Field Agent

by Dom Testa

  Fife was waiting in the lobby and had picked out a good brewpub within walking distance. By the time we got there and grabbed a high-top table I had another text message.

  “What’s the word?” Fife asked, perusing the beer list.

  “The word is you only get one beer tonight. At least for now. We have a date with Tami Culbertson at eight o’clock.”

  “Then I’ll get a 24 ounce.”

  “I’ll join you. Plus the text just now was from the social organizer for a certain wise guy. I’m granted an audience tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “No shit. You already have a meeting set up? That didn’t take long.”

  “You have to know how to sweet-talk the gatekeeper,” I said.

  6

  Tami Culbertson was around 50, tall, dark hair, in excellent shape. She carried herself in the way you normally associate with confidence and determination.

  She also carried a beer.

  A 23-foot motor home was parked in front of the Culbertson house, and the now-widow of the USDA agent was cleaning it out. She’d offered us beers when we arrived, which we declined, then she pointed at a cooler near the RV’s back door and told us to help ourselves if we changed our minds.

  The inside of the Gulfstream wasn’t huge, so Fife and I did our best to stay out of her way as she meticulously went through cabinets and drawers, pulling out things that either went into a large box or into one of those giant Hefty trash bags. From what I could tell, the bulk of the items ended up in the garbage. She did all of it with one hand while taking regular swigs from a bottle of Red Stripe.

  “FBI, huh? Cops have already been here to talk to me,” she said. “Twice. So I don’t know what you can ask that I haven’t already answered.”

  “Well,” Fife said, “the police have their investigation, and we have ours. First, we’d like to express our condolences for your loss.”

  She grunted and took another drink. “Loss? I just made two million bucks.”

  Fife and I looked at each other, but before we could comment she continued.

  “And on top of that I can finally get rid of this piece of shit RV, which I never wanted in the first place.”

  “David talked you into this?” I asked.

  “No, he did not talk me into it. He just bought it. Said he wanted it to go hunting and camping. But see, Dave was not really a hunter or a camper, so it left the storage facility maybe twice a year. Soon as I get everything out of here it’s getting sold. Cheap.”

  She stopped and pointed the beer at us. “Either of you want an RV with practically no miles on it?”

  “No ma’am,” said Fife. “But thank you.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t blame you. So what do you want?”

  “Uh,” I said, not sure if we were witnessing a strange reaction to horrific news—people tend to respond to tragedy in very different ways—or if Tami Culbertson truly gave no shits that her husband had been murdered. “We’re looking into an investigation your husband was involved with. It’s possible it could explain what happened to him.”

  She moved toward the front of the motor home, speaking over her shoulder. “Oh, you don’t need to investigate too much to find out what happened to Dave. I can tell you exactly what happened.”

  Fife and I exchanged another look. “Okay,” I said. “We’d love to hear it.”

  She knelt down and began emptying a bottom drawer. I noticed that now things weren’t getting even a cursory inspection; all of the contents went straight into the trash.

  “Karma. That’s what happened to David P. Culbertson, asshole first class. Built up like magma under Mount St. Helens and blew the top off his world. Literally, from what I’m told. You can only shit on people for so long before the universe steps in and says That’s all for you, you son of a bitch. Good night.” She stood back up. “So that should wrap up your investigation. Just fill in the paperwork with Karma Is A Bitch.” She spelled it out in the air with the hand holding the Red Stripe.

  Okay. So this was not a strange reaction to grief. Tami Culbertson absolutely hated her husband and was about one step away from dancing on a table to celebrate his death. Not to be crude and insensitive, but in three minutes this had already become my favorite interview of all time. I could’ve talked with Tami for hours. For a split second the thought crossed my mind of taking her out for cocktails to see just how much she’d say once she really got wound up. But only if I could record it to play back whenever I was depressed about my work.

  “I understand,” Fife said to her. “But I hope you appreciate that we can’t really log karma as a cause of death. As for the actual murder, we were hoping you might have some insight into who might’ve wanted him dead. And please, don’t say everybody.”

  She smiled. “Ah, you beat me to it. Well, I guess I should be Suspect Number One. I couldn’t stand the bastard and I just made a shitload of money from his death. Trouble is, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Did you think about doing it?” I asked, prodding her.

  “Nope. Never had to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means somebody was bound to eventually shoot Dave. All I had to do was wait it out.”

  “But you tried to divorce him twice,” Fife said.

  “Oh, I never intended to divorce him. Never would’ve followed through. Because I knew he’d do anything to keep that from happening.”

  “Like bump up the life insurance,” I said.

  “Damn right. You thought I was kidding about knowing someone would kill him? That was no joke.”

  I leaned against the door frame. “So who would be most likely? Did he talk about the case he was working on in Iowa?”

  “Nope. If you officers are not going to join me, would you reach into that cooler and hand me another?”

  When Fife passed her a beer she said, “No, Dave didn’t talk about his cases with me anymore. Used to, back when we first moved here. Thought I was interested in all the drama between the government and farmers, which I wasn’t. Of course, he really wasn’t, either. Just a way to make a living where he didn’t have to work too hard and had enough free time and travel to screw around on his wife. I’m surprised he kept the job as long as he did. Wouldn’t be surprised if his own bosses had him whacked. I’m sure the thought crossed their minds.”

  I asked, “So no one ever called or visited the house regarding any of his cases?”

  She shook her head. “No. I did get an email from a woman about a year ago. Said she’d had an affair with my husband, thought I should know.” She laughed. “Obviously he’d done her dirt and now she was trying to ruin his life. I wrote back to her and said, Honey, you’re like someone standing in line at the supermarket deli. Sorry to tell you, you’re number 67. Try the smoked ham.”

  I didn’t want to walk away empty-handed, but it didn’t look like the merry widow had anything that could help. I tried another angle. “What about gambling problems? Did he ever say anything about that? Maybe somebody who he’d crossed?”

  For the first time she paused in her frenetic cleaning. She sat down on the bench seat of the dining table, took a slow drink of the beer, and stared at us.

  “You know,” she finally said. “There was something going on there.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Fife asked.

  She tapped a finger on the table, thinking. “He used to sit in on some big poker games. I only know because he bragged every time he came home a winner. Of course, he didn’t say shit when he got cleaned out. Big ego when it came to poker, liked to think he was a Vegas kind of guy. But a few weeks ago he dragged in at six in the morning, after one of those all-nighters. And for the first time he seemed worried. I asked him what was wrong—not that I really cared, just, you know, making conversation.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked.

  “He said, I did something stupid. It was all I could do to not say, You’ve been doing stupid shit for years. But I just acted curious, and h
e said he’d pissed off the wrong guy. Or something along those lines. But that was it. Seemed worried about it for an hour, then went right back to being his asshole self. Never said another word about it.”

  She set the beer down on the table and twisted the bottle, looking at it. “I forgot about that. Guess I should’ve told the police, but it didn’t cross my mind until you brought it up.”

  “But he didn’t mention any names? Any details?”

  “No. Just said he’d screwed up. I figured he owed someone some big money, someone dangerous, but that it would blow over. I mean, the guy spent every dime the minute he made it. We have shit for savings, but he always found ways to pay his gambling debts.” She looked up at us. “I didn’t ask where he got the cash to do that, but it was pretty obvious it wasn’t from his paycheck. Probably the same way he bought this piece of shit RV, and a golf membership, and expensive toys. Maybe blackmailing some of those married women he hooked up with. I don’t know. I never asked.”

  If she was suddenly feeling a bit sad about things, those emotions expired in a flash. With a shake of her head and another swig of beer, she stood up again and grabbed the trash bag. “Sorry, but I didn’t kill him. Anything else I can help with?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fife said. “I’ll leave a card right here. If you think of something later, maybe any names of people who may have been involved, please reach out.”

  “Will do,” she said, not even looking at us. She’d gone back to work. We backed out of the piece of shit RV and walked back to my rental.

  Once inside with the engine running, Fife and I both laughed.

  “My lord,” Fife said. “What just happened?”

  “I am officially crossing Tami Culbertson off the list of possible suspects,” I said. “If she’d done it, that lady would not only admit it to us, she’d probably go door to door in the neighborhood telling everyone. Most un-grief-stricken widow of all time.”

  “Very entertaining, but not too helpful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. In a way she corroborated the rumor that Culbertson was in debt to someone powerful. Could be Volta. Could be someone else. Between that and Tami’s phone call from the jilted lover, it’s more evidence this murder might not have involved the soybean conspiracy at all.”

  “So this trip may not require the skills of the great Eric Swan,” Fife said, pulling out of the neighborhood.

  “Don’t tell Quanta,” I said. “But I’m having fun again.”

  As it turned out, Quanta was the one who wanted to talk. She sent a text, requesting a video call at ten o’clock.

  That gave me enough time to get back to the hotel room, order some room service snacks, and get into comfortable clothes. At precisely ten my phone vibrated. Behind her I could see her kitchen.

  “Poole tells me you’re in Chicago.”

  “Naperville. Probably won’t make it into the city. Which is too bad; the Cubbies are at Wrigley this week.”

  “And you met with Culbertson’s wife?”

  “Quanta, that is one straight-shooting woman. Well, not literally. She didn’t gun down her husband or hire someone to do it. I’m sure of that.”

  “Did you get anything useful out of her?”

  “So far I’m not seeing much to suggest that soybeans had anything to do with the murder. Dr. Eklund is convinced this guy Jason Deele is the antichrist. And who knows, he could turn out to be evil. But I won’t get a chance to talk with him until he’s back from South America. In the meantime I’m going to follow up some other angles around the murder.”

  Quanta narrowed her gaze. “The murder wasn’t the reason you were sent out there. The Deputy Secretary wanted an investigation into Dr. Eklund’s concerns.”

  “I get that. But let’s say the murder of this USDA agent is connected to Deele. Eliminating the other possibilities strengthens that case, and might open more avenues to investigate. Right now we’re basing everything on a bad feeling from someone who may be motivated personally rather than professionally.”

  “And a contaminated crop. That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

  “It does a little. But it’s also an isolated incident. There are a lot of steps between one ruined crop and a plague on an entire industry.”

  She seemed to consider it. “All right. Now tell me about this person you’re meeting with tomorrow.”

  “Hold on a sec,” I said, and walked over to answer a knock at the door. A hotel employee had a cart with my late-night treats. I tipped him, rolled the cart over by the bed, and picked up the phone.

  “Sorry, a quesadilla was calling my name. So, tomorrow. Vincent Volta could be a person of interest in the murder. It’s maybe not crucial to what I’m doing in Iowa, but I’d like to know if Culbertson was killed because of soybeans or a gambling debt.”

  “And you expect a mobster to just come right out and tell you he had someone killed?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Quanta raised an eyebrow.

  “Volta is proud and brutally honest,” I said. “Believe me, if he had Culbertson shot he’ll tell me in a way that won’t incriminate him. That’s all I’m looking for on this trip: crossing off possibilities. Tami Culbertson has been eliminated; tomorrow I’ll see if we can scratch off another.”

  “I don’t suppose I need to know how you arranged a meeting with the mob.”

  “Without going into too much detail, let’s just say Vincent and I have crossed paths. Don’t worry, nothing that would embarrass Q2 or put us at risk. And no, I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  She didn’t seem entirely mollified, but let it go for the time being.

  “All right. Let me remind you that a deputy secretary has put pressure on the FBI and on us to figure out if there’s a threat here. And this is someone with strong ties to Pennsylvania Avenue. Let’s be sure to make her step-daughter feel she has our full attention.”

  I sighed. “Right. I’ll kiss the appropriate ass at the appropriate times.”

  “Swan, bear in mind that it’s possible Dr. Eklund is right, as outlandish as it may seem. I understand your skepticism. Just keep an open mind.”

  “Hey, I’m actually hoping Eklund’s right. The case would be much more exciting if I stumbled onto a soybean mafia.”

  “In case Poole hasn’t requested it,” Quanta said, “I want you to upload tonight. And probably tomorrow after your meeting.”

  “Okay.”

  We signed off. But there was no way I was uploading twice within 18 hours.

  For one thing, I didn’t have enough good trash magazines with me.

  7

  Fife waited at the hotel while I made the 20-minute drive to Medinah, one of the ritzier private clubs in Illinois. My instructions were to check in with the security staff at the front gate, and from there to gather directions to The Oasis. Vincent Volta would be on the patio.

  I had two lasting memories of Volta from my lone, brief encounter with him in a hotel room in Chicago four years earlier. One, he had movie star good looks. At the time he’d been in his mid-50s but looked 40, with perfect hair and a trim, athletic build. The only thing marring his appearance was the faint hint of a scar running vertically down his right cheek. He obviously used makeup to deflect attention from it, either out of pure vanity or to help facilitate his facade as a respectable businessman. Of course, he was a mobster, so I’d have been surprised if he didn’t have mementos of a tough life displayed somewhere on his body.

  The other memory involved his bass voice. Deep didn’t begin to describe it. You couldn’t help but imagine testicles the size of cantaloupes, which probably didn’t hurt his image when dealing with fellow gangsters. When Vincent Volta spoke, you felt it as much as heard it, a rumble that caused your own balls to vibrate; I couldn’t imagine what physical effect it had on women.

  He’d be about 60 now, but he hadn’t changed one bit.

  He sat at a table in the sun, facing one of the club’s three golf courses, his brown eyes obscured b
y a pair of Dior sunglasses that likely ran about 600 bucks. It was a cool day, but he wore a short-sleeved polo shirt, displaying toned arms. And, as expected, he wasn’t alone. Volta had no idea who I was, and until he established some sort of comfort zone he’d have muscle right there—likely with a finger on the trigger of a concealed piece.

  “Mr. Volta,” I said, approaching the table. His associate, an imposing six-and-a-half footer, stood, sizing me up, wearing the face of a fighter at weigh-in. I reached to pull out the chair across from Volta, but the mob boss gave a slight shake of his head and his trained gorilla placed a hand on my wrist to stop me.

  “I will need some information about you before I invite you to join me,” Volta said, holding up a finger. Nothing had changed; shock waves like a car stereo with the bass on 10 made my balls shake.

  I let go of the chair and tugged my arm out of the grip of his monster.

  “Sure,” I said. “My name is Griffin. Do I have permission to retrieve a card from my jacket pocket?”

  He nodded once. I reached in delicately and pulled out one of my multiple cover cards, this one listing me as Special Agent D. Griffin from the FBI. I handed it to the gorilla who handed it to Volta. He glanced at it only briefly before tossing it on the table.

  “That’s a card. It’s not exactly the identification I was looking for.”

  “Fair enough. I’m not a close friend of Eric Swan, but we’re acquainted. I knew he’d worked a case in Chicago a few years ago where he might have crossed paths with you, so I got in touch. He said if I wanted to meet with you I should tell you one thing: The bastard’s cologne should’ve stopped the bullet.”

  For a moment there was no reaction. The cologne reference was something I’d said to Volta in that hotel room four years earlier, one of those comments that never goes into a filed report, but something Volta had found very funny at the time. His nemesis—the one I’d killed in the line of duty—doused himself regularly in some of the most foul fragrances I’d ever smelled on a man.