Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  But the cell’s screen didn’t show Gibbs’s name. Instead it read George Lamar, and for a moment Carrie drew a blank. Then it came to her. Detective George Lamar was with the City of Austin Police Department. They’d gone to school together for the last two years in Oak Park, when his family had relocated there from a small town in Texas. They’d not been friends, but after joining the Bureau Carrie had made sure to contact everyone from her graduation class who had chosen a career in law enforcement.

  Contacts like this were helpful to a federal agent. You never knew where you’d end up on a case, and knowing someone in the area, even just for local insights, had made Carrie’s job easier more than once. She’d met George recently at a conference in New York where she’d been a participant on a crime prevention panel. They’d had a drink, reminiscing about the old days and comparing notes. He was a good guy, not an out-of-the-box thinker, but solid and hardworking. When she’d arrived in Austin it had crossed Carrie’s mind to suggest a drink. But the assignment had run away with them, and there had been no time.

  Why would he call her in the middle of the night? Was she in for a ticking off from a local LEO whose pride got hurt by the Bureau butting in? Only one way to find out.

  She accepted the call. “McDonald.”

  “Hey, Carrie.” Lamar sounded tired, but not aggrieved. “Sorry to call you at this hour.”

  Carrie relaxed. She didn’t mind a late call nearly as much as an unfriendly one. “No problem. How’re you doing? Lorna and the kids well?”

  “Yeah, they’re great.” He seemed distracted. “I saw you on the news just now, in the background of that pile-up. I hadn’t realized you were working the sting op.” He sounded a little peeved.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch. I was going to suggest meeting up for a drink, but then things went south real quick.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been neck-deep this week myself.” He paused, as if to gather his courage. “In fact, that’s why I’m calling.”

  Carrie suppressed a groan with difficulty. She knew what came next. George continued, “I’m working this homicide. Forty-nine year old Caucasian male bludgeoned over the head, then stabbed in the chest several times.”

  “George—”

  “The body was discovered at McKinney Falls Visitor Center.”

  Now Carrie groaned. A DB on federal land. “Was he killed there?”

  A pause on George’s end. “We’re not a hundred percent certain yet.” He sounded shifty, and not very truthful. With difficulty, Carrie swallowed her annoyance.

  “Have you identified the body?” Why did she even ask? There was no way this was going to land in her lap. The FBI didn’t investigate homicide.

  “Oh, we know who he is, all right.” George sounded grim. “Barry Cornell, manager of Thistle Hearts.”

  “Manager of what?”

  “Thistle Hearts, the rock band? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them.” George sounded incredulous. “They were a huge deal about fifteen years ago. Three number one hits in a row. Won about every prize in the music industry twice over.”

  “Uh…”

  “‘I’ll Be Damned By Love’?” George added, hopeful. Carrie gathered it was a song title, but it meant nothing to her. He groaned. “All the college girls had their posters plastered on the walls. In 2004 I bedded at least three chicks while Jay Davis scowled down on us.”

  Carrie didn’t know who that was, either. “I was at Quantico then, and we didn’t have a lot of time for music.” It came out sharper than she’d intended, but she needed to nip his hopes in the bud. “Listen, George, why are you telling me? You know that the FBI doesn’t do murders.”

  “They do if it happens on federal land.”

  “Occasionally. If it’s a complex case, and more importantly, if the local police chief requests assistance.” Not if a detective calls in a favor from a classmate. Carrie let a moment pass for emphasis. “Is your chief going to request assistance, George? Officially, from headquarters?”

  He paused. “Doubtful,” he admitted at last. “But if I tell him that I’ve secured the help from a fed, he’ll take it. We’re at breaking point here.” There was more than weariness in his voice. “Please, Carrie, hear me out?”

  She didn’t like it, but that was irrelevant. It didn’t sound like George was requesting help on a mere whim. “All right. Continue.”

  “We’re out of detectives.” His voice was very low. “We were already stretched thin before tonight. I’ve got two homicides on the go, plus this out-of-towner now. One colleague’s on long-term sick leave, one scarpered because of a family emergency just before the big snafu tonight. Now we’re down another three, because of that crash. I can coordinate the brunt of it, we’ve got a good team. But the remaining detective squad is barely old enough to shave. And Thistle Hearts is spitting blood. Their sold-out tour is about to start, and they’re threatening to make a stink in the press if we mess up their schedule.”

  Carrie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Surely Austin PD didn’t cower before some celebrities that had seen their heyday a decade and a half ago? But George was feeling the heat, and he seemed desperate. He was asking for help from someone he felt he could trust. Carrie admired LEOs that knew their limits a lot more than the reckless specimen that were so prevalent in many agencies. Maybe cops of her own generation were finally coming to their senses.

  “I’ll work this case with you,” George continued when Carrie didn’t speak. “My gut says the perp is someone who came to Austin with the band. We just need to flush them out, it won’t take long. I need someone to take point so we can clear this one up fast.” He sighed. “If I had an experienced pair of hands I could give this to locally, I wouldn’t be asking you, believe me.”

  Houston field office wouldn’t send him an agent. The FBI wasn’t a cop-for-hire shop. But Carrie understood why George was asking her, and not San Antonio PD. She’d be working for him, and there would be no pissing contest or jostling for the next stage of career development on his force.

  Carrie rubbed her face. Maybe Gibbs would let her stay a few extra days. You’re such a pushover, McDonald. “Let me speak with my superior. I’ll call you back. In the meantime, send me everything you’ve got on the case.” She gave him her email address and they finished the call.

  Carrie dropped onto the bed. She already regretted her decision. Did she feel guilty for the role the FBI had played in the drug bust that had knocked out three of George’s detectives? Even if the FBI was at fault, it hadn’t been Carrie’s doing.

  But Carrie knew what it felt like when things stacked up over your head. All special agents did. There was always more crime to go around than they could deal with. She liked George. He’d come to her for help, and that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

  And she had to be honest with herself. She was curious about the case. Why would someone kill a band manager? In her field of expertise motive was usually money, allegiance or some other feud. Often, drugs were involved. The war against organized crime was never-ending, but it had few lasting success stories. Solving a murder would be a different challenge. And she’d never worked with celebrities, unless notorious drug lords were to be considered famous in their own right. Spending time with some easy-on-the-eye rock stars sounded like a vacation.

  A sinking feeling swept through her gut. She’d have to postpone her trip to Chicago. Trixie wouldn’t be happy. But it was only a rain check. And the girl was used to sacrifices like this. That this wasn’t a good argument hit Carrie immediately. But she’d promised George she’d ask Gibbs.

  Better get onto that. Pushing away her parental guilt, Carrie dug in her bag for a fresh T-shirt and underwear. She had to make the call as soon as possible, but she was freezing. So before dialing Gibbs’s number, Carrie slipped under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.

  The phone rang only once. “Agent McDonald.” The rumbling voice was wary. Gibbs had a sixth sense for bad news.


  “Sir.” Carrie did her best to sound assertive. “I just received a request for assistance from Austin PD.”

  2

  “So he’s letting you do it?” Susan stared at Carrie across the chipped Starbucks table, her butter knife suspended in midair.

  Carrie shrugged. “I appealed to his better nature.” She sipped her latte. No big deal, right? What she didn’t say was that she’d barely slept, pumped with adrenaline after the tense calls with Gibbs and the Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Theodore Blake.

  “I didn’t know he had one.” Susan returned to buttering her muffin.

  “He passed the buck to Blake,” Carrie admitted.

  Susan’s expression cleared. “That makes more sense. Our ASAC wouldn’t have put up any resistance. As long as we’re not hanging around in the office and using up the department’s coffee, he’s happy.”

  Carrie grinned, despite herself. Blake was ancient, for Bureau standards. He’d somehow managed to evade retirement twice, and in his professional mind, it was still the 1970s. Since he couldn’t turn back the clock to the Hoover era when women agents had been unthinkable, he tried to see as little of them as possible. Carrie wondered whether he pretended that Maryam Bradley, Special Agent in Charge for Baltimore field office, was a man.

  “He’s scared of so much female energy.” Susan winked. “So, why did you let your school pal talk you into this?”

  It was said without heat, but Carrie frowned. “George needs help. They’re having the perfect storm, and we made it worse yesterday.”

  “It wasn’t exactly our fault.”

  “Still. I’m in a position to lend them a hand, so why not?” Carrie bit her lip. Why the defensive tone? Her partner had voiced her own objections. It was too late now, in any case. She sipped coffee, and they continued their breakfast in silence.

  Carrie’s phone buzzed, dancing around the table. “Shit,” she murmured. Trixie.

  Susan gave her a commiserating grimace.

  Carrie snatched up the phone and strode out of the store. The rain had stopped, but an icy wind blew and most of the cars turning into the car park made for the Starbuck’s drive-thru window. Their own car still sat outside the motel across the street. Huddling close to the building, Carrie pressed the phone to her ear. “Hey, honey.”

  “You’re not coming.” Trixie’s voice was flat, cutting Carrie to the bone. Carrie had called her mother earlier, knowing that it was too early for Trixie to be up and hoping to avoid dealing with exactly this scene. She felt like garbage.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry—”

  “I hate you!” The shriek was so sudden and forceful, Carrie moved the phone away from her ear.

  Scowling, she raised her voice to cut through the girl’s sobbing, “Beatrice Marianne McDonald!” The words rang across the car park, and shut her daughter up at once. They had few disagreements, but Trixie knew when she’d crossed a line. Carrie rubbed her face. “Baby, listen. I’m sorry things didn’t work out. Someone has requested my help down here. But it’s just a rain check, all right? I’ll make it up to you.”

  Trixie sniffled. She’d been expected to be reasonable well beyond her age many times before, and it hurt Carrie to do this to her daughter. But what choice did she have? That was what being with the FBI was all about. And that’s why she lives with Mom. At least she can be a kid there. Sometimes, Carrie envied her daughter that tranquil existence in Oak Park.

  A vision of her daughter rose before her: eyes red-rimmed, nose blotchy, swallowing hard to pull herself together. The pointy little McDonald chin she shared with all her maternal relatives jutting out defiantly. Her black ponytail, shiny like a raven’s wing, bobbing as she nodded to her empty bedroom. “Rain check. Sure.”

  “That’s my girl.” Fake cheeriness, Carrie’s shield when the emotions cooked over. “Listen, I gotta hit the road. I’ll call you tonight, okay?” A lie, she wasn’t in a rush. The drive to the City of Austin Police Department was at most half an hour. Her meeting with George was at ten, and it wasn’t even nine a.m. yet. But it’d be better to talk to Trixie when the air had cleared. Another thing they had in common. Both mother and daughter cooled off best in privacy. Their Irish blood had stoked many fires, but with a discipline as innate as the distinct pointy chin, they always managed to get it back in line.

  “Okay, Mom.” Her defeated tone twisted Carrie’s heart again. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  The line went dead before Carrie could say goodbye. She sighed, deciding to ignore that rudeness. Were the roles reversed, she’d be pissed, too.

  Carrie went back inside. Susan stuffed the last bit of her muffin into her mouth. Chewing, she quirked an eyebrow.

  Carrie slumped into the chair. “She hates my guts.”

  “Teenagers, huh?” Susan’s equanimity would be irksome if Carrie didn’t know her so well. Susan had no interest in ever joining the “Mommy Sorority”, as she called it, but she admired Carrie’s life choices. She had an open ear for the difficulties and heartaches Carrie experienced with Trixie living away from her and always reminded her that she was a great mom, whatever society might be suggesting.

  But right now, Carrie didn’t want to avail herself of a shoulder to cry on. She checked her watch. “Isn’t your cab due?”

  “Yep.” Susan chucked her cell into her bag and drained the coffee dregs.

  “I would’ve dropped you off, you know.”

  Susan shook her head. “You got enough on your plate for today.”

  Carrie’s lips pursed. Susan was a good agent, and a friend. But she liked things her way, and wasn’t great in the passenger seat with Carrie. Driving wasn’t one of Carrie’s favorite pastimes and more often than not she yielded the wheel to her partner without complaint. But going into this new assignment on her own would be tricky for more reasons than just having to drive herself. At least Carrie had been to Austin before.

  A gray sedan drew up outside. “Ah. My chariot awaits.” Susan got up. “Take care of yourself, you hear? And don’t crash the rental.” She patted Carrie’s shoulder. “I’d hate to cut short my honeymoon to ID your corpse in the Travis County morgue.”

  “Funny, I’m sure.”

  Susan grinned, grabbing her luggage and heading for the door. Carrie waved her off, then returned to her latte, now stone-cold. She pulled up the email app on her phone and scrolled through the messages from George. Last night he’d forwarded her everything his team had compiled so far.

  Death scene photos. There was no doubt the body had been dumped. There was hardly any blood at the visitor center. Two-dozen pictures were followed by the first responders’ report. A statement from the shop clerk who had discovered the body. The CSI report, bringing up the rear. It amounted to little.

  The door of the shop, located at the edge of McKinney Falls Park, had been forced open. Dozens of finger and handprints on the door and elsewhere, and it would be a miracle if any of them belonged to the killer. Many visitors frequented the store. An unsub this well-organized was too careful to add his own prints. They’d still run everything through state and federal bases, of course.

  No shoe prints on the clean linoleum floors, no disturbance in the store. No mutilation, no signs of sexual assault. The CSI had taken fiber and substance samples from everything in the vicinity of the body, which had been arranged in a supine position, the arms and legs straightened tidily, but not arranged in any other way.

  Carrie flicked back through the emails. There it was: the coroner’s preliminary report put the time of death at around eleven p.m. Cause of death: exsanguination; a dozen stab wounds from a large knife to the chest and abdomen had caused Barry Cornell to bleed out. But where was the blood? And no knife had been found.

  Examining the photos again didn’t give her any new clues, so Carrie finished her coffee and went across the street to the hired Chevrolet Malibu in the motel car park. She wanted to make one more call before heading into town. Since she didn’t want to be overheard, she got behind
the wheel.

  The call was picked up immediately. “Yello?”

  “Flick, it’s McDonald.” She put the key into the ignition. “I need you to dig up everything about Thistle Hearts.”

  “The band whose manager just got offed?” Not much that happened got past Florian “Flick” Booth, the best IT analyst the Baltimore field office had. “That a case for us? Sounded like bog standard homicide to me.”

  “I’m doing someone a favor.” Carrie didn’t mind the young analyst knowing the details, but he’d enjoy the challenge of digging them up himself. “Find out what you can about the, uh…” Musicians? Band members? “Thistle Hearts. Who are these guys? Any priors, charges brought but dropped? Drugs, personal background, the usual. And the same for the vic, too. Barry Cornell.”

  “No need to say more, darling.” At twenty, Flick had already been out of the Academy for two years. He looked, and sounded, even younger. Child prodigy programmer turned hacker genius. Recruited out of his freshman year, before he could do anything that got him into real trouble. He was one of the best data specialists the Bureau had country-wide —and he called all of the younger agents “darling”, regardless of gender. He weighed a hundred and forty pounds put away wet and lived with his high school sweetheart boyfriend. He’d become something of the office mascot. Agents of all ranks and experience levels were in awe of his skills, and that was probably why nobody had handed him his ass yet about his affectation.

  Sounds of tapping on a keyboard. “Just finishing off some loose ends for Gibbs on the snafu yesterday. Yikes, by the way.”

  Carrie ignored that. “End of day okay for getting the files on the band to me?”

  “You got it, darling. Take care!”

  The line went dead. Carrie slid her phone into her carry-on bag on the passenger seat, shaking her head. Cocky little shit knew exactly what he was worth to the Bureau, but he was sweet, too. As long as he doesn’t call Gibbs darling by accident.