Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  And another image wouldn’t quit, of her lying in his bed, her breasts only half-covered by the sheets. He forced himself not to think about her nipples as he stabbed on her name on his phone screen.

  It rang several times. Trying to dispel the sudden tightness in his pants, Jay walked toward the end of the lobby, biting impatiently down on his bottom lip.

  At last, the ringing stopped. “Oh shit.”

  “Morning to you too, Agent McDonald.” The acid in Jay’s voice dripped all the way down into the pit of his stomach.

  “Jay. Oh man.” Unmistakable road noise filtered through from her end. “I’m so sorry. A lead on Barry’s murder came through, and we’re just coming back from San Antonio.” A pause. “I’m really sorry, but I won’t be back in time for the hearing.”

  The acid bubbled higher, his hands grew sweaty. He’d counted on her being there with him. They didn’t even like each other, but her presence calmed him for reasons he couldn’t explain. He’d be able to keep it together as long as she was there by his side.

  “Hey, no problem.” His mouth made the words without his say-so. He couldn’t believe how normal his voice sounded. “I’ll see you after.”

  “I really wanted to be there, I’m sorry.”

  “No biggie, seriously.” He’d rather shit his pants in court than admit how sick he felt. “Gotta go.”

  He ended the call. What fucking lead could be important enough to forget her promise? Jay ground his jaws together. He was a fucking coward. This was a murder investigation. Catching the killer was her job, not holding his hand because he was frightened of a judge. Get your shit together, Davis.

  He rubbed his forehead then turned and scanned the lobby. When he caught Corey’s eye, he jerked his head. Corey nudged Lou, and they both came trotting over.

  “Was that Carrie?” Corey glanced toward the elevator. “Where the hell is she?”

  “In San Antonio,” Jay said. “Listen, guys—”

  “What do you mean, San Antonio? What’s she doing there?”

  “She’s following up on a lead on Bar—”

  “Jay!” Phil came hurrying out of the elevator. “What’re you still doing here? You told me you were leaving at nine thirty!” He glanced around the lobby, which was almost deserted, then out onto the drive.

  “I was just leaving.” The last thing Jay wanted was to have to explain himself to Phil. He tried to be grateful that Phil had sat in the police station half the night, refusing to leave without Jay. But the interim manager wasn’t made for a crisis. His manic incessant chatter on the drive back had made Jay wish they’d left him where he was until he went before the judge.

  “I’m coming with you.” Lou planted himself in front of Jay, crossing his arms. “You’re not going alone.”

  “Will you give it a rest already?” Jay glared. Pouting, Lou opened his mouth to speak, but Jay headed him off. They didn’t need a scene. “Baby, I appreciate it, I really do. But I need you to hold the fort at the arena. You guys need to prepare for tonight. Who knows how long this arraignment thing will take.”

  Corey’s jaw tightened. His disapproval was palpable. He seemed close to breaking point. As much as he’d argued for the tour to continue, he no longer seemed so sure. But they couldn’t give up like that. An evil spirit had befallen them, and it had to be cast out.

  Jay turned to Corey. “You two, plus the Insects, can do the prep and the sound check.” He gave a sardonic grin, the irony biting. “You don’t need me. Please, guys. For Barry.”

  Lou’s bottom lip quivered. With a look around the lobby to ensure they weren’t being watched, Jay pulled him close. “Hey, man. It’s okay.” Corey’s arm snuck around Jay’s waist, and Jay pulled him into the embrace.

  Over the heads of his band mates and best friends, Jay said to Phil, “Take them to the venue. Get everything ready.” He glanced around again. It was a miracle no fans had spotted them yet.

  Without meeting Jay’s eye, Lou snuck a kiss, then stepped back.

  “Take care, brother,” Corey murmured. Jay squeezed his arm.

  “Back upstairs, you two. We’ll leave in a couple of hours.” Phil pointed at a sedan idling outside the hotel. “That’s your ride, Jay. The lawyer will meet you outside the courthouse.”

  “Thanks, Phil.” Jay left without looking back.

  Adam Ambrose, the very expensive lawyer Phil had gotten out of bed at midnight, waited for him on the corner of Travis County Criminal Court. He was small, with a fierce, narrow face and the firm handshake of a much bigger man. Last night in the harsh lighting of the cell, Jay had been too exhausted to notice details. In daylight, the immaculate cut of the lawyer’s navy suit completed the impression of expensive expertise. Jay wasn’t surprised by Phil’s choice, but he wondered if the most expensive would also automatically be the best.

  “Ready?”

  Jay wanted to tell Ambrose no, that he needed coffee because he’d barely slept, and go to the bathroom to puke and then lie down. Instead, he nodded.

  The lawyer clapped him on the back in an awkwardly low place owing to their height difference. “Let her rip.” He led Jay down a dark path between the imposing court buildings. They came up to an entrance that read “Blackwell-Thurman Criminal Justice Center” at the end of a long, covered walkway. Jay had the sensation of being swallowed whole by the looming walls of concrete all around.

  After being scanned and searched, Jay followed Ambrose around miles of corridors, finally coming to a stop at a reception desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambrose, but there’s been a delay,” the immaculately dressed clerk said when the lawyer announced what they were there for. “Please take a seat.” She pointed at rows of chairs along a wide corridor.

  “What’s the hold-up?” Ambrose’s voice was polite, but it wasn’t hard to believe that if he didn’t get his way he could become a lot less polite quickly.

  “I don’t have that information, sir.” The clerk didn’t seem perturbed. She pointed at the chairs again. “Please take a seat.”

  Muttering under his breath, Ambrose got on his phone. Jay hoped that one of his expensive contacts would do something to speed up the process, or at least find out what the delay was all about.

  He headed down the hall to a water cooler. The night was starting to catch up with him. His head hurt, and his mouth was sticky like old glue. He desperately wanted coffee, but the fear of getting lost in this monstrous building stopped him from wandering too far.

  From around a corner, a man came toward him. At the last moment, he raised a large SLR camera. Jay’s vision exploded into hot white flashes as the man took several pictures. By the time Jay could see again, the guy had passed him and was hurrying away.

  “Hey!” Jay strode after him.

  Ambrose looked up, phone still clutched to his ear. “What’s going on?”

  “That guy just took my picture!”

  A hungry expression appeared on the lawyer’s face. Here was someone he could let his frustration out on. Without a word, he turned and chased after the photographer.

  Jay dropped into a chair. He still really wanted that glass of water, but all the energy had drained from him. It had been inevitable, that the media would get wind of his arrest. He was surprised that it had taken this long.

  When he’d left the arena last night with the two detectives, it had been dark, and they’d exited out the back. No photographers had waited for them at the police station, and no reporters had gathered by the time Jay left with Corey and Phil. He’d been too distracted to think about it then, but now he wondered. Journalists listened to police radio traffic, they had snitches on the force, and the judicial system. Maybe he’d watched too much bad crime time TV, but wasn’t there always someone to take a little bit of dirty money? A lead singer getting arrested had to be newsworthy in the hometown of the SXSW Festival.

  He hid his face in his hands, carding his fingers through his hair. The strands were tangled and he winced. What with everything going to hell in a
hand basket he hadn’t bothered brushing or styling it after the quick shower he’d forced himself to take.

  He was so tired. He wanted his bed, and Lou’s warm body pressed against him. He was sorry now that he’d sent him with Corey and Phil, and felt guilty for being so harsh. And he was still smarting that the FBI had abandoned him. Couldn’t it wait, whatever it was she’d discovered? And do what? Pat your shoulder while you’re feeling sorry for yourself?

  There was nothing useful she could’ve done for him here. It would be a wasted morning for them both, so of course she’d done the right thing doing what she could to apprehend Barry’s killer.

  “Fucker.” Ambrose was back, somewhat disheveled and out of breath. “That asshole gave me the slip. Those paparazzi know this warren of a building better than the lawyers.” Ambrose himself seemed the kind of man who only left his cushy office reluctantly. He glared at the clerk. “And they’re still not telling me what the hold-up is.”

  “Where’s the guy who attacked Lou?” Wasn’t it strange that his accuser hadn’t showed up? They should’ve been in the courtroom by now.

  “Probably holed up somewhere out of sight.” Ambrose looked around uneasily. “The court might’ve called the station to let them know not to hurry.”

  They waited. Every so often, Ambrose pulled out his phone to call someone else who might know something, or to answer unrelated calls. At one point, the clerk appeared with two paper cups of battery-acid-strength coffee. She handed one to Jay with a look of pity on her immaculately made-up face. She left the other cup for Ambrose, who’d once again wandered off to take a call. Jay drank the revolting brew absently, ignoring his protesting stomach that was intent on letting him know that it was past noon and all Jay’d gotten so far was half a slice of toast.

  Jay had just abandoned the last dregs at the bottom of the soggy cup when Ambrose reappeared. He had a strange, constipated look on his face. Jay sat up. “What?”

  “I don’t believe it.” Ambrose scratched his head. “That was the DA’s office. The plaintiff has dropped the charges.”

  “What?” Jay jumped to his feet.

  “I know!”

  “And they couldn’t have let us know earlier?”

  “That’s what I told the DA. He said there’s been some ‘miscommunication’.” Ambrose looked disgusted as he sketched quotation marks into the air. “Look, I usually charge a full day for court appearances, what with the paperwork and all that. But since we never got into the courtroom, I’ll invoice you for three hours. Sound all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Jay was barely listening. “I don’t understand this.” He was still trying to get his head around the news. Why had that thug changed his mind? What was this game they were being drawn into? None of it made sense.

  “My advice? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Ambrose checked his watch. “I might still catch the afternoon sessions of that conference I cancelled last minute.”

  They waited in a small alcove by a side door for Jay’s driver to pull up. Ambrose had checked for possible journalists hanging around outside, but if any were staking out the place, they weren’t watching this particular exit.

  Once in the back of the car, Jay dialed Phil’s number. Nobody picked up. He tried Lou next, not hopeful. If they were rehearsing, everyone but Phil would’ve turned off their phones. Or maybe he was resting. After an episode of vertigo, Lou tended to tire quickly for the next couple of days. Jay hoped he was taking it easy.

  He was about to put his phone away when it began to ring, showing Corey’s picture. He picked up. “Hey, man, I just tried to call. I’m in the car n—”

  “Jay, something happened.”

  Jay’s stomach plummeted. Lou. “What? Tell me!”

  “There was an accident.” Corey’s voice shook. “The light rig crashed onto the stage. Lou got hurt. We’re at the hospital.”

  15

  The house on the outskirts of the hamlet halfway to San Antonio was such a stereotype, Carrie was almost disappointed not to see a tumbleweed float by. The settlement was no more than a main street with two or three roads carved across that turned into gravel a couple of hundred yards from the intersection. The unsub’s residence stood at the end of one of those roads.

  Hardly more than a shack, the property still had two advantages—a big yard, and spectacular views across the arid landscape in three directions. This was a Texas Carrie had never encountered before. She was a city dweller born and bred, and most comfortable with her feet on asphalt and her view impeded by buildings.

  Getting out of the car, she undid the clasp on her holster. She’d chucked the suede coat into the backseat as they’d left San Antonio. If her get-up had surprised George, he’d kept his opinion to himself. But Carrie felt awkward in the silver top and boy jeans. They were too low to be comfortable, and kept slipping lower under the weight of the Glock. She wished she’d taken the minute it would’ve taken her to change into her own pants, but it was too late now.

  Squinting into the midday glare she wished she’d had the foresight to grab her Ray Bans before high tailing it from her hotel room. Even the flimsy sunglasses Phil had added to her outfit would’ve been welcome, but she’d left them behind somewhere at the venue. Less than four hours of sleep, a breakfast consisting of a stale donut and coffee as sour as vinegar from a highway drive-thru had made both her and George grumpy. Only the thrill of the chase had kept them from being short with each other.

  The trip to San Antonio had eaten up half the day. They’d needed the information they’d gleaned at the police station there but, with hindsight, that information could’ve been gleaned via a few well-prepared phone calls. Her gut squirmed with guilt. She could’ve gone to the courthouse with Jay. Here was hoping that this stop would be worth the trip.

  They knew two things: the blood on the passenger seat of the rental was human. A sample of it was on its way to Austin now for the coroner to compare with Barry’s DNA. Secondly, plenty of other genetic material had been recovered from the vehicle. Those samples were also on the way to the lab, which would fast track the relevant tests and compare the genetic signatures with the various databases. They had no guarantee, of course. A rental car went through many hands.

  Carrie and George had come to this remote place to interview the man whose name was on the rental paperwork.

  George locked his car. He nodded at Carrie. The flap of his holster was open, too. His hand hung loose by his side, ready to grab the gun if necessary. They didn’t know how, if at all, the man living at this address was involved in Barry’s murder, and caution was better than regret.

  Carrie followed George up onto the small porch. It creaked under their boots. Not a bad early warning system out here in the sticks if you didn’t like visitors. George rapped on the screen door.

  Despite the creaking veranda, for a while, the only sound came from the wind chime hanging on a beam. The tension mounted. Carrie wanted to knock again, but she held off. George was local, she’d let him take point.

  At last, slow footsteps creaked inside, then the door opened. “Yeah?” The man holding the door at the halfway point was tall and rangy. Carrie guessed him to be in his forties. His face was clean-shaven and the tank top he wore looked new.

  An instant sense of recognition washed over Carrie. She knew that face, but she couldn’t place him.

  “Detective Lamar, Austin PD. This is McDonald. Are you Nigel Greene?” George held up his badge. The fact that he’d omitted Carrie’s designation hadn’t passed her by.

  “Aye.” The man squinted at George’s badge. Then he let the door swing open. “What can I do for you, officers?”

  “We’re investigating the case of a stolen vehicle that might have been involved in a serious crime.” George’s statement contained just enough information to make a serious impression. Carrie’s estimation of him rose. He was a lot better at his job after a decent night’s sleep.

  “I don’t kn
ow nothing about no stolen vehicle,” Nigel Greene said. “But if you think I can help…” He pushed open the screen door. “D’you wanna come in?”

  The hairs on Carrie’s neck prickled. Few people volunteered to let the police into their homes, whether they had something to hide or not.

  She followed George across the stoop, scanning the living room in a quick swoop. It was sparsely furnished but clean. A threadbare sofa stood in pride of place, a small flat screen TV hung on the opposite wall. Several computer monitors were set up on a good-sized desk in one corner, and the tower hummed and flickered. The only clutter in the room rested by the keyboard.

  Greene pointed at the sofa. “Care for coffee? I made a fresh pot ten minutes ago.”

  Carrie shook her head, but George accepted. Greene went through into the kitchen. He walked with a limp. Carrie gave George a look. He nodded, confirming he’d seen it, too. For a minute, clattering sounded from the kitchen.

  Carrie looked around. On a shelf crammed with large, technical-looking books, a few pictures were lined up in frames. One of the frames also held something else, but before she could go and investigate, Greene was back.

  After handing George his coffee he sat in the armchair perpendicular to them, grimacing. “War wound?” George asked, indicating the knee Greene rubbed hard.

  “Not quite. Drug bust gone bad in downtown Houston.” Greene noticed George’s raised eyebrow. “I used to bat for your team, detective.”

  Carrie glanced at the bookshelf again. Now it made sense. The frame she’d noticed held a medal. She relaxed, but kept her eyes on Greene.

  He noticed her looking and nodded at the computer screens. “Machine learning,” he explained. “I program apps now. Among other things.” He smiled, showing surprisingly attractive dimples. “If you’ve ever paid for parking on your phone in Austin or San Antonio, I programmed those apps.”