Dead Man's Badge

by Robert E. Dunn

  After closing the box lid and making sure it was secure, I picked up the phone. “You still there?”

  “What the hell—”

  “Keep holding on.” I covered the microphone with my hand and thanked the Toomeys as they closed the safe and twirled the black dial. “Okay, we can talk,” I said to Milo as I walked out to my truck.

  “A little goddamned phone etiquette wouldn’t kill you,” Milo told me. He didn’t sound as mad as usual.

  I told him what I’d found in the safe. I topped it all off by sharing the name Darian Stackhouse. Then I asked him, “How’s it possible? You’re DOJ. All federal agencies report to you. How did you not know any of this?”

  “First of all, you can kiss my hard black ass if you think I’m involved in this shit. And second, do you know anything about DEA Special Operations teams?”

  “What’s to know? Door-kicking hard-asses.”

  “Nothing that easy. SOTs operate mostly in secret with classified mandates and missions.”

  “They’re not just cops?”

  “No. They operate under the oversight, if you can call it that, of the DEA Special Operations Division, but the SOD is made up of agents from partner agencies that include CIA, NSA, Homeland…”

  “One of the men I saw had a treasury badge.”

  “SOD is an intelligence network. They don’t play by cop rules either. They’re known for illegally collecting evidence and entrapping suspects.”

  “How did Buick get involved?”

  “Look around your town. If the money hasn’t been spent for the listed purposes—and if Homeland hasn’t been pitching a fit—millions in cash is being funneled to your SOT or someone else. All the dead people are the ones who might have asked questions.”

  “There is something going on between La Familia de los Muerto and Stackhouse’s team,” I said.

  “I have two more pieces of the DEA picture. The other agent you asked about. Right again. Bronwyn Gutiérrez is DEA internal investigations.”

  “She’s not here for the same reason I am?”

  “Remains to be seen. Her job is keeping an eye on DEA operations that are suspected of crossing lines. The funny thing is that SOD doesn’t have lines. If she’s there, someone is worried, and she’s been there over a year.”

  “The other piece?” I asked.

  “Cesar Barcia.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You asked me to find out who was missing from Stackhouse’s team.”

  “Is this the guy undercover with La Familia?”

  “More like underground.”

  “Dead?”

  “Cesar Barcia is the only name other than Darian Stackhouse I can get for the team because he was reported missing, presumed dead.”

  “When?” Even as I asked, I was doing a little addition of my own, and two plus two was Cesar Barcia.

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “The laughing guy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re right. These guys don’t care about crossing lines or being cops.”

  FOURTEEN

  The nice thing about being the boss was being able to ignore my own rules. That afternoon I went to the Border Crossing. I sat outside parked in the shadow of a tractor trailer, watching the door for a few hours. I saw a couple of familiar faces. Not the one I wanted. The sun had gotten low enough that I didn’t complain when the truck driver returned and took my shade away. It turned out not to matter because the man I was watching for entered the green door. It was the treasury agent, Connors.

  I went inside and found him at the bar. He saw me too and made a good attempt at keeping his face under control.

  “Sorry about that fishhook thing,” I told him as I took the stool next to him.

  “Whatever.”

  The bartender sat a bottled beer beside Connors. I raised a finger for my own. “Buy you your next beer?”

  He tilted his beer up and took a long drink, keeping his gaze locked to mine. He didn’t have to say “fuck you” to get the message across.

  I gave an exaggerated shrug as my beer showed up. “Suit yourself,” I said. “We’re both just doing our jobs.”

  That got him. “Doing our jobs? Do you even have a clue what the job here is?” He shook his head with the bottle poised. “I don’t think so.” He finished the bottle.

  “You’re right,” I said. I pushed my bottle over to him and raised another finger to the bartender. “I don’t know your job. But I think I know mine. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  Connors puffed a breath through loose lips, making them flap dismissively. Then he took my beer.

  I waited for him to have a good mouthful before saying, “They put you on shotgun because you don’t have as much tactical experience.”

  He didn’t spit, but he stopped drinking.

  “There’s no shame in it. You’re a treasury agent, after all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your experience with banking and money is more important than your trigger finger.”

  “Go pump another well.” He saluted with his bottle. “I’m not giving you anything.”

  I waited for him to raise the beer to his mouth again and then said, “That FBI agent is a real shooter.”

  Connors managed to smirk and keep sucking suds. Apparently I guessed wrong and the FBI was not part of the team. “You’re an asshole,” he said as soon as he swallowed.

  “Maybe. But I don’t have to take crap from Homeland.”

  There was no smirk that time.

  “And how did a respectable guy from treasury get stuck in a black-bag op with the CIA?”

  That time he leaned in and put everything he had into telling me, “Fuck you.” Everything but denial. Connors picked up the waiting full beer. He walked away, telling the bartender, “He’ll pay.”

  I paid, and I tipped well. Then I left.

  * * * *

  The first thing I did the next morning was call Gutiérrez into my office. She came but she didn’t look happy to be there.

  “Still mad?” I asked.

  “In many ways.”

  So much for easing into things. “Who or what are you investigating?”

  She gave me the kind of look I usually only see when I’m drunk and hitting on a woman way out of my league.

  “Is it Stackhouse or all of them?”

  Gutiérrez raised her eyebrows in surprise but otherwise gave nothing away.

  Still, I knew I’d scored a point. “Are they taking the money for themselves?”

  “We’re not having this conversation.”

  “Which one would you like to have?”

  “None. Are we finished?”

  “Why’d you toss the councilman’s office?” I tried to make it a casual question.

  “Who says I did?” She tried to make it a casual answer. But she let herself fall back against the doorframe.

  “You made a mess.”

  “You’re throwing darts blindfolded.”

  I shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “Maybe. Maybe not. They’re connected, you know.”

  “What’s connected to what?”

  “Your special operations team is connected to the money going through the town of Lansdale. And both are connected to La Familia de los Muerto.”

  “It’s like you have a box of words, and you keep throwing them in the air hoping they land in a way that makes sense.”

  I didn’t say anything. I waited.

  After she got tired of staring at me, Gutiérrez nodded, the kind of slight bobble people sometimes do when they are answering themselves. “If I was to give you anything. If. It would be to shut you up and get you back to your own target.”

  “If.”

  “Yes,” she said. “If.”

  “Please,” I said, spreading my hands to receive. “Help me get back on track.”

  She laughed. “You are a man without shame, aren’t you?”


  “You have no idea.”

  “You do your job,” she said. Then she hardened her face and added, “Whatever that is. I seem to be doing most of it for you. And when I’m not covering for you, I’ll do what I was sent here to do.”

  “Spying on the SOT.”

  “I’m not spying on anyone.”

  “That team is a strange mix.”

  Gutiérrez stood rigid. Her gaze sharpened on me. With a new, quiet intensity, she asked, “What do you know?”

  “I know that on a team operating within US borders, there is CIA but no FBI presence.”

  “Okay.” She deflated. “Who told you?”

  “Well, I have a source. You were my confirmation.”

  “This is all classified stuff that you don’t need to know.”

  “You won’t share with me?” I stood behind my desk and picked up my hat. It had been sitting crown down. Bad luck.

  Gutiérrez opened her mouth to say something but seemed to change her mind. She backed away toward the door, keeping her eyes on me.

  “Hey,” I called as soon as she passed the threshold and turned her back to me.

  She stopped.

  I settled my hat on my head as I stepped through the door. The dispatch officer and our civilian receptionist, plus two other officers off patrol, all turned to look at me.

  “Tell me about Cesar Barcia,” I said.

  Gutiérrez turned to me, and everyone else turned to her. “What?”

  “Cesar Barcia,” I said the name carefully. “Would you like me to take you to the body?”

  Her pale skin flushed red from her collar up into her hair. “Let’s talk,” she demanded, pushing past me and back into my office.

  I might have learned something if my new cell phone hadn’t started ringing.

  “Let it go,” Gutiérrez said. “You wanted to talk.”

  I did want to talk. But I wanted to take this call too. “Hector,” I said as much to the people in the room as to him.

  “This is important,” Gutiérrez told me.

  “So’s this,” I said. To Hector, I asked, “When’s the funeral?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.” Even over the cheap phone, I could hear the edge in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Longview.”

  “What?” I don’t know if it was the sound of my voice or the language of my body, but Gutiérrez looked at the floor. “What happened?” I asked again.

  “I didn’t understand,” he responded in a low voice.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I was the only one.”

  “What does that mean? The only one what?”

  “We had the funeral. I’m at the cemetery. He’s being covered up right now.”

  “Is Buick there?” I don’t know why I asked. I couldn’t imagine that it would have mattered, but…

  “I was the only one,” Hector said. “No one else came. Just me.”

  What came from my mouth wasn’t a word. I don’t think it was even a sound. Meaning and air were all there was to it. No one had come to my funeral. I couldn’t help but wonder how many would have shown up had they known it was Paris in the box. Then I felt horrible for thinking it.

  “Longview?”

  “Thanks, Hector. It means a lot that you were there for him.” My voice sounded like someone else speaking from a million miles away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be.” I broke the connection. That was one of those times I wanted to drop the badge I was wearing on the floor and show the world my back. I didn’t. Gutiérrez was waiting. “So—” I stepped back to my office, where she was holding the door open. “Cesar Barcia.”

  She pushed the door closed behind me. “He’s DEA. He’s bad news. And he’s missing with millions of La Familia cash.”

  “He’s not missing. He’s dead.”

  “I figured that out when you offered to show me the body. What happened, and how do you know about it?”

  “It looks like we both have stories to tell.”

  She kept her face immobile, waiting on me to make an offer.

  “You go first. Tell me all you know about the team and what they are doing.”

  Gutiérrez didn’t even blink. “I can’t do that.”

  I adjusted the hat on my head and eased the door open again. “Call me when you can.”

  Outside the building the day had become another inferno. The hat I was wearing was a summer straw. Even so, heat immediately built under the crown. Sweat seeped under the band and ran in tiny rivers to my eyes. It stung. I blinked and wiped the moisture away with the back of my hand. To wipe my brow, I removed the hat. The loss of shade on my face and neck allowed the sun to work like acid on my skin. I reset the hat and climbed into the truck.

  Despite the heat, I rolled the windows down and drove without the air-conditioning. I didn’t go anywhere; I simply drove around town. When I’d finally had enough of the self-pity, I decided to take some of Milo’s advice: “Suck it up, buttercup.”

  The answer to everything—the day, the heat, my mood, and the pity party—was cold beer and good food. I went to Ernesto’s place.

  I drank a bottle and ate an entire bowl of greasy chips with salsa before the enchiladas showed. I had the habanero sauce again to help burn my thoughts away. That, and a second beer helped. A huge bowl of carbs and habaneros didn’t stop me from digging into the enchiladas with gusto. I told myself I was almost feeling good. Everyone knows I’m a liar.

  My plate was clean. I was full. It didn’t matter. I was still determinedly picking crumbs and salt from the bottom of the chip bowl when two men walked in and took stools at the bar.

  I stopped licking salt. I checked the door with my eyes and my weapon with my hand. The men at the bar were my old friend Álvaro and the gun club doorman, Joaquin.

  “Chief Tindall,” Joaquin said with his back to me. “We like things clear.”

  “Joaquin, mi amigo—I can’t begin to understand what that means. And I can’t say much about your drinking companion. But—I’ll buy each of you a beer. Maybe we can all be friends?”

  “I think you’ve missed your chance to be friends with Álvaro here.” He kept talking with his back to me.

  “Not for lack of trying. We got off on the wrong foot. Or hand, you might say.” I raised my near-empty bottle with my left hand and held it up in salute. My right hand had remained on the butt of my pistol. As I took a sip of beer, I eased the weapon out and held it under the table.

  Joaquin turned as I lowered the bottle from my lips. “What do you know of La Familia de los Muerto, Chief?”

  “On the list of things of which I remain ignorant, it is right at the top.”

  “I don’t believe that.” He sounded genuinely surprised. “You talk about our business freely. You know things most people fear to mention. And you make—insinuations.”

  “Insinuations? What are you trying to say—I hurt someone’s feelings?”

  Joaquin looked at me like I was a lost cause and too dumb to understand how I had screwed up. They rose from the bar stools and went back out the front door. Something about the way they went made me feel I was expected to follow.

  I paid my bill and went to see. Sure enough, they were leaning on the front of my truck. When I stepped out, they watched but said nothing. If they were going to shoot, they would have already. I walked to the driver’s-side door. “You fellas got something more to say?” I asked as I climbed in.

  They rolled out to the sides. Álvaro went to the passenger door. Joaquin came around to my side. Each of them leaned in the open windows.

  Joaquin held up his hand, showing me the back. There on the long knuckle of his index finger was a colorful grinning skull. It was fresh ink. “In La Familia, these are tokens of our usefulness.”

  “Notches on your gun butt. Classy.”

  “When it turns out that, somehow, we’ve failed. The token is taken away.”

  Álva
ro raised his left hand, spreading his wrapped fingers.

  “That empty space,” Joaquin said, nodding at Álvaro’s hand and the space where his ring finger was missing. “That represents a failure. You know what he failed at?”

  “Marriage?”

  “You’re a funny man, Chief.” He didn’t mean it. “Álvaro was supposed to keep you from showing up here to take your job. He came to visit you at your brother’s trailer.”

  A feeling of heat and ice, like I’d swallowed gasoline and a match, hit my gut. My brain replayed the night I’d found Paris in my home. I thought he had been murdered in my place. That was somehow easier, thinking I was the target—thinking it was my fault.

  “Is he here to get his finger back?” I asked.

  Joaquin grinned. It was a razor of an expression, all cut and blood. “You seem to know our business. Álvaro simply thought you should know a little more.”

  “Tell me something, Joaquin.” I raised both hands and gripped the steering wheel. Hard. My knuckles were white, and my muscles burned. “What do you know about me? About our situation here?”

  “Our—situation?”

  “See?” I asked. Then I let go of the wheel. I used a finger to tap the badge on my chest. “It’s a funny thing about the law and this badge. Everyone, the good people and the bad, all rely on the rules it represents. What happens when a bad man wears the badge?”

  “Just like when my friend lost his finger,” Joaquin said, still beaming that sharp-edged grin. “Even for cops there are prices to pay.”

  “I don’t think so, amigo.”

  His grin slipped. Álvaro’s back straightened.

  I grabbed Joaquin’s tattooed hand in my left. Álvaro reached through the window, trying to get to my right hand as I pulled my .45. With those hands, I don’t know why he bothered. When I pointed the pistol at Joaquin, Álvaro pulled back. He put both of his bandaged hands on the window frame as if he was waiting to jerk the door off the truck.

  I tapped my badge with the business end of the pistol. “Between La Familia and the feds, I’m all there is. I think I can do what I want. The only things I have to worry about are more assholes like you.”