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Authors: John Farrow
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indiscriminately use on an old retired kook like you,” Mathers chimed in, straightening up on his bale now.
“Did you say kook or coot?”
Mathers thought about it. “Either applies. Take your pick.”
Cinq-Mars enjoyed the joust, a refresher from the old days.
He continued, “While you’re in with your superiors, Rand, bargaining for my substantial pay increase, why not advise them that they can save considerable expense, and time, and everyone a great deal of trouble, if you just tell me now what you don’t want me to know ever. I’ll give you that out, that chance to reform.”
Agent Rand Dreher pulled his car keys from his pocket, his way of wrapping up their conversation. “I hope to disabuse you of your suspicions, É mile. Though I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. I’ve kept nothing from you. What makes you think that I have secrets?”
Touching the man’s shoulder briefly, Cinq-Mars smiled again, not without some obvious pleasure. He winked at Mathers. “Agent Dreher, you’re FBI. Of course you have secrets.”
SIX
Believing he’d made substantial progress in recruiting É mile Cinq-Mars, Rand Dreher was not put out to leave him alone in the barn with Sergeant-Detective Mathers while he returned outside to warm up the car. Cinq-Mars promised not to be long, although Dreher called over his shoulder to take his time.
With the barn door shut again, the former cop paced. Mathers stood still and observed him. He’d seen this contemplative visage before. The cold and the barn’s dampness brought a spot of fluid to the tip of his mentor’s nose, which he knocked away with a gloved hand, and went on thinking. Mathers waited beyond his point of impatience, but when the silence was just too much for him, he finally asked, “What’s bugging you?”
He recognized that much. The wily retired detective was not flummoxed by some notion he did not understand, but he was visibly upset.
“He doesn’t want the SQ involved for a reason.”
“Would you?”
Cinq-Mars rocked his head gently, quizzically, from side to side. “Touch é , Bill. But I know them. I have cause not to want to work with them. But why doesn’t he want them around? He’s an outsider. What does he know?”
“So, are you saying you’re not buying his argument for an independent investigator? Made perfect sense to me.” With his hands in his coat pockets, Mathers caused the bottom portion of the coat to flap a moment. Either that motion, or what he said, stopped his colleague’s pacing.
“The man lies with confidence, doesn’t he?” Cinq-Mars noted. “Man, what a crock of pig manure. That’s one thing about a truckload of pig shit, Bill. You’d know this if you lived out here. Sure it has a purpose, but my God it stinks.”
Mathers let his friend’s anger settle a moment. “Why then?” he asked. “What’s the real reason he doesn’t want the SQ to help investigate the earlier murders?”
“My hunch, you mean? I have no proof.”
“I miss your hunches, É mile. When you left the force we were finally rid of them. I thought life would be enjoyable again. But I was wrong. I’ve missed them.”
“Channels,” Cinq-Mars said, ignoring the younger man’s whimsy. “The FBI—or specifically our Agent Dreher—may not want to sift through SQ channels. I understand that, but still, whether it’s convenient or necessary, if they must go through channels they will do so. But the problem for them is this: it becomes tit-for-tat. That’s how the system works. The SQ will expect to work back through FBI channels, be in touch with other key officers, higher authorities.”
Mathers let his eyes wander as he mulled this over. He tried to fathom what Cinq-Mars found so fascinating about the upper rafters. They looked like old beams to him. “Are you suggesting—you are, aren’t you?—you’re suggesting that Dreher is out here taking a flyer on his own? He doesn’t want the SQ involved because he doesn’t
“Did you say kook or coot?”
Mathers thought about it. “Either applies. Take your pick.”
Cinq-Mars enjoyed the joust, a refresher from the old days.
He continued, “While you’re in with your superiors, Rand, bargaining for my substantial pay increase, why not advise them that they can save considerable expense, and time, and everyone a great deal of trouble, if you just tell me now what you don’t want me to know ever. I’ll give you that out, that chance to reform.”
Agent Rand Dreher pulled his car keys from his pocket, his way of wrapping up their conversation. “I hope to disabuse you of your suspicions, É mile. Though I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. I’ve kept nothing from you. What makes you think that I have secrets?”
Touching the man’s shoulder briefly, Cinq-Mars smiled again, not without some obvious pleasure. He winked at Mathers. “Agent Dreher, you’re FBI. Of course you have secrets.”
SIX
Believing he’d made substantial progress in recruiting É mile Cinq-Mars, Rand Dreher was not put out to leave him alone in the barn with Sergeant-Detective Mathers while he returned outside to warm up the car. Cinq-Mars promised not to be long, although Dreher called over his shoulder to take his time.
With the barn door shut again, the former cop paced. Mathers stood still and observed him. He’d seen this contemplative visage before. The cold and the barn’s dampness brought a spot of fluid to the tip of his mentor’s nose, which he knocked away with a gloved hand, and went on thinking. Mathers waited beyond his point of impatience, but when the silence was just too much for him, he finally asked, “What’s bugging you?”
He recognized that much. The wily retired detective was not flummoxed by some notion he did not understand, but he was visibly upset.
“He doesn’t want the SQ involved for a reason.”
“Would you?”
Cinq-Mars rocked his head gently, quizzically, from side to side. “Touch é , Bill. But I know them. I have cause not to want to work with them. But why doesn’t he want them around? He’s an outsider. What does he know?”
“So, are you saying you’re not buying his argument for an independent investigator? Made perfect sense to me.” With his hands in his coat pockets, Mathers caused the bottom portion of the coat to flap a moment. Either that motion, or what he said, stopped his colleague’s pacing.
“The man lies with confidence, doesn’t he?” Cinq-Mars noted. “Man, what a crock of pig manure. That’s one thing about a truckload of pig shit, Bill. You’d know this if you lived out here. Sure it has a purpose, but my God it stinks.”
Mathers let his friend’s anger settle a moment. “Why then?” he asked. “What’s the real reason he doesn’t want the SQ to help investigate the earlier murders?”
“My hunch, you mean? I have no proof.”
“I miss your hunches, É mile. When you left the force we were finally rid of them. I thought life would be enjoyable again. But I was wrong. I’ve missed them.”
“Channels,” Cinq-Mars said, ignoring the younger man’s whimsy. “The FBI—or specifically our Agent Dreher—may not want to sift through SQ channels. I understand that, but still, whether it’s convenient or necessary, if they must go through channels they will do so. But the problem for them is this: it becomes tit-for-tat. That’s how the system works. The SQ will expect to work back through FBI channels, be in touch with other key officers, higher authorities.”
Mathers let his eyes wander as he mulled this over. He tried to fathom what Cinq-Mars found so fascinating about the upper rafters. They looked like old beams to him. “Are you suggesting—you are, aren’t you?—you’re suggesting that Dreher is out here taking a flyer on his own? He doesn’t want the SQ involved because he doesn’t
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