Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  Curious, she opened the desk drawers. All were empty.

  She turned, and her eyes fell on a small in-built closet. She opened the door. Inside was a yellow rain slicker. Did this belong to Phil? It hadn’t rained since before Barry was killed. Maybe it had been his.

  Carrie felt through the pockets. In the outside two she found nothing but lint and a stick of spearmint gum. Inside, she struck gold.

  It was a crumpled-up Post-it note with blue writing. When she smoothed it out, a vehicle registration number was revealed, alongside a string of hastily scribbled digits.

  Bingo!

  This might be nothing. Maybe the coat wasn’t even Barry’s. She’d double-check with Phil later, but in the meantime she could get some gears moving.

  Carrie pulled out her phone and called Flick.

  “Yello!” He sounded chirpy as usual.

  “Hi, Flick, it’s Carrie.”

  “Hey, boss. You checking up on me? No news on the mysterious email account yet. While we wait I’ve been looking into that guy Phil, but so far he looks as boring as PBS at three a.m. I’m not holding my breath for a big revelation.”

  “Thanks for being thorough, but I’m calling about something else. I have a vehicle registration number I want you to check.” She recited it. “Find out who that car belongs to, and where it is.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “There’s another number I found on the same piece of paper. No idea what it could be. It’s too long for a phone number.” She read that out, too.

  “Could be a reference number from a car rental firm.” Flick typed on his keyboard.

  Carrie was impressed. “Good thinking. Check it out, okay?”

  “Will do, darling. Hey, I had a thought. Is there a way you can do some undercover work? Maybe someone will let something slip if they don’t know you’re a fed.”

  Carrie sighed. “I’m already in disguise. Nothing doing so far, unfortunately.” She glanced down at her silvery T-shirt. “You wouldn’t recognize me if you saw me now.”

  Flick chuckled. “Take a selfie. Bet you make a great groupie.” He sighed. “Shame about the lack of progress, though.”

  “Yeah. Check those numbers, Flick. We’ll talk later.”

  “All right, boss. I’ll call you when I have an update.”

  After ending the call Carrie was even more restless than before. She went through the coat again, and checked every inch in the otherwise empty closet. The shallow drawers in the coffee table didn’t yield anything, nor did moving the sofa away from the wall.

  She straightened up. What were they missing? Maybe Flick would get somewhere with those numbers from the Post-it. That he’d thought of Carrie going undercover hadn’t been surprising. The Bureau paid him well to think out of the box. Shame it hadn’t led to anything.

  Except…

  Something niggled at the back of her consciousness. Carrie flicked open her pad. She’d started writing about that kid, Toby. He’d mentioned that Tom the tour manager hadn’t gotten along with Barry. She thought back to Tom barking orders at Toby. He’d known who she was, even though she hadn’t introduced herself. He’d had to have asked his crew about her. But why hadn’t he come to her directly? She would have to find him.

  Carrie let herself out of Phil’s room and walked around the catacombs for nearly fifteen minutes without encountering a single person. Everyone seemed to be lying low before the big night. She walked past Corey’s room. His door was unmarked, and she couldn’t even remember which one was Jay and Lou’s. Should she wake Corey? But he wouldn’t know where the tour manager was. Best to check out the hall.

  Here, at last, she found a few roadies, all lounging on the stage and the front row seats. “Everyone’s taking a break,” a longhaired kid told her when she asked. “Night’s gonna be a hard one.”

  “Do you know where I can find Tom Myers?”

  “Out in the loading bay, there are two buses. Tom’s got the back half of the first one as his office.”

  Outside, a few security guards wearing the venue logo on their uniforms stood near the doors, smoking. Carrie knocked on the window of the first bus. For a long time, nothing happened. Then, at last, someone seemed to fall down a flight of stairs, and the door opened. Toby peered at her sleepily.

  “Sorry to disturb you. Have you seen Tom?”

  Toby shook his head. He glanced into the bus, as if worried someone might see him talking to Carrie. “He’s running errands.”

  What was it with those errands? “Is this normal, for Tom to go off by himself?”

  Toby shrugged. “Sure. He’s got a lot to do, what with the first concert tonight. Or maybe he needs some time away from the chaos.”

  “Makes sense.” No need to torture the kid any longer. “Thanks, Toby. I’ll look for him later.”

  As she walked away from the bus, the noise from the front of the hall caught Carrie’s attention. Curious, she rounded the building until the front entrance came into view.

  A queuing system had been set up, resembling a holding pen for cattle. The space was buzzing with excited chatter. A sea of mostly female fans whiled away the time by singing and waving banners and posters.

  Carrie took it all in, fascinated. There were women of all ages, but the majority looked to be in their thirties. The atmosphere was charged, but friendly. However, their sheer numbers made the hairs stand up on Carrie’s neck.

  Off to one side, a shorter queue had gathered before a small door with a sign reading “VIP Ticket Holders Only”. Those had to be the fans who’d bought one of the hideously expensive meet-and-greet ticket. While Carrie watched, that queue began to move.

  She glanced at her watch. It was five thirty. “Shit.”

  She hurried back around toward the loading bay. When she returned inside she ran into Phil. He’d just come out of one of the rooms and waved at her. “There you are! I was just about to go look for you.”

  The burly security guard at the door assessed her as she passed him. She fought the urged to pull out her badge. Technically, she was still undercover.

  The room seemed small for its intended purpose. Carrie stayed near the door, taking in the scene. Two dozen people crowded around the five band members whose heads were just visible over the scrum. Most were women, but here and there a man skulked, looking uncomfortable. Two waiters in the colors of the venue staff milled around with trays holding plastic glasses of fizzy wine.

  The band worked the crowd, which moved with them like the waves of a restless ocean. The guys had changed clothes. Jay, Corey and Lou wore ripped jeans and black T-shirts. Jay had opted for an open checkered shirt over that, and the sleeves on Corey’s shirt had been cut off. Lou’s shirt bore words in a script illegible across the room.

  Spider and Ant wore more elaborate rock attire—leather vests over shirts covered in skulls, and long threads of fabric in their hair and attached here and there to the outfit. They were the least beleaguered. Most of the fans’ attention was on the three core members.

  The atmosphere seemed relaxed, the fans excited but well-behaved. Corey spotted Carrie and gave her a wink. Lou had a dreamy smile on his face, but he seemed to be smiling to himself rather than at anyone else. Jay didn’t look up. He moved stiffly, and looked the most uncomfortable of the three. He hadn’t noticed Carrie. Clutching a glass of bubbly, he kept a distance to the women who had surrounded him. They seemed oblivious to his discomfort. Or maybe they just knew enough about him to ignore it.

  Two more security guards hung back along the far wall. A photographer was setting up his gear before a large screen with the band logo, helped by a very young and very nervous-looking assistant. Two men caught Carrie’s attention. They had large printouts of the latest publicity shoots the band had done for the tour. Carrie recognized them because the same shots hung over the entrance of the venue where she’d just come from.

  “So far, so good,” Phil murmured. He seemed both nervous and pleased. “Nobody has tried to dry hump the g
uys yet, but the night is still young. Champagne?” He offered Carrie a glass.

  She shook her head. “So the fans get to take one photo each with the band?”

  Phil nodded. “They get printed out over there.” A table near the screen with the logo held a large printer. “And when everyone’s got their photo, they can have it autographed. Or something else.”

  That explained the posters and glossy printouts. “And they each get a drink.” Even including a glass of champagne it seemed an expensive indulgence, but Phil beamed as if Carrie had complimented him on his generosity.

  “You gotta show them a good time. They can all go home and tell their girlfriends they hung out with Thistle Hearts over the weekend.” He actually rubbed his hands together. “Sells tickets like hot cakes.”

  “I can see that.” Carrie could also see a woman put her hand on Lou’s chest and Corey pulling her attention away and on himself, with a nervous glance in Jay’s direction.

  “We better start with the photos.” Phil moved into the crowd, waving his arms. “Everyone, line up over here…”

  There was a lot of shuffling and poking and trying to be at the head of the queue. While the fans were occupied, Carrie made her way to the other side of the backdrop, positioning herself close to the security guards who now stood at attention. One of them gave her a hard stare, and she had to resist the urge again to whip out her ID.

  A semblance of order descended once the fans had secured their place in the queue. They shuffled forward in an orderly fashion, waiting their turn for the picture. Some chose to share their slot with friends. Each woman seemed to have a favorite to whom she sprinted as soon as the photographer’s assistant waved them forward. Corey greeted each woman who came to him with a hug and a peck on the cheek. Jay put one arm around the shoulders of the fans that sought him out, but his main focus was on Lou, who seemed happy enough in his dreamy way, hugging close the fans who chose him.

  When the two male fans with the oversized prints stepped up for their shots, the security guards stood up straighter. The back of Carrie’s neck prickled.

  One of the two men, wearing a leather jacket and a ponytail, stepped in front of the band, momentarily blocking access. The other guy headed for Lou. It was over so quickly, if Carrie hadn’t already been on heightened alert she might’ve missed it.

  “Hey!” Jay’s voice rose over the din of two dozen people’s chattering. He’d been on the far end of the group, and now pushed aside Ant, Spider and Corey to get to Lou. He knocked the first male fan out of the way, making for the second one. Something glinted in the fan’s hand. Lou seemed to stagger, and a moment later he vanished as he lost his footing and crashed hard to the floor.

  As soon as Jay’s shout rent the air, the security guards were moving, but Carrie, trained to make the most of her small size, was faster in the scrum. She slipped through the fans who had already gotten their photos, circling around to where Jay had tackled the attacker. They were both on the ground, Jay struggling to hold the man’s arms. Carrie’s gun was in her hand when she reached them.

  “Don’t move!” She trained the gun on the man, who was still struggling. “FBI!”

  For a second, the very air in the room froze. Then one of the security guards grabbed the man who was still on his feet. Some of the fans gasped, shrinking away from Carrie.

  She drew the second security guard’s attention to the guy on the floor. “This one’s got a knife.”

  There was a brief moment of doubt in the bodyguard’s eyes, and Carrie was about to pull her ID from the inside of the ridiculous coat. But then the guard moved, grabbing the guy by the arms and hoisting him to his feet.

  Jay also got up. He glared at the attacker, then spun around. “Lou!”

  Lou leaned against the wall. Corey was by his side. He looked pale and shaky. Jay crouched down. “You okay?”

  Carrie addressed Phil. “Find me somewhere nearby for these two.”

  Phil looked helpless and confused, but one of the guards pulled out a bunch of keys. “There’s a serving room next door.”

  Carrie indicated the attacker and his friend. “Take them there.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” the second guy protested.

  “Did you arrive with him?” Carrie indicated the man who had flashed the knife. Guy number two nodded. Carrie pointed at the door. “Then please, sir, go with the guards.”

  The man looked sullen, then nodded again. The guards escorted them from the room, past the stunned fans.

  The women, who had frozen with shock, began to mutter, throwing glances at the attacker, at Carrie and at the band still crouching on the floor.

  Carrie motioned to Phil and the photographer. “Help me clear the room.”

  “But what do I do with them?” Phil protested. “They haven’t had their autographs yet.”

  Carrie scowled. “I don’t care who gets autographs, Phil. Give them their money back, whatever. We don’t have time for this.” She stared at him until he looked away. Opening his arms wide he shooed the fans toward the door.

  “Come on, everybody. Let’s give the special agent some space.” So much for her undercover work.

  Carrie turned around to the band. Lou was still on the floor, Jay and Corey by his side. “Are you hurt? Did he cut you?”

  Jay’s eyes went wide. “Cut him?” He ran his hands over Lou’s chest and arms.

  Lou caught his wrists and stopped him. “I’m fine.” He gave Carrie a wide-eyed look. “What do you mean, cut me?”

  “He had a knife.” Or did he? Carrie racked her brains. She’d been so sure she’d seen something glinting in the attacker’s hand. She scanned the floor, but there was nothing.

  “I didn’t see no knife.” Lou tried to push himself up. “I’m fine, he just surprised me, and I tripped.” And to Jay, who kept pushing him back down, “Help me up, will you? I’m fine.”

  Jay scowled, but obliged. Lou used him as leverage, wincing as he struggled to his feet. That fall had been hard, and pain was writ large on his face. When he was upright, he brushed himself off, trying to look unconcerned.

  “We gotta get you checked out by a doctor,” Jay insisted. Corey nodded agreement.

  Lou sighed. He put a hand on Jay’s arm. “I’m fine, I swear. Let’s finish with the fans. They paid all that money.”

  Jay spluttered, but Corey said, with a glance at Ant and Spider, “Maybe that’ll be best. We’ve had enough drama the last few days. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “All you care about is this fucking tour.” Jay glared at Corey, who met his gaze unflinching.

  “We all decided to go ahead with it, despite what happened. We said we’d do this for Barry. I don’t like this any more than you do, but yes, I want to see this through.” The pain in his voice was raw.

  Jay looked taken aback. Lou put a hand on his arm. “Let’s do this for Barry.” His eyes were pleading.

  Spider turned toward the door. “I’m getting Phil.”

  Carrie followed him from the room. She couldn’t help them with that decision; it was best to let Phil sort it out. But the pain both Corey and Jay had displayed rattled her.

  Spider headed over to where Phil had corralled the fans and seemed to be arguing with some of them. Carrie turned and went into the adjoining room without knocking.

  The small room was crammed with tables, shelves and a sink. The two men sat on chairs with the security guards towering over them. As soon as Carrie entered, the man who hadn’t attacked Lou jumped to his feet. “You can’t do this. You can’t hold me here, I didn’t do anything!”

  She ignored him and pulled out her notepad. “Names?”

  The men glanced at each other. “Sergei Poplov,” the one who’d gone for Lou said. He had an Eastern European accent, but it was faint.

  “Andrew Marks,” the other one supplied grudgingly.

  Carrie gave them a stare. She could’ve sworn they were lying already. She wrote down the names. One for Flick to check out
. Then she turned to the first man. “Why did you attack Louis Zee?”

  He glanced away from her. He was sweating profusely. “I didn’t attack him, I…I wanted to give him a hug.”

  Carrie lowered her notebook. “Are you telling me you’ve been a fan all these years, and when you finally had a chance to meet the band you got overexcited and crossed a few personal boundaries?”

  The guy nodded, his eyes alight. He seemed to like her ludicrous suggestion. “Yeah, I’ve always dug that dude.” He was warming to the narrative.

  Before he could elaborate, Carrie cut him off. “Where’s the knife?”

  The guy’s coarse features were a split second too slow. His expression switched to confused, but not before it showed a flash of panic. “What knife?”

  “Turn out your pockets, sir.”

  “What?” The outrage was genuine, though the reasons could be manifold.

  “You heard me.” Carrie’s voice was flat. Interrogating difficult perps was one of her strongest skills, and the big man flinched even though she’d barely raised her voice. “Take everything out of your pockets. All of them.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s either that, or we’ll wait for Austin PD to conduct an interview at the precinct.”

  If looks could kill, she would’ve dropped dead on the spot. However, having two very tall, very burly security guards in the room was sufficiently intimidating. Sergei got up, giving her a dirty look. He pulled item after item from his jeans pockets—keys, wallet, loose change. When he went for the inner pockets of his jacket, the security guard closest to Carrie tensed. Pens, gum, a few crumpled receipts joined the pile on the table.

  No knife.

  Carrie turned to the nearest guard, who was still standing at attention. “You ever done a pat down?”

  “Yes ma’am.” The guard looked to be in his early fifties, graying hair but still in good shape. “I was with Austin PD for twenty years.” He stepped up to the suspect, who eyed him apprehensively. “Arms and legs apart, sir.” The guard’s tone was brokering no argument. He performed a thorough pat down, then stood back, shaking his head.