Field Agent

by Dom Testa

  Finally a slight smile broke across the mobster’s face, and he used a hand to indicate the chair facing him. I gave a piss off look to the bodyguard and sat down. The goon moved back a few steps but stood ready.

  “I have only a few minutes to spare,” Volta said.

  “I appreciate that. I’m looking into the case of a murdered agent with the USDA.”

  Volta didn’t answer, and, with the dark shades on, his eyes gave away nothing.

  “The man’s name was David Culbertson. He was investigating something across the border in Iowa when someone saw fit to put two bullets through his head and leave his corpse on the side of the road.”

  There was still no answer. Volta was a cool character, not anxious in any way to help me.

  “The reason I’m here to see you,” I said, “is because there are reports—strictly rumors, of course—that Culbertson had run into a bit of trouble with you.”

  Volta finally spoke, his words coming out slow. “A bit of trouble? Are you here, Special Agent Griffin, to question me about the murder of a government agent? You consider me a suspect?”

  I shifted in my seat, an unconscious reaction to his voice. I resisted the urge to adjust the crotch of my pants.

  “You’re someone who’s had recent dealings with the victim. Someone who, I understand, was owed a good sum of money by that victim. My visit is purely standard operating procedure in an overall investigation.”

  He was quiet a moment, then pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. Those hard, brown eyes drilled right through me. Vincent Volta, between his eyes, his muscular physique, and that Darth Vader voice could scare the living shit out of anyone.

  “It sounds, Mr. Griffin, like you’re fishing for information to implicate me in a heinous crime, one I would never be involved with.”

  I smiled. “Mr. Volta. There’s no wire here. I’m not recording you. I’m not trying to implicate you in anything. In fact, if you want to know the truth, I’m here to eliminate you as a suspect. But I would like to know a bit about David Culbertson’s debt, to you and to others, and whether or not you know who is responsible for his death. Mr. Swan indicated that you would—if you’ll pardon the pun—shoot straight with me. He didn’t have to broker this meeting. But I can tell you that violating a trust with you would violate any trust I have with him, and I’m not going to do that.”

  A waiter stopped by the table and set down two glasses of water and two small metal bowls of snacks, a country club form of Chex Mix. When he’d walked away Volta picked up his water and took a drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “All right,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I did know Mr. Culbertson. He was another guest at some gatherings I attended.”

  “Poker parties,” I said.

  He waved assent. “He was . . . not as skilled as he believed himself to be.”

  “I heard he had no business being in some of these high-stakes games,” I said, dipping fingers into my snack bowl. “Liked the high-roller persona but couldn’t back it up. Is that fair?”

  “I find it distasteful to denigrate another person’s abilities when they’re not around to defend themselves.”

  “Lucky for us I have no qualms about that,” I said. “So Culbertson was a shitty card player and owed you money. My information says one hundred grand. Would you describe that as accurate?”

  Volta studied my face for a moment, maybe taken aback by my nonchalant style. “Yes, I would say that’s accurate. Perhaps a bit more.”

  “Oh. Well, then you can see why it’s important I talk to you. Many people would assume that $100,000 is sufficient motive for having a person killed. I’m guessing your threshold for that would be much higher.”

  He took another drink, and again dabbed at his mouth. “You’re a somewhat vulgar man,” he said. “In that respect you remind me quite a bit of Mr. Swan. In fact, your manner of speech is practically identical.”

  “We flunked out of the same charm school. You’ve had to deal with much cruder people than Swan or me, I’m sure.”

  It took a minute, but the same faint smile he’d displayed after the cologne comment reappeared.

  “All right, Agent Griffin, if you want me to be up front with you, I will. Yes, Culbertson owed me money, a great deal of money. But he’s not the first person to be in debt to me, and I assure you he won’t be the last. And as for having him killed over it? People only jump to that conclusion because they’re amateurs or they listen to too many crime podcasts. There’s a very good reason you don’t kill someone who owes you a large sum.”

  “Yes?”

  “A dead man can’t repay his debt. Only a fool would let them off the hook that way.”

  “Right,” I said, taking another dip into the snobby Chex Mix. “You’d be more likely to set up a payment plan.”

  “I did set up a payment plan.”

  “Oh. I was kidding.”

  “And I am not. I worked out an arrangement for Mr. Culbertson to pay off his debt over three months.”

  “Three months? That’s it? To pay back a hundred grand?”

  “Plus a little more.”

  I laughed. “Ah, yes. The juice.”

  Volta gave a small grimace, a sign he really had morphed into a gentleman mobster who disdained the old gangland terms.

  “Three months may not seem like a lot,” he said, “but Culbertson was confident that a rather large sum would be coming his way soon.”

  Now I sat forward, clasping my hands on the table. “Tell me about that.”

  He looked away, out across the golf course. “Obviously I have no details about the man’s other associations.”

  “But as a businessman offering a loan, you’d naturally be interested in how a person would be able to repay it.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I took a long breath. “Look, Mr. Volta, I’m grateful not only for your time, but for your trust. The thing is, I’ve been tasked with looking into the same issue in Iowa that Culbertson was sent to investigate. I’m not interested in causing you any trouble. But I’d also prefer to avoid ending up face-down on the same country road. So if there’s anything Culbertson said, anything at all that might prevent that from happening to me, I’d be very grateful.”

  There was a muffled buzzing sound, and the bodyguard reached into a pocket to retrieve a phone. After glancing at the screen, he walked over and showed it to Volta who studied it, then gave a quick nod.

  “I’m afraid other business has arisen, Special Agent. I’m sorry if I don’t have all the information you’re requesting.” He paused, then said, “But here’s what I can share with you. During our discussion about his . . . obligations to me, he mentioned that the bulk of his debt would be taken care of by squeezing someone—his words— on one of his particular assignments. I assume now he was talking about the case you’re investigating in Iowa.”

  I squinted in the bright sunshine. “He said he would squeeze someone?”

  “What I took from his attitude and his confidence was that he would be able to make his repayment to me in a matter of weeks, rather than months. Now, is that helpful?”

  My mind sifted through this development.

  “I know you have to go,” I said, sitting back again. “But was there anything else he said about it? Any name, or even a reference to what he was looking into?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Volta said. He pushed back his chair and gave one of his nods to the goon. “But his tone implied that squeezing people wasn’t an unfamiliar tactic for him.”

  I recalled Tami Culbertson’s comments about her husband’s knack for paying off large gambling debts: I didn’t ask where he got the cash to do that, but it was pretty obvious it wasn’t from his paycheck.

  Vincent Volta had provided additional evidence that Culbertson took his vacations and bought his RVs by blackmailing the very people he investigated. Could a jealous husband have had him killed? Maybe. But it was much more likely that the scumbag had fina
lly crossed someone who didn’t cotton to extortion. And the USDA agent was probably astonished to find that someone answered his extortion attempts with a couple of 9mm exclamation points.

  Volta stood, and I did the same. Neither of us bothered to attempt to shake hands; we were transacting a much different brand of business, one that didn’t conform to traditional etiquette. Instead we looked at each other with an odd form of respect.

  “Please,” Volta said, lowering the sunglasses back into position. “Stay as my guest. You’ll find the menu here is remarkable.” He pointed to the snack bowls. “Much more satisfying than those.”

  Then, with his bodyguard leading the way, he began walking toward the exit before stopping and looking back.

  “And when you talk to Eric Swan again, let him know our ledgers are balanced. Have a pleasant stay in Chicagoland, Special Agent.”

  8

  The talk with Vincent Volta pissed me off.

  Not at him. Myself. I always liked to believe my instincts were good, that I could solve a case in the first five minutes with brainpower alone. But solid-gold instincts, the kind that fueled Sherlock Holmes, Philip Marlowe, and Velma from the Scooby Gang, reside only within the realm of fiction. In real life, detectives and spies stumble their way through missteps, wrong turns, and dead ends until they reach an unhappy conclusion:

  Our instincts are correct only as many times as it takes to keep us believing in them.

  I have to continually remind myself that getting off track is fine as long as you wind up at the right destination. And on time.

  What gnawed at me was the growing realization that the crop nerd probably did it. I’d wanted to believe Sarah Eklund’s suspicions were motivated purely by jealousy, but my conversations with Tami Culbertson and the mobster forced me to once again consider Jason Deele.

  Yeah, Volta was a criminal, responsible for way more deaths than Deele was. And lots of law-abiding citizens would be horrified to know that a representative of the country’s top spy network accepted an offer of a free BLT and chips from a murderous dirtbag who sat around exclusive private clubs in his expensive clothes and designer sunglasses.

  I looked at it like this: Volta certainly had people killed, but his victims were other criminals. That doesn’t forgive the crime, but it’s a lot like Dexter, from the TV show. He was a serial killer who only murdered other serial killers, and viewers cheered him on.

  Or, if you want another analogy, I give you the Byers brothers.

  Our family moved a lot when I was growing up, but I remember briefly living next door to this family with two brothers, about two years apart in age. They were constantly arguing and picking on each other, behaving exactly like brothers do. I was at their house the day their dad finally had enough of this nonsense. He ordered them to go outside and finally have the fight, just to get it out of their system. They couldn’t come back inside until they’d settled it.

  So they did. They went into the backyard and duked it out. And that was that.

  Vincent Volta and his fellow gangsters were like the Byers boys. They stayed in their own yard and fought with each other. Again, he’s scum, but he keeps his dirty business in his own yard. Through his long history of crime and his equally-slimy connections, he and his kind are sometimes able to provide useful information to help us nail other creeps.

  Plus, his sunglasses really are bitchin’. And the BLT kicked ass.

  I stopped at the the hotel long enough to grab my bag and collect Fife. On the road to Des Moines I caught him up on everything I’d learned.

  “So you think the squeeze Volta referenced was Jason Deele.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Seems the most logical assumption,” I said. “The bitter widow pretty much confirmed her husband used his position with the USDA to manipulate people and businesses into buying his toys. He made it a habit to lean on people, to the point that he began to count on it as a healthy portion of his income. Only a matter of time before he leaned on the wrong person.”

  Fife scrolled through messages on his phone as I steered us back onto I-80. “Right. The only other option with his murder would be an angry husband. That would be deliciously scandalous, but it doesn’t sound likely anymore.”

  I just shook my head. “I want a longer chat with Dr. Eklund. We’ll be back by five or five-thirty. Think she’s game to talk with us tonight?”

  “It’ll have to be just the two of you,” Fife said, holding up his phone. “I got summoned to Dallas early. I have to fly out tonight.” He slipped the phone into a cup holder. “You’re on your own for a few days. I’ll try to meet you in Houston when Deele gets back to the country. That’s looking like the day after tomorrow.”

  “All right.” I set the cruise control for the five-hour drive and put the tunes on shuffle.

  As it turned out, Sarah Eklund wasn’t available until the following morning. That actually worked out okay because I needed 90 minutes to upload these last couple of days to Q2’s basement hard drive. This time I made an effort to not think about the potential damage I’d be doing when I needed to download again into a new body. God Maker said the system had improved; I’d have to take her word for it.

  Dr. Eklund and I met for breakfast at the same diner she’d recommended before. And because I’m that person who orders the same thing when I find a winner, I salivated over the thought of the pancakes.

  “I intend to sit down with Jason Deele when he gets back from South America,” I said to her while putting sweetener into my hot tea.

  “That’s it? Just sit down with him?”

  “Well, I can’t arrest him for anything at the moment.”

  “Not even murder?”

  I took a sip of the tea. “Believe me, Dr. Eklund, the moment we have evidence he’s responsible, he’ll be in cuffs. Right now we don’t have that evidence.”

  She let out a sigh. “I know. I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”

  “Talk to me about the damage to the crops. What’s the story with the mold?”

  “How scientific do you want me to get?”

  “It doesn’t intimidate me; I find it interesting, even if I need training wheels for a lot of it.”

  This brought what seemed like a rare smile to her face. I wondered how often she smiled in her life. Was she always wound tight, or was the Deele Soybean War simply an exception?

  “I wrote my doctoral dissertation on molds,” she said, and gave another shy smile. “It’s kinda my thing.”

  I returned the smile but kept quiet, encouraging her to continue.

  “Specifically, I’ve always been interested in limiting the ability of insects to distribute molds from one crop to another. That’s a critical component to protecting the health of our food.”

  “And not all molds are bad, right?” I asked.

  “That’s right. Cheese makers rely on mold to help with many of their products. But the wrong kinds can be not only deadly to a crop, but deadly to humans, too. Something like aflatoxin, which is caused by certain fungi, can lead to liver cancer. And that’s just one example.”

  “How many different molds are there?”

  “Oh, god. Hundreds of thousands.”

  I gawked at her. “Hundreds of thousands? How can you possibly control all of them?”

  “We’ll never control all of them. But we’ve also come a long way. People take the quality of their food for granted, but your average farmer is a scientist in their own right, learning how to stay a step ahead of bugs and molds.That’s why when you hear about an E. coli outbreak somewhere it’s kinda big news, because we’re spoiled by the consistently safe food we eat.”

  It was time to order. Sarah opted for yogurt and some fruit, and the server surprised me by saying, “You want the same pancakes you had yesterday?” I laughed and gave a hearty yes.

  “Wow, two visits and I’m suddenly a regular,” I said after the server walked away. “Her tip just went up to 30%.”

  “Now you know why there’s always a
line.”

  “All right,” I said, “hundreds of thousands of molds, some of which kill crops and people. Tell me about Deele and his special blend of soybeans. I know we’ve already discussed some of it, but start at the beginning as if I know nothing. Sometimes I’ll hear something in a second-telling that I missed before.”

  She sat back and draped an arm across the back of the booth. “He first showed up several months ago. I didn’t speak to him then, but I guess he was pushing a new strain of soybean that was resistant to a particularly nasty mold. The ag people he spoke with were a bit perplexed, because this was a new fungus he offered to protect against. They were courteous, but told him no thanks.

  “Then, a soybean farm about sixty miles from here reported an entire storage bin was destroyed. Absolutely useless. It was a strange new mold.”

  I sat forward. “Wait. You said the beans were destroyed in a storage bin? So not while they were still in the field?”

  “That’s actually not uncommon,” she said. “The plant might be exposed to the fungus while it’s in the field, but sometimes it doesn’t display any signs of disease until it’s been harvested. Think about a pandemic caused by a specific virus. How it can spread so quickly because it often doesn’t show symptoms for several days. This is similar, only with food crops.”

  “Shit,” I said. “So how bad is this so far? Just the one crop?”

  “For now. And that’s a little suspicious, too.”

  “Because how would a disease like that be in one place, and one place only?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “The whole set-up is too perfect. Jason Deele rolls into town and warns people about a new strain of fungus that could potentially wipe out the country’s entire soybean industry. And surprise, surprise, he has just the solution we’d all need. A super-soy that can resist the fungus. All we have to do is buy his product. Then, when nobody does, we all get a taste of what could happen.”

  I thought about all of it for a moment. Granted, it made sense, but I was still struck by the same doubts I’d had during the first meeting with Eklund. It seemed like the premise of a Marvel movie, or a sci-fi series on television. Deele had to be either the most audacious criminal ever, or just patently insane. Or both.