Love Her Madly (23 page)

The cop said, “I'm the police.”

The lawyer said, “I told you to shut up, you damn fool.”

The chief jumped up and came around his desk to pump my hand. “A real honor to meet you, ma'am, a real real honor. Name's Brewster.”

I said, “I'm glad to meet you, too, Brewster.”

Then Brewster said to the lawyer, “I'd like to offer you the great privilege of meeting Miz Poppy Rice, visitin' us here from DC where she reconfigured our crime lab. Did such a good job runnin' the place they all got calluses from pattin' her back. Now she's our A-One investigator, and her car is the very one your client here chose to demobilize with the contents of his trusty tool kit.”

The client said, “I ain't his client. And I never got near any FBI—”

The lawyer told him to shut up again, and the chief aimed me toward a chair. “Take a load off, Agent. Get in here, Northrup. Shut the door behind you.”

I sat, Northrup stood guard.

The lawyer said to me, “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Agent. I have worked with your office many times, another great pleasure.” He looked to Brewster. “Listen, can I speak with you people alone?”

Brewster said, “'Course. Northrup, take the detainee outa my office.”

The detainee was very happy to get out of Brewster's office.

The lawyer said, “I am about to go through the necessary motions expected of me, and then I'm washin' my hands of whatever shit's comin' down here. That okay with you?”

Brewster looked to me. “Miz Rice?”

I said, “Your investigation, sir.”

He stood up and stuck his head out the door. “Northrup, bring the perp back in.”

The perp's voice came through the door before he did. “I ain't a perp.” In the doorway, the perp continued protesting. “I have a right to call my union. I—”

Northrup yanked him into the room, told him to sit back down, shut the door behind him, and stood guard again.

Brewster said to the perp, “A representative of your employer, the Houston Police Department, is on his way. You can talk union with him when he gets here. Since he's runnin' a little late, maybe we can get to the bottom of this and then maybe he won't get here at all.

“First, real quick, I got a few intros to finish up. Miz Rice, this here gentleman with the briefcase is H. Johnson Medved, Esquire, who is representin' that little fella settin' over there.”

The little fella, the cop, wearing all brown like a storm trooper, was way past six feet tall and had to weigh two-seventy-five, minimum. He stood up.

“I am a Houston police officer. My name is Richard Purcell.”

The lawyer said to him, “Sit down. And how many times do I have to tell you to shut up?”

“You ain't got the right to tell me a goddamn thing.”

So the cop and the lawyer went at it, and Brewster joined in helping the lawyer do as he'd asked, go through the motions leading to a point when the lawyer could desert the client he was hired to represent. I didn't see the percentage in that. I wanted to know if whoever hired the lawyer was the same person who hired the cop. Northrup was watching me, watching me think.

I scoped the office and was impressed to see the unexpurgated edition of the Random House dictionary on a stand in the corner. Even though this Texas department chief with the FBI was also a cowboy who liked to yell and was as capable of turning as beet red as the next guy, he saw the need to have a dictionary on hand and not just any dictionary.

I sidled over to the stand and, having taken my cue from the briefcase-smashing lawyer, I hefted the dictionary, held it chest high, and dropped it.

They all drew their weapons except for Northrup, who had obviously been head of his class in observation skills. The office door flew open and several agents, also with weapons drawn, flew in and froze in crouched positions just like in the movies. Jesus. Both the cop and the lawyer had their own guns pointed at the dictionary. Then they saw Northrup, smiling, arms folded across his chest. He said into the extraordinary silence, “Miz Rice accidentally dropped the chief's dictionary.” He unfolded his arms. “But don't you move, ma'am. Allow me.”

He came over and picked it up.

I said, “I'm so clumsy.”

Everybody reholstered and took up previous positions.

I said to the cop, “What did you use to hit me over the head with? The same hammer you used to drive nails into my tire?”

The lawyer jumped up. “Don't answer that.”

I knew he'd do that just as I knew his order would incite the cop further. The cop said, “What? Hey, you're the one got laid out in Austin, ain't you? I didn't do that. I'd never do such a thing. I ain't crazy.”

Brewster said to me, “Agent, what say we cover one thing at a time?” Then he said to the lawyer, “I want us to all settle down and talk things out before our gal from Washington creates some kind of international incident.”

International. Texans still think of Texas as an independent republic.

He sat, the rest of us sat, and I crossed my legs, rendering them all momentarily speechless. While their eyes were riveted on the eight or so inches of my exposed thighs, I said, “Mr. Medved, I want to know the deal you intended to make when you walked in here. Obviously, no one's under arrest, as my fellow agents did not disarm your client. And since, according to your client, he's not your client, I should think the chief might want to make a deal.”

Brewster said, “If I may, here is the deal. And for Mr. Brown here, trust me, it's the
only
deal.”

“It's Mr. Purcell,” said the cop.

“Mr. Purcell, Mr. Brown, whichever. I would like to know the name of the fella who paid you to put an FBI agent's life in danger. Then I want you to use my phone to make known your intention to resign from the Houston Police Department this very day. Then I will let you out of here and you can go into the nearest church, get down on your fucking knees, and thank the Lord God Almighty that things ain't worse for you than that. If that deal don't appeal to you, I got an alternative.”

Brewster looked to me. I used the same shrug as Northrup.

He said, “I will use the power invested in me to arrest you for a federal offense—the attempted murder of a peace officer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—and I don't need to tell you the penalty for—”

The cop jumped up. “He only wanted to put a scare in some guy screwin' around with his wife. Put a nail in his tire. He lied. I didn't know a lady would be drivin' the car, and I didn't know she wouldn't be from around here, and I sure as hell didn't know she'd be FBI.”

Medved reverted to shouting
shut up
again.

Brewster said to the lawyer, “We got a deal goin' here. Let me finish.” Then he went back to the cop.

“Since I'm not going to arrest you, here's what I expect you to do. Tell the people who made up the wife-adultery story that you were fool enough to believe it, but you're not fool enough to harass a big-shot FBI agent no matter how much they pay you. And I want you to do it right now or you will find yourself in some very deep shit. But just before you do, tell us—”

The cop said, “It wasn't the money. It was just a favor. For an old friend.”

The lawyer said, “He tells you the name and we're out of here, is that it?”

Purcell decided to hurry and tell the name. “Tommy Kego.”

Brewster said, “Who is—?”

“Used to be a cop. Knew him in Houston. Retired.”

“Where's he at now?”

“Little town outside Austin.”

The chief smiled at Medved. “Counselor, I have only one question for you, but I believe Miz Rice should have the privilege of asking it.”

I didn't get a chance to ask it. The lawyer had had enough. “Ma'am, the man who asked me to protect the interests of Mr. Purcell is a philanthropist who helps out police officers in need and who prefers to remain anonymous. I don't know the name Kego, and I am not going to tell you my client's name. He has that right. And there'll be no need for you to tap my phone because he doesn't speak to me directly.”

I said to the lawyer, “Not to worry. He's going to speak to
me.
No one needs you to find out who he is. And I'd suggest, for your own good, you break your ties with your philanthropist and consider going back to handling dog-bite cases and water in the cellar.”

The lawyer said, “Don't you threaten me, Agent. Officer Purcell is correct. I was here to protect his interests but not to represent him. However, I would suggest to him that he procure representation elsewhere as soon as possible.”

He picked up his briefcase and headed toward the door. Northrup opened it for him, and H. Johnson Medved was gone.

Brewster said to Northrup, “See he's followed. See he's bugged. His office, his house, his garage, his car, his fuckin' dog. S'cuse my French, Agent. And find out who his fuckin' philanthropist is.”

Exit Northrup.

“Now. What did you say your name was, Jack?”

The cop couldn't get his name out. He was hyperventilating.

The chief said, “Never mind. Your friend, this Kego? He got some clout?”

Cop managed a yes.

“Next time some nutcase wants you to do a bad turn for them, don't be influenced by clout. Just say no. Now, before you get the hell outa here, step into my outer office and my secretary will get you the outside line you'll be needin'. And make sure I get an invitation to your retirement party, you hear?”

Exit the cop.

Brewster sighed and looked at me. “I need a drink. Will you allow me to buy you a stiff one, Agent? By way of an apology from my office. We'll get the guy with the brick soon. But we've got to let this Purcell loose so he can contact Kego, and then we'll see where Kego leads us. Boys outside are primed to take care of that, as you pointed out to Mr. Medved, Esquire. Won't take but a day or two is my bet. So how about the drink?”

“Actually, I'm starving.”

“Well, good. The place I got in mind serves a thirty-two-ounce porterhouse the likes of which never get exported outa the great state of Texas.”

Maybe Texas actually
is
another country. They talk import-export.

I uncrossed my legs. “Sounds great,” I said, to the top of his head. Dining with Texans was going to force me to renew my membership in a DC fitness center.

By the time we got to the restaurant, a seventeen-second drive from the Federal Building, Brewster had received news as to the present role of the retired Houston cop Tommy Kego, old pal of Officer Purcell, now a retired cop as well. Kego was a state appointee, appointed specifically by the present governor eight years ago and still serving on the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles. The very board that turned down all of Rona Leigh's appeals for a reprieve.

Over our four pounds of cattle, the chief would interrupt himself every few minutes to take a message from his cell phone and then pass along the news. “Ya see, ma'am? Those boys on the parole board?” He waved his fork. “They don't like to be disturbed. They got a cushy situation for themselves and they been havin' a lot of trouble lately. It's in their best interest to keep killers movin' in a direct line from death row to the death house and just keep quiet about it all. They been havin' trouble stickin' with
no comment
lately because the press has been houndin' them so bad. They never figured gettin' hounded would be part of the job.”

Three mouthfuls later, his phone would beep again. The facts continued to roll in, and the Waco chief would chew and then fill me in. “Kego was a cop on the Houston force seventeen years ago when Rona Leigh was arrested at his precinct, though he was not the arresting officer and did not take part in the apprehension or investigation. After she was convicted, though, he got a big promotion within the department, a new job with more money and one hell of a lot more prestige than merely pounding the beat. Shortly after that he married the daughter of a rich doctor who catered to the up-and-coming of Houston.

“Doctor, name a Blake Redmon, relocated to Austin, and now he runs several a those factories where they zap your eyeballs so you can throw your glasses out with the garbage. This Kego continued to rise and rise in the department, and the minute the governor was elected he appointed Kego to the parole board.”

Over dessert, the phone filled in more blanks. While we spooned upside-down cake saturated with goo that had to be one part butter to one part brown sugar to a third part some alcoholic compound, Brewster told me that the guy's father-in-law lived in the Texas equivalent of the Kennedy compound—big ranch outside Austin with a big house and a bunch of medium-sized houses for his grown children and their no-'count husbands and wives, including Kego.

Then he said, “So what we need now, Agent, is the connection. Need to know why this Kego worried about your presence. And we'll find out who knocked you cold, too, trust me. Kego couldn't count on a friendly favor for that. He had to hire a real piece of shit. We'll get him, I promise you.”

He pushed his chair back a foot so digestion could commence uninterrupted by the pressure of the table edge on his large stomach. “But whoever's unhappy that you came pokin' around this Rona Leigh thing—well, by now they know you're back and continuin' to poke. So whoever hired the piece of shit, he's presumably gettin' unhappier by the minute. Therefore, I would like to know your whereabouts at all times.”

I leaned forward on my elbows. “I count on my assistant to act as my whereabouts. Her name is Delby Jones.”

I gave him Delby's card.

He pulled his chair back up to the table, leaned over, took my hand in both of his large ones, and looked into my eyes, his own filled with concern. “I will continue to do my best to regain your trust, Poppy Rice. I hope you accept my apologies for what you've been through.”