Fated for Felony Page 2
For the first time in an hour I cracked a smile. “I love that you get me.”
“Hey there,” I heard from behind me. Turning, I saw Dutch coming toward us. His dress shirt was unbuttoned to expose his undershirt and his sleeves were rolled up, and I could tell he was emotionally drained.
Sliding in next to me, he reached immediately for my margarita and took a good gulp.
“Rough day?” Candice asked innocently.
“It wasn’t, until it was,” he said.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“They got their asses chewed out. Brice and I still haven’t decided if they should be fired or simply reassigned.”
“Why would you do either?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” he said.
“No.”
“Abby, what they did was so far outside the bounds of allowable protocol. It was insubordinate, disrespectful, and a flagrant violation of departmental rules. Not to mention the fact that they exposed us politically in a bad, bad way. Our whole branch could be in trouble if this thing catches wind.”
“Is that true?” I asked.
Dutch lifted his arms out of the way so Rick could set down the nachos. Before answering me, Dutch made a circling motion with his hand, signaling another round, but I covered the top of my glass with my hand and shook my head. I was starting to get a bit loopy, and I had to work in the morning.
Dutch said, “Is it true that we could catch political hell for having you on the books? Yes. The mood in D.C. isn’t exactly favorable to our side right now, Abs.”
Candice muttered under her breath. Something about a swamp monster farting out swamp gas or something . . . .I don’t know … I couldn’t quite catch it.
More than that, however, my own intuition was starting to alert me to a very bad scenario. Kind of like the feeling you get right before a storm hits—how the hairs on the back of your neck rise up, and a foreboding settles over you.
I waited for Rick to drop off Candice’s and Dutch’s drinks and ordered myself a third. To hell with the morning’s hangover. Something told me I didn’t want to be fully conscious right before bed.
“I don’t think firing or reassigning them is the right move,” I said carefully, feeling out the situation with my radar.
“You don’t, huh?” Dutch asked. “I’ll give you credit for that because I want to tar and feather them.”
“Oh, I didn’t say I wouldn’t enjoy bringing some bodily harm into the mix, but I almost think the psychological torture would be better. Plus, it’ll keep them from spreading around more bullshit.”
Candice furrowed her brow at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if I were one of the three stooges, I’d probably grind my ax pretty hard over getting reassigned or fired, and I’d definitely make sure that anybody willing to listen knew it was because I stood up in the face of what I considered a waste of taxpayer dollars and a practice that would further erode the FBI’s reputation as an outstanding agency run and operated by patriots.”
“Which is what it is,” Candice muttered. And then a fire lit in her eyes, and she added, “And it’s never been anything but a patriotic, outstanding, stellar institution filled with dedicated, hardworking—”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Yeah, yeah, we know. Swamp. Swamp thing. Lots of gas, blah, blah, blah … my point, however, is that in these uncertain times, we can’t let three rogue, misinformed idiots get away from us and start spreading more false rumors. It’d be the worst thing we could do, in fact.”
“You’re right,” Dutch said to me. And with a wink at Candice, he added, “And you’re right too, although if you tell anybody I said that, I’ll be forced to deny it.”
“Noted,” she said, saluting him with a nacho chip.
“To Abby’s point, though, we can’t afford to let this story get any bigger than it already is. We need to keep them with us,” Dutch said.
“But what lesson does that teach them?” Candice asked.
“Well, one of frustration,” I said. “Dutch, assign them to the dead files. Let them get good and irritated that they can’t come up with a single lead to help solve those cases, then I’ll come in tomorrow afternoon and sort through a new pile of cases to pull out some clues for Hernandez, Cox, and Baldwin.”
Oscar Hernandez, Kevin Cox, and Scott Baldwin were our three most senior agents. In the previous few months, we’d had four other agents either retire or get promoted to other posts, which was why Brice was willing to bring in three new young recruits. He’d wanted to train them and keep them for the long haul.
Meanwhile, I’d been working for the Austin bureau for almost eight years now, and Brice had pretty much officially tasked me with sorting through all of the cold-case files we had coming in from Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Arkansas. I filed them into two categories: solvable and unsolvable. The difference between the two was merely a question of whether I felt that the file had any “life” left in it. Meaning, if my radar said that there was an overlooked clue or a new lead to be had, then it was worth assigning to one of our agents, and I’d work with them to pull something out of nothing.
The unsolvable files, however, all felt “dead” to me. Meaning, all possible leads had been exhausted, and there were no new clues to be had.
And yes, it still irks me sometimes that my intuition isn’t magic, allowing me to simply pluck the answer out of the ether and solve all of the cold cases we get in, but that’s unfortunately not how intuition works. Sometimes even I’m blind to whodunit.
The worst ones, however, are the ones where I get a feel for the suspect and his or her connection to the crime, but I can’t tweeze out a single clue that’ll lead to a bit of evidence that’ll help us solve the case. Those all go in the unsolvable pile too, but I usually also mark them with “GR,” as in, “Grrrr, I’m frustrated!”
Candice twirled a chip covered in cheese away from the diminishing pile of nachos in the center of the table. “Give them the grrr pile, Dutch.”
He chuckled. “I should.”
“But don’t tell them what the GR stands for,” I said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t.”
Candice’s phone chirped, and she pulled it from her purse to look at the display. Smirking, she set the phone back in her purse and said, “My husband has finished his workout and would like me to join him in the hot tub.”
I perked up. “What hot tub?”
“One of my wealthy clients is out of town, and there’ve been some home invasions in the neighborhood. They’re worried about their house being burgled while they’re away, so Brice and I are housesitting.”
I did a double take. “You never told me about these people.”
“No,” she said, lifting her purse and setting her napkin on the table. “I didn’t.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
Candice slid out of the booth. “Because you would’ve wanted to come over.”
“Duh. There’s a hot tub, Candice. That’s something you share with your BFF and business partner.”
Candice bounced her eyebrows. “I would’ve, but I’m too busy sharing it with my life partner who likes to give me the business.”
With that she leaned over to kiss Dutch on the top of the head before reaching across him to tuck some hair behind my ear, and then set off for parts unknown.
“You’d need to offer me a hazmat suit to get me into that hot tub,” Dutch said with a chuckle.
I scrunched up my face at him, still miffed that Candice hadn’t shared her obvious good fortune with me. “Say what?”
“They’re totally doing it in that tub, Edgar,” he said using his favorite nickname for me.
“Oh, ick, Dutch, why’d you have to say that?”
“So you’d feel less bad about missing out on the bubbles.”
I nodded. I did feel l
ess bad. And then I shrugged. “The margaritas are hitting me pretty hard.”
Dutch wadded up his own napkin and placed it on top of the now-empty nacho plate. “That’s our cue to pack it in.” Dutch made a check motion at Rick. He nodded and turned to his computer to get our bill ready.
Meanwhile, Dutch pulled out his money clip, which did double-time as his credit-card holder, and tweezed out his AmEx card.
He then set his money clip on the table, and I felt myself focusing on it.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I assured him, but my attention went back to the money clip.
Dutch sent the clip spinning like a top. “Something catch your eye?” he said playfully. “Perhaps a shiny new credit card?”
I put my hand on the spinning clip to stop it and looked up at him. “No, it’s not that. It’s …”
“It’s …?”
Pointing to the clip, I tried to explain. “It’s not the cards; it’s the other stuff … the photo stuff that says you’re you.”
“Edgar, I’m usually pretty good at translating your tipsy talk, but this time you’ve stumped me.”
I sighed and rubbed my temples, trying to switch between my intuitive brain and my thinking brain.
For the record, intuition isn’t easily translated into English. In fact, it’s not easily translated into any language. It’s more multidimensional than any language could ever be. I mean, what word could you come up with to describe an image, an emotion, and a sense of time all in one? But that’s how intuition works. It’s like trying to explain the way purple looks, feels, and tastes. It’s a deeper, richer understanding of even the simplest things.
After taking a deep breath I tried again. “The clip. It pinged my radar. There’s something coming that has to do with the clip or what’s in the clip, but not having to do with money. Or credit cards.”
Dutch’s brow creased, and he reached for the clip and began to pull out everything it held.
Spreading the contents on the table, he eyed me curiously.
“Um … hi?” Rick said, appearing at our table and looking down at the display. “Did you want me to spread the bill out on separate cards?”
Dutch shook his head and handed over the AmEx. “All on this, please.”
Rick left, I’m sure a bit confused, and I stared at all the cards, money, and Dutch’s driver’s license on the table. I reached for his ID and studied it for a moment.
Looking from the photo on the license to his gorgeous face—now a little older, with lines of distinction showing at the edges of his eyes and his mouth—I smiled. “When did we get so old?”
He took the license, eyeing it critically. “Careful who you’re calling old there, Edgar.”
“I included myself.”
“I’m aware. And we’re not old. We’re seasoned.”
I smirked. “Mmmhmm. Forty-four seasons’ worth for you, cowboy. But only forty-one for me.”
Dutch sighed and slipped his ID back into the money clip. “Don’t remind me. So, did any of this spark more from your radar?”
I shrugged. “Hard to say. For the moment, it’ll have to remain a random ping.”
“Those are always the ones that’re the most foreboding.”
“True. But there’s not a lot we can do about it now. Especially since those three margaritas are hitting me hard and I think I need to go home to bed.”
Dutch thanked Rick as he dropped off our charge slip. Scribbling his signature and peeling off a twenty as a tip, my hubby gathered up the rest of the credit cards, then nodded to me. “Let’s get you home.”
CHAPTER TWO
Two days later, the fallout—or rather, the shit storm—from Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s exploits struck.
And to think, I’d pushed for leniency . . . .
Director Gaston breezed through our doors at 10 a.m., Friday morning. No one knew he was coming, but I don’t think anyone was surprised to see him.
Well, maybe except for Williams, Ricco, and Thune. Pretty sure they were going home with stained underwear.
Still, I’d been expecting him since I woke the day before with a prickly-pear-inspired hangover. And I knew he was bringing me bad news. The ether was thick with it. I’d guess that it would render me unemployed from the bureau, which left me sadder than I’d expected. It also brought no sense of relief, which was also puzzling given the way I complain about working some of the cases we get.
Anyway, Friday morning, the director walked in quietly, without fanfare or advance warning, strolling past the three stooges with barely a dark look before continuing down the central aisle, nodding to Hernandez, Cox, and Baldwin before stopping at my desk.
He then waited silently while I pretended to be super-duper absorbed in a cold-case file.
“Director,” I said softly, without looking up. I could feel his gaze, and the gaze of every agent in the place, on me.
“Abigail,” he replied, just as softly.
With a sigh I closed the file and slid it to the side before I bent down to retrieve my purse. Standing, I faced him, offered him my hand, and forced a smile. “It’s been a pleasure working for you, sir.”
He took my hand. His was cool and soft, surprisingly gentle. “You’re leaving us?” he asked, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw surprise in his eyes.
“Aren’t I?” I asked in return.
The edges of his mouth quirked. “Not quite yet.”
I set my purse on the desk. “Huh. I was expecting you to fire me.”
“Why would I do that?”
I pointed over his shoulder, wagging my finger at the idiots. I enjoyed it when their eyes widened a fraction before the director looked over his shoulder and as one they all looked down at the files in front of them.
Gaston inhaled deeply. “Yes. I’ll be dealing with them shortly, but for now, I’d like a word with you, your husband, and Special Agent Harrison.”
It was my turn to look over my shoulder, and I saw both Brice and Dutch standing at their respective desks, staring out the glass with identical expressions of concern.
“Of course, sir,” I said to Gaston.
He motioned for me to go ahead of him, and as I passed Oscar’s desk, I saw him give me a thumbs-up—a small but welcomed gesture of support.
After taking a seat at the conference table in Brice’s office, I waited for the men to get comfortable, and was grateful for the fact that Dutch chose the seat next to me and even moved his chair a little closer.
“Director,” he said when Gaston eyed him curiously.
“Rivers,” he said in return.
“We weren’t expecting you.”
“No?” he asked skeptically. The man had as good a lie detector as I did.
Dutch’s face tinged with color, and he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Gaston added, “The podcast didn’t tip you off?”
“Toscano’s FBI Files,” Brice said. “Yes, sir. We heard it too.”
“It’s creating quite the stir in D.C.,” Gaston said.
“I think you mean, I’m creating quite the stir, sir,” I said.
Gaston eyed me with that same half-quirk smile he usually favored me with. “Yes. I do.”
“How damaging is it for us?” Brice asked.
There was the tiniest hint of nervousness in Brice’s voice. It caused me to look at him, and it was then that I realized how much pride he carried for his job.
That in and of itself was surprising, because up until a few months ago, Brice had been seriously considering retiring from the bureau. He and Dutch had worked several particularly tough cases involving human slave trafficking, and it’d taken its toll. Adding insult to injury had been a difficult case involving one of our side-business partners, and I think it’d all been a little much for Brice.
He’d rebounded though—well, somewhat—but there were moments when I could tell he was struggling with the decision to stay or take his retirement and div
e full-time into the private sector.
But at this particular moment, the only thing pouring off his energy was a nervous protectiveness for the bureau he’d given his blood, sweat, and tears for.
“Quite damaging,” Gaston said, in answer to Brice’s question. “But I believe I have a solution. It’s not ideal, but it might work to keep the doors open.”
His gaze settled on me, and I frowned. “If I need to resign, then I’m willing,” I said. “I can take one for the team.”
“If she’s forced to resign, Director, then I will too,” Brice said.
My attention went back to him, and I offered him what I hoped was a profoundly grateful expression.
“You’ll be adding a third resignation to that list, Director,” Dutch said, taking my hand and squeezing it.
Gaston chuckled—a truly rare reaction for him—and shook his head. “As you know, I oversee eight different bureaus, all but one of which are triple the size of this one, and yet, your office solves thirty percent more cases than my second-best branch. And might I add that only your bureau gets the cold-case files—the toughest cases to crack by a longshot. Harrison, why do you think your percentages are so much higher?”
For a moment, Brice looked at a loss for words. But then his gaze settled on me again, and he said, “The only reason I can think of, sir, is because we have Abby.”
Gaston nodded. “My thoughts exactly. So, allow me to put all this talk of resigning out of your heads. No one is resigning. But, we all may be out of a job if we don’t get this situation in hand.”
“What do you propose?” I asked, knowing full well the director already had a plan.
Gaston shifted his gaze to me, but it was clear he was speaking to all of us. “I’ve asked Mike Toscano to come to Austin.”
My eyes bulged. “He’s coming here?”
“He is.”
“Why?” I asked next.
“As you may or may not know, Abigail, Mike Toscano is FBI royalty. He’s a legend, and his podcast is particularly popular with HQ. They’re concerned about the optics on this. It’s a public relations disaster and they want it handled. Smoothed over. Publicly.”
“Whoa, wait, wait, wait,” I said. “You want us to meet on the air?”