couple years that straddled the line between legal and illegal, but it was all for the greater good. Anyway, it was probably that this batch of new detectives dressed like they were in a commercial for self-tanners and polo shirts.
“Help you with something?” the detective said.
“Finley,” Sam said and extended his hand toward the detective, who in turn just stared at it.
“You a reporter? If so, we’ve got no comment, okay?”
“Not a reporter, son,” Sam said. “I’m in from Langley.” He let that sink in for a moment but when the detective didn’t seem to show any recognition, he added, quietly, because these CIA guys tended to be all monosyllabic and quiet, “Langley, Virginia. Where the CIA lives? Maybe you’re familiar with it?”
The detective straightened up a bit but still didn’t seem to be a hundred percent invested in believing Sam.
“You got some ID?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “The Department of Homeland Security just hands out badges that say TERRORIST LIQUIDATION OFFICER on them. Listen, son, I’ve got about five minutes of time here and either you’re going to help your country or you’re going to hurt it. Which is it going to be?”
The detective looked over his shoulder at the smoldering building. “This terror-related?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine. This car stolen?”
“Yes, sir,” the detective said.
“And the office, it was the notary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That makes fifteen,” Sam said.
“Fifteen what?”
“Classified,” Sam said. He took out his pen again and this time wrote “15” on his forearm. “This place owned by Henry Grayson?”
“That’s right,” the detective said.
“Find him?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Good. How many men you got on him?”
“None as yet. We’ve been calling his known numbers and getting disconnects. The insurance guys say he’s behind on payments, which they’re thrilled about.”
“Fucking carrion,” Sam said. “Pardon my Greek.” He stepped around the detective and looked into Sugar’s car. There wasn’t anything inside it now that could ever be tied to anyone—it was just ash and melted leather inside a metal frame. “Stolen, right?”
“VIN is for a Chevy van stolen in Orlando three months ago,” he said.
“Same guy, then,” Sam said. The insurance agent had made his way back and was waiting patiently a few yards away. He had a fancy clipboard, one of those that was encased in metal and had a flip top. Impressive. “Here’s what I need from you, Detective, and I don’t have time to wait around for an official report, you understand? For America?”
“I do,” he said. He stood up a little straighter. No matter the situation, in Sam’s experience at least, you ask cops to do something for America and they have an atavistic response that requires them to be completely honest and to improve their posture by at least twenty-five percent “What’d they use to blow up the building? C-4?”
“Shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Don’t know the make yet. But looks like maybe an M90.”
Shoulder-mounted rocket. Jesus. “Expected,” Sam said. “Same with the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” Sam said. “What’s your name, Detective?”
“James Kochel.”
“You ever think about working in something that is actually challenging?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Good,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch.” He stepped away and then did a quick pivot, added a touch of military flair to his persona (while, he noted, tweaking something in his calf) and addressed the detective again. “This Grayson fellow. You got anything on him with organized crime?”
The detective licked his lips in a way that reminded Sam of the guys he played high school football with but who, clearly, were never going to be as important later in life as they were then. Guys like that always licked their lips before something exciting. It freaked Sam out in high school and it freaked him out
“Help you with something?” the detective said.
“Finley,” Sam said and extended his hand toward the detective, who in turn just stared at it.
“You a reporter? If so, we’ve got no comment, okay?”
“Not a reporter, son,” Sam said. “I’m in from Langley.” He let that sink in for a moment but when the detective didn’t seem to show any recognition, he added, quietly, because these CIA guys tended to be all monosyllabic and quiet, “Langley, Virginia. Where the CIA lives? Maybe you’re familiar with it?”
The detective straightened up a bit but still didn’t seem to be a hundred percent invested in believing Sam.
“You got some ID?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “The Department of Homeland Security just hands out badges that say TERRORIST LIQUIDATION OFFICER on them. Listen, son, I’ve got about five minutes of time here and either you’re going to help your country or you’re going to hurt it. Which is it going to be?”
The detective looked over his shoulder at the smoldering building. “This terror-related?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine. This car stolen?”
“Yes, sir,” the detective said.
“And the office, it was the notary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That makes fifteen,” Sam said.
“Fifteen what?”
“Classified,” Sam said. He took out his pen again and this time wrote “15” on his forearm. “This place owned by Henry Grayson?”
“That’s right,” the detective said.
“Find him?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Good. How many men you got on him?”
“None as yet. We’ve been calling his known numbers and getting disconnects. The insurance guys say he’s behind on payments, which they’re thrilled about.”
“Fucking carrion,” Sam said. “Pardon my Greek.” He stepped around the detective and looked into Sugar’s car. There wasn’t anything inside it now that could ever be tied to anyone—it was just ash and melted leather inside a metal frame. “Stolen, right?”
“VIN is for a Chevy van stolen in Orlando three months ago,” he said.
“Same guy, then,” Sam said. The insurance agent had made his way back and was waiting patiently a few yards away. He had a fancy clipboard, one of those that was encased in metal and had a flip top. Impressive. “Here’s what I need from you, Detective, and I don’t have time to wait around for an official report, you understand? For America?”
“I do,” he said. He stood up a little straighter. No matter the situation, in Sam’s experience at least, you ask cops to do something for America and they have an atavistic response that requires them to be completely honest and to improve their posture by at least twenty-five percent “What’d they use to blow up the building? C-4?”
“Shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Don’t know the make yet. But looks like maybe an M90.”
Shoulder-mounted rocket. Jesus. “Expected,” Sam said. “Same with the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” Sam said. “What’s your name, Detective?”
“James Kochel.”
“You ever think about working in something that is actually challenging?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Good,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch.” He stepped away and then did a quick pivot, added a touch of military flair to his persona (while, he noted, tweaking something in his calf) and addressed the detective again. “This Grayson fellow. You got anything on him with organized crime?”
The detective licked his lips in a way that reminded Sam of the guys he played high school football with but who, clearly, were never going to be as important later in life as they were then. Guys like that always licked their lips before something exciting. It freaked Sam out in high school and it freaked him out
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