Cool in Tucson (32 page)

They had taken everything from the desk, and the long counter between the kitchen and living room as well, so the apartment looked even more Spartan than before. The crime scene crew had taken the clothes from the closet, too, and run a fingerprint check; there were traces of magnetic powder on the furniture and window sills.

She stood in the middle of the living room and turned three hundred and sixty degrees, twice, taking her time. Nothing jumped out, so she started at the windows and did a rigorous search of the backs of drapes, picture and mirrors, edges of carpet, undersides of tables and chairs.  When she finished all three rooms she started on the desk drawers they had emptied yesterday, taking each one out and looking at the bottom.  She went on to the kitchen drawers, which still held a few utensils and supplies.  

She found what she was looking for in a drawer under the counter by the kitchen sink.  It held six cheap forks, three spoons and a tall stack of paper napkins.  She looked at the stack a few seconds, shrugged, and began holding them up, a dozen at a time by the folded edge, watching how they swung.  When one bunch separated at the middle she pulled out the heavy one and opened it.  Smiling, she peeled the scotch tape off a flat skinny key. 
You were such  a clever fellow, Ace Perkins, I almost wish I’d met you.

She dropped the key in her purse, went back out to her car and drove to the address printed on Ace’s bank statements.  There she showed her shield and search warrant to the bank manager, who quickly passed her along to his formidably sleek assistant, who led her to the pious lady who guarded the vaults.  After brief conversation in churchy tones and a good deal of signing, she was left alone in a cubicle with Ace Perkins’ most carefully guarded possessions.

She had expected one of the big drawers, filled with stacks of large bills.  Instead  she was handed the long, slender drawer of the average householder, packed with neat manila envelopes.  She scooped them out and opened an evidence bag, getting ready to carry them back to the station.  But her curiosity was piqued by the care with which he had hidden the key to this trove, so she told herself that having sweated and crawled on the floor to find it, she deserved the first, uninterrupted look.  There would be discreetly numbered bank accounts, surely; diamonds; perhaps the deed to an offshore villa. 

What she found instead made her catch her breath and say, “Oh.” After a few seconds she whispered fiercely, “
Shit
.”  She went through the items for ten minutes, making small sounds of shock and dismay.  Then she packed everything into a plastic evidence bag, made one phone call, signed out and left the bank with a somber face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Delaney told her to meet him at the Wendy’s closest to the crime scene he was supervising.  He was there ahead of her, blinking at the two cups of coffee on the table in front of him and clenching his jaw rhythmically, making a muscle jump in his cheek. 

           
Just a little
tense, are we?
 He looked at her, when she walked up to the table, as if he was trying to remember who she was.  Then he came back to planet earth and said, “Thought you forgot me.”     

“No, but I forgot the construction on Swan.” She gulped her coffee.  “Man, that tastes good, thanks.  I’m sorry to call you off the job.”

“S’okay,” he said.  “What have you got?”

“It’s in my car,” she said. “Will you come outside?  I need to talk to you where nobody can listen.”

“Why all the cloak and dagger?” he said, standing in front of her car, grumpy and impatient.

“Get in and I’ll show you.”  She flipped the locks open and got in the driver’s seat without waiting for him. 
Growl if you must.  I need answers and I’m going to get them
. She fished a glassene bag out of her briefcase and held it up.

“What’s that?”

“A key to a safety deposit box.” 

“Okay.  So?” He glanced at his watch.

She told him where she found it.

“You actually went through all the paper napkins?”  He snorted.  “Jesus, I’ve sorted a lot of garbage in my time, but—why’d you go back there?”  

“I decided there had to be something we missed.”

“Why?”

“Well—after you left me alone there this morning, I got to thinking about Ace Perkins, how he didn’t match the profile of a street dealer.  He wasn’t into nightlife, he didn’t seem to have any bottom crawlers for friends.  So I called a guy I know on the support staff—” She told him about finding the anomaly in Ace Perkins’ prison records.  

“Goddamn.  You’re saying he’s a plant?”

“Yes.  This was in the box.”  She patted the long brown evidence bag.

“What is it?” He was watching her face now, he’d forgotten about the time. “Sarah?”   

“A forty-caliber Glock, just like ours.  A notarized will and sealed letters for his wife and children, and a wallet with the ID and shield for Special Agent Douglas MacDougal, detached from DEA in Denver for assignment in Tucson.  His picture matches Ace Perkins’ prison photo.”

Delaney turned his face away and said softly, “Aw, shit.”    

“Yeah.” 

“Well, but—”

“That’s what I said, ‘Well, but.’  He’s been dead since early Tuesday morning, why hasn’t DEA been all over us by now?  Don’t undercover agents have to carry a monitor?  Don’t they check in every day?  Come to think of it, I bet that’s the unlisted number.”

“What?” 

“There’s an unlisted number on his phone bill.  He’d been calling it every day. Jimmy’s been spinning his wheels trying to identify it but it’s behind some kind of a firewall, the company rep can’t find it either.  See how this wastes our time?”

“Well, don’t start that rant and waste some more.” 

“Okay.  But here’s what I really don’t get: what use is this wonderful system if his contact doesn’t care that he hasn’t called since Monday?”

“Good question.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty more.”

“I really don’t have time for all of them right now.”

“I
know
that, Boss, but there’s one answer I have to have before I go any further. Is this something you’re in on?  I suppose if you were you wouldn’t tell me, would you?  I hate these things!”

“Sarah, I’m not in on anything, forget that.  You did absolutely right to call me out on this.  And before you do anything more, I agree, we need some answers.”

“Boy, do we.  Like, why were they using a guy from out of town?  Does that bother you as much as it does me?”

“Oh, you mean…oh.”

“Yeah.  Our guys work with DEA all the time.  Auto theft guys, Gang Squad.  Everybody helps DEA whenever they ask.  I know a fireman who went undercover for them for two days, posed as a meter man to watch a couple of stash houses.  So how come all of a sudden they need a guy from out of town?”

“Sarah, let’s not get all excited till we know something.  Just…hold on a minute.”   He had his cell phone off his belt, punching in numbers.

 “You calling DEA?”

“Damn straight.”  He raised one hand in a fend-off motion as somebody answered.  Sarah listened as he asked for somebody, waited, and finally said, “This is Ross Delaney. I—fine, how are you?  Yes, well—”  He cleared his throat and began to describe what she had found.  An outburst of fast questions exploded at the other end.  Delaney fired back answers, mostly “Yes,” “No,” and “Yes.”  Then he was silent through a long speech that seemed to require only the occasional, “Uh-huh.”

After five minutes he said, “Right.  Yes.  I understand,” folded up his phone and turned toward her, rubbing his ear and looking thoughtful.  “Sarah, you know where the DEA building is?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Take everything you just found in the bank down there.”

“Shouldn’t I check them into evidence first?”

“No.  I know it’s not kosher but—they specifically asked us not to, and they say they’ll give us all the justification we need.” 

“See, this what I was afraid of.  I hate this!  Withholding evidence—it means they’re afraid the department will leak, doesn’t it?”

“Look, will you just come down out of the trees till you hear what they have to say?  We don’t
know
what it means yet.”

“Yes we do.  It means they think we’re a bunch of retards.  Or crooks, take your pick.”

“Sarah, damn it, shut up and listen to me now.  You have to have them sign a transfer of evidence form.  Have you got one with you?”  She didn’t.  He went and got one out of his car and they filled it out together. 

“There,” he said, reading it over, “That should cover our butts all right.”  He blinked at it a few times and added, “And when you get back to your office I want you to enter the story of your second search in your work log.  Describe everything you found, where you found it.  Include your reasons for going back for a second look, and a detailed account of this meeting you’re going to.  Get all the names down, who took the evidence from you and why.”

“I’ll do it, Boss, but I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to like it.  You’re following orders and that will cover you.”  Seeing her frowning, still dissatisfied, Delaney flushed bright pink and vented some anger of his own.  “How about if I swear on my dead mother’s grave, will that be good enough for you?  Your objections will be duly noted in
my
work log, OK?  Now quit ragging on me and get your butt down there as fast as you can, because they’re waiting for you and it sounds like their hair is on fire.”

“I know just how they feel, I’m pretty hot myself.”

“Sarah, this is a direct order now:
chill out
.  We stumbled into the middle of something big here, and we need to help the folks with the clout whenever we can if we want to prosper, surely you remember that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”  When he continued to stare at her anxiously she said, “I hear you!”

He opened the car door and got out, leaned back inside and told her, “Special Agent Morrell or Special Agent Cruz, that’s who you’re going to see.  They’ll ask you a  shitload of questions, I guess, but then they promised to brief you on what’s going on.”  He cleared his throat.  “Take notes if you can, will you?  I didn’t get many details.”

“Right.” 
This morning we weren’t talking, now he wants notes
.  She settled the evidence bag carefully into the warm hollow Delaney’s backside had left in the seat, backed out of her slot and pulled out into traffic.  As she moved to the inside lane, getting ready to turn south, her stomach growled ravenously. 
Five hours since breakfast and no lunch in sight
.  She found an energy bar in the side pocket of her door and devoured it ravenously, sipping lukewarm water from a bottle in the console.  “Pretend it’s steak,” Ibarra always said when the schedule drove them to trail food.

As soon as she turned west on Valencia she began muttering to herself, “Now where’s that funny little turn—” till she saw Hemisphere Loop.  She missed the DEA building on the first pass and had to come back to it, a featureless cream-colored square with retro color blocks, squatting on its own big asphalt parking lot.

She pressed the bell on the front door, gave her name and said she was here to see Special Agent Cruz.  A buzzer sounded and she opened the door.  Inside was a small tiled lobby with white leather couches, a couple of fake trees.  It could have been a dentist’s office except that the pretty girl in a red dress at the phone console was behind bullet-proof glass with a small pass-through at the bottom.