selling herself as Joan of Arc returning to do battle, when she slept every night with images of Danny Lopez crowding her dreams. She was no hero, and she wouldn’t pass herself off as one.
But she couldn’t have said that to Michaelson. He didn’t know what had really happened in the Greco case, and even if he had known, he wouldn’t have understood how she felt. Maybe no one understood. Certainly no one in Denver had seemed to grasp it or care. There had been the usual empty comments about how nobody could foresee every contingency, there were always risks, tragedies happened, and on and on until she thought she would start screaming just to keep herself from going insane.
She’d learned to accept the platitudes. She’d learned to sleep despite the dreams. But one thing she would not do was present herself to the world as…what had Michaelson said they called her? Super Fed.
Dangerous Games Page 3