by Glenn Rogers
At eight, Wilson and I decided that it had been a long day and went home. We watched TV for a while. At nine thirty, I went to the gym. It was my night to lift weights. It was after eleven when I got home. I collapsed into bed.
I dropped Wilson off at Mildred’s on my way to the airport and steeled myself against what I was sure would be a frustrating morning. My flight to San Francisco left ten minutes late. At six-three, I never have enough room for my legs, and as an independent small business owner, I never have enough money to fly first class. The lady next to me insisted on talking the whole way. The book I had open in front of me did not deter her in the least. The landing was rough, and we had to wait on the tarmac for almost fifteen minutes before taxiing to our gate. Other than that, it was a delightful flight.
I rented a Jeep to drive to my lunch appointment with Aubrey Kraft. Kraft was short but solidly built, in his early fifties. His brown hair was beginning to gray a bit around the edges, but he was still in shape. Kraft had always been smart and dedicated. He appeared to have more money than he ought to have as a SAC for the FBI. He didn't seem to like me. That was okay with me because I didn’t really like him, either.
For lunch, he had chosen a posh fish place on the Wharf. Showing off? I didn’t know.
When I arrived, he was waiting for me and stood to greet me as I approached our table. He had a firm handshake.
“You look good, Jake,” he said.
“You, too,” I said. “Staying in shape, I see.”
“It's getting harder and harder to do.”
The waiter appeared immediately when we sat down. We ordered our drinks and engaged in small talk until we ordered our food.
Once the waiter left, Aubrey said, “Okay, Jake, let's get to it. What do we need to talk about?”
“The official report concerning my operation.”
“What about it?”
“It's a bunch of crap,” I said. Why spend time beating around the bush?
“Why do you think so?”
“Because it ignored the most obvious explanation for what happened.”
“Which is?” he asked.
“That there was a mole in the agency.”
“There was no mole in my agency.” Kraft snapped, defensively.
“How do you know there wasn't?” I asked.
“How do you know there was?” he asked.
“I have a reliable and knowledgeable source who says there was and still is a mole in the L.A. office.”
“Whose your source?”
“You know I can't tell you that.”
“Convenient,” Kraft said. “You say your phantom source is both knowledgeable and reliable. But all we have on that is your say so. And based on your say so, I end up being the SAC of a field office with a mob informant. I don't think so, Badger. You're just trying to shift the blame for a failed operation from yourself to me. Your girlfriend got killed and you can't stand that it's your fault.”
He was lucky we were in a public place. Or maybe I was the lucky one. Assault on an FBI SAC is frowned upon by law enforcement agencies. Fortunately, our food came. The waitress served it with Aubrey and I staring hard at each other across the table.
When she left, I said, “You're an insecure asshole, Aubrey. Always have been. You probably called in some favors to make sure the official report rejected the possibility of an informant, didn't you? The whole thing was a CYA exercise.
He glared at me.
“Fortunately,” I said, “there are people in the FBI who want to discover the truth. And we will. Everyone who had knowledge of that operation, including you, is being investigated.”
“Screw you.”
“I'm going to find out who it was. And if it was you, Aubrey, I'm going to come up here and kill you with my bare hands.”
His face was red with rage. “Is that a threat?”
“You bet it is. Enjoy your lunch,” I said. And I left.
I drove around for a while trying to cool off. I was as pissed at myself as I was with Kraft. I shouldn’t have let him get to me like that. I got a roast beef sandwich and a Diet Coke from a small sandwich shop and found a spot overlooking the bay where I could sit quietly and eat and think.
I wasn’t sure how much good any of our interviews were doing. This one had been a complete waste of time. If there was anything to find, Alex could find it. Be nice, though, if he had someone else he could trust to help him. Alex was using some of his new people to investigate some of his old people. But the FBI investigating the FBI was still problematic. He needed someone on the outside, other than me, to help him. Who? Monica. Monica had the investigative skills and I was pretty sure she would be willing to do it.
I finished my sandwich and drink and got out my phone.
Chapter 29
“Jake Badger,” Monica said, when she answered her cell. “I know a guy named Jake Badger. Great shoulders, nice butt. Blue eyes you could get lost in. Is this that Jake Badger?”
“You forgot brilliant and charismatic,” I said, smiling. Monica could always make me smile.
“Let’s not get carried away,” she said. “What's up?”
“I need a favor,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Just like that? You don't even want to know what it is first?”
“Not if it's you asking.”
I understood what she meant. When you cared about someone you didn't need to know what they needed, you just needed to know how you could help.
“Alex and I are working on a case,” I said. “Big one. Involves investigating the FBI. We need an extra person.”
“I'm in,” she said.
“Okay. How about we talk specifics over dinner?”
“Ooo, I'm liking this already,” she said.
“Pick you up at six?”
“Sure. You outside somewhere?”
“Yeah. How'd know?”
“Sounds windy.”
“Oh, yeah. It is.”
“It's not windy here. Where are you?”
“Sitting on a bench, high on a hill overlooking San Francisco bay.”
“And in that romantic setting you thought of me?”
“Yes. But it had less to do with romance than with the frustrations associated with this case.”
“Don't spoil the illusion,” she said, sounding annoyed.
I couldn't tell if she was serious or just playing with me. I decided to play it safe and go for placation. “Monica, if I were going to think romantically about anyone, it would be you.”
“Nice save,” she said after only a brief hesitation. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I don't know. I haven't thought about it yet.”
“I have to know how to dress,” she said.
“Well, where would you like to go?”
“Someplace romantic.”
“Monica, this is a business dinner, not a date.”
“Fine. Then let's go to Taco Bell.”
“Okay.”
“I was kidding,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I don't want to go to Taco Bell. Why would you take me to Taco Bell? Take me somewhere nice.”
I sighed. This was getting to be a lot of work.
“I'll tell you what ... I'll drive and I'll pay. That will be my part of this thing. You pick the place. That will be your part. Okay?”
“Be still my heart.”
“Six o'clock,” I said.
The flight back to L.A. reminded me for a second time in a single day why I don't like flying commercial airlines. However, once I retrieved my Wrangler and was on my way home, I began to relax. I went by Mildred's to pick up Wilson. He was glad to see me. When we got home, he retrieved his leash so I could take him for a walk. We had to hurry, though, so I would have time to get ready for dinner with Monica. Wilson didn’t seem to mind hurrying.
As I showered and shaved, I realized that I was anticipating our evening together. What did that mean? I wasn't sure, so I stopped thinking about it and got dressed: L
evis, Kevlar vest, light blue Oxford button down shirt, shoulder holster complete with .357 Magnum, and, since my tan corduroy sport jacket had a bullet hole in the back, I selected a gray herringbone sport jacket. I checked myself out in the mirror. Not bad.
I looked specifically to see if the vest was obvious under my shirt. It wasn't. I found myself wondering what Monica would be wearing. I had no idea. Then it hit me. I was wearing my Kevlar because I knew there was a threat, Monica, however, did not know there was a possibility, however remote, of being shot at before the evening was over. I called her.
“I'm doing my hair. Not good to interrupt a woman when she’s doing her hair.”
“Got you clothes already laid out, I suppose?”
“Yes. Why?”
“What you've selected, will it work with a Kevlar vest underneath?”
Silence. Then, “If this is a joke ...”
“I wish it were.”
I gave her an abbreviated version of Jasper and his sniper.
“He got you?”
“Yes, and no.”
“Jake, if he even got close, he’s good.”
“He’s good,” I said. “I was a little better.”
“Only because you were wearing your vest,” she said.
“That’s the point. I was a step ahead. I was prepared. That made me better.”
“He was following you,” she said. “He saw where you went. He found a spot. He set up and waited. And he hit you. He’s had training.”
“That would be my assessment.”
“Does he know he was unsuccessful?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
“What does that mean?”
I told her about my shot at Jasper and my follow-up text.
Then I said, “So I hope Jasper has thought better of his ill conceived plan.”
“But you're still wearing your vest and you want me to wear one as well.”
“I'd feel better if you did.”
“All right,” she said, with a level of resignation that sounded a lot like disappointment.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I hope I haven't ruined your plans for the evening.”
“You have,” she said. “But I forgive you. It wasn't your fault. Well, actually it was, because you did your macho thing with this Jasper guy.”
She was right. What I had done in Jasper’s office had been a mistake. Subtly had never been my strong suit.
“However,” she said. “I understand why you did it and I don't blame you.”
“So, we're still good for dinner?”
“Of course, were still good for dinner. I'm not going to let a little Kevlar stand between me and those shoulders of yours.”
I smiled.
“Okay. You need a few extra minutes to reorganize or anything?”
“Nope, I'm good. See you at six.”
Chapter 30
I rang Monica's doorbell precisely at six. In a moment, she answered. She was wearing gray slacks that were just tight enough. Her blouse was pink and satiny looking under a navy blazer. A single strand of pearls adorned her neck. Her green eyes sparkled; her red hair shimmered. She was a beautiful woman.
I said, “Wow,” and she smiled appreciatively. The only way I could tell she was wearing Kevlar under her blouse was that it minimized, considerably, her otherwise prominent DDs.
The restaurant she had selected was L.A. Dolce Vita in Beverly Hills, on Santa Monica Boulevard, near Wilshire. I had not been there before. It was a nice Italian restaurant. I suspect she thought it was romantic. She ordered wine; I ordered iced tea. They served warm bread and spiced olive oil to dip it in. Quite good. Monica ordered chicken marsala; I ordered lasagna.
After the waiter left, Monica said, “This is nice, isn't it?”
“It is,” I said.
“So why don't we do this more often?”
There must have been something in my expression, because she looked as if she realized she had overstepped. It had been a simple question and I was unaware of any overt reaction, but she had seen something and realized I was uncomfortable.
“I'm sorry,” she said softly, regret diminishing a little of the radiance in her eyes. “I didn't mean to push.” She understood about Elaine and didn’t need an explanation.
I smiled. “It's fine, Monica. Don't worry about it. There’s no place I’d rather be right now than right here with you.”
She smiled a small smile, took a sip of wine and said, “Okay, I'm going to want to hear all about this Jasper Pipestone character. But first maybe we should talk about your investigating the FBI.”
“Do the fun stuff right up front, huh?”
“I’m a party girl,” she said enticingly.
I smiled and took a sip of tea. “You remember June Morrison? “
“Sure. Lindell Industries.”
“We were talking one afternoon and the whole thing about why I left the FBI came up. I explained about my failed sting operation and Elaine's death.”
Monica was nodding as I told the story.
“Anyway, at one point she asked if I had discovered who the mole was. The question stunned me for a moment. So, I asked, what mole? She said the mole who passed information to the mob about your sting operation. It seemed obvious to her that there had been an informant inside the agency.”
Monica's focus on me was complete.
“I tried to deny the possibility. I knew everyone who had any knowledge of the operation. That one of them would be an informant seemed incredible. So I dismissed the idea. Except, I couldn't dismiss it completely. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The only explanation for what happened that night is that the syndicate knew in advance what was going down. Someone told them what was coming.”
“And it took you all this time to come to this realization because …”
“Probably because I was too busy blaming myself to think logically about it.”
“And now that you understand what happened, you're going to find out who it was.”
“Yes.”
“But it's just you and Alex, and you need help,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What do you need me to do?”
I smiled. “There's a SAC in San Francisco named Aubrey Kraft ...”
I told her about Kraft. About my suspicions regarding the official agency report, about his appearing to have more money than most SACs had. I explained about our unpleasant lunch meeting, about his defensiveness.
“Alex is up to his eyeballs,” I said, “And I've got a lot on my plate, too. I need you to look into Kraft for me.”
She nodded as she thought, and then said, “The extra money he seems to have might be an indicator, but it could just as easily be legitimate. Could be family money, an inheritance, a trust fund.”
“I agree. His being wealthy doesn't make him guilty of anything. But we need to look. We need to know.”
“Okay. I'll get it done.”
“There's another guy, too, Nicholas Brandt. He's in D.C. now. He was the director of the OCU. He knew about the operation, too. Could have been him.”
“The director of the Organized Crime Unit a mob informant? “ she said.
“Sounds like a movie plot, doesn't it?”
“Sounds like we could piss off a lot of very powerful people.”
“A distinct possibility,” I said.
Our food came and we changed the subject as we enjoyed the entrees we had selected. The food was quite good. I asked Monica if she’d begun house hunting. She had and she described a couple of the houses she'd looked at. She said it was going to be hard to make a decision and was hoping that when she got the choices narrowed down to two or three that I could come with her and help her figure it out. I said I would. She asked me what else was going on with me, besides the two investigations I was involved in. I explained about the new arrangement with my father's law firm. She told me about her grandmother's adventures in her assisted livin
g facility. Evidently the old gal—ninety-two—has a boyfriend. I told Monica about Mildred's frustration with her youngest son's criteria for a suitable wife, including Mildred’s hoo-ha and hooters comment. Monica smiled mischievously but didn't follow up on her thought.
We were having a nice time, enjoying good food and good conversation, when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and started to let it roll over to voice mail, but something told me to answer it.
I glanced at Monica. She said, “Take it.”
“Jake Badger,” I said.
“You've just fallen down the rabbit hole Badger. Welcome to Wonderland.”
It was Pipestone.
“My family is safe,” he said. “You can't get to them. But I can get to you. I've got your girlfriend ... you know, the big titted little barmaid.”
Monica could see that something was wrong.
I said, “What's your plan, Pipestone?”
“My plan is to watch you suffer before I watch you die.”
Chapter 31
“Sure,” I said to Pipestone. “I figured it would be something like that. But you need to be more specific. What exactly do you have in mind?”
“You want specifics,” Pipestone said. “See if this is specific enough.”
The next sound I heard was Heidi screaming. Then Jasper came back on the line.
“Specific enough for you?” he asked.
If I could have climbed through the phone after him, I would have.