cop before you leave.”
Detective Riker held
the cell phone to his ear as he walked back to the Mercedes. “Yeah, boss. What’s the word?” He listened for a moment. “Oh, sure. I’ll touch base with Kronewald… Yeah, as soon I get there.” In fact he had already set up that meeting. “I got Charles Butler? Great… No, that’s okay. I’ll talk to him… No problem. He’ll be in Chicago today.”
Riker opened the car door and spoke to his sleepy passenger, a man fifteen years his junior, who stood six-four in stocking feet-when he could stand. The passenger had awakened as they were crossing Indiana, but he was still groggy, and now it was all he could do to push strands of curly brown hair away from his eyes.
“Hey, Charles, you’re gonna get paid for this little vacation.”
“Vacation… Yes.” Charles Butler nodded, then stared into a bag of cheeseburgers with a look of wonder, as if it might contain moon rocks instead of greasy food. But the man always looked that way; it was his eyes- small blue irises floating in the center of heavy-lidded hen’s eggs. Charles went everywhere with that same look of surprise, the aftermath of a popped balloon. Adding to the comedy that was his face, the hooked nose was of eagle-beak proportions. However, from the neck down, this forty-year-old man might pass for a rumpled model from a magazine ad for Savile Row tweed and Oxford linen.
Riker took the bag of burgers away from his friend. “Never mind that. I’m gonna get you some
real
food.” He put the car in gear and rolled westward. “You can’t s t art a road trip like this one without a good meal.”
Charles Butler had been slow to wake, slower to grasp the fact that Riker had taken him eight hundred miles from his home, and now he said, “
Another
… road trip?”
The state trooper entered
the diner and approached the booth that Mallory shared with the FBI agent. Hoffman hesitated, probably sensing that the atmosphere had been poisoned. As he came forward, he looked back over one shoulder to make sure that the waitress was out of earshot. “What’s up, kid?” asked Agent Cadwaller.
Trooper Hoffman spoke only to Mallory. “I got the inventory. Those guys are ready to leave. They just have to pack up a tire.”
“A tire?” The fed slapped his hand on the table, perhaps with the idea that this would call the younger man’s attention back to himself. It did not.
The trooper was facing Mallory when he said, “It’s the flat tire from the trunk.”
By wince and moan, the fed implied that his own men were idiots. He looked up at the trooper. “I want photographs and evidence bags. That’s it! Go back out there and tell them we’re not taking the damn tire on the helicopter.”
The trooper would not even look at the man. Mallory was his higher power in this room, and her next words to Agent Cadwaller were heavily laced with acid. “Does Hoffman impress you as the handmaid type?”
Eventually, the FBI man realized that he was his own messenger boy today, and he left the diner. The trooper waited until the door had closed on Cadwaller, and then sat down on the other side of the booth. “The techs seem to think that flat tire might be important.”
“And they’re right. Did they open up the cell phone they found in the car?”
“No, ma’am. It didn’t w o rk, and they were in a big hurry. They told me Cadwaller never gives them time to do the job right. So they just bagged the phone.”
“And what does that tell you?”
He did not answer right away, but gave it some thought. Over the course of one morning, she had taught him, by punishing sarcasm, to use his head. He held up both hands to say that he could not come up with any brilliant answer for her. “All I know is this. They’ve been riding with this guy for a long time, and they hate his guts. Oh, and they do all the digging. Agent Cadwaller just stands around and asks if they can’t d ig any faster. I don’t know what that
Detective Riker held
the cell phone to his ear as he walked back to the Mercedes. “Yeah, boss. What’s the word?” He listened for a moment. “Oh, sure. I’ll touch base with Kronewald… Yeah, as soon I get there.” In fact he had already set up that meeting. “I got Charles Butler? Great… No, that’s okay. I’ll talk to him… No problem. He’ll be in Chicago today.”
Riker opened the car door and spoke to his sleepy passenger, a man fifteen years his junior, who stood six-four in stocking feet-when he could stand. The passenger had awakened as they were crossing Indiana, but he was still groggy, and now it was all he could do to push strands of curly brown hair away from his eyes.
“Hey, Charles, you’re gonna get paid for this little vacation.”
“Vacation… Yes.” Charles Butler nodded, then stared into a bag of cheeseburgers with a look of wonder, as if it might contain moon rocks instead of greasy food. But the man always looked that way; it was his eyes- small blue irises floating in the center of heavy-lidded hen’s eggs. Charles went everywhere with that same look of surprise, the aftermath of a popped balloon. Adding to the comedy that was his face, the hooked nose was of eagle-beak proportions. However, from the neck down, this forty-year-old man might pass for a rumpled model from a magazine ad for Savile Row tweed and Oxford linen.
Riker took the bag of burgers away from his friend. “Never mind that. I’m gonna get you some
real
food.” He put the car in gear and rolled westward. “You can’t s t art a road trip like this one without a good meal.”
Charles Butler had been slow to wake, slower to grasp the fact that Riker had taken him eight hundred miles from his home, and now he said, “
Another
… road trip?”
The state trooper entered
the diner and approached the booth that Mallory shared with the FBI agent. Hoffman hesitated, probably sensing that the atmosphere had been poisoned. As he came forward, he looked back over one shoulder to make sure that the waitress was out of earshot. “What’s up, kid?” asked Agent Cadwaller.
Trooper Hoffman spoke only to Mallory. “I got the inventory. Those guys are ready to leave. They just have to pack up a tire.”
“A tire?” The fed slapped his hand on the table, perhaps with the idea that this would call the younger man’s attention back to himself. It did not.
The trooper was facing Mallory when he said, “It’s the flat tire from the trunk.”
By wince and moan, the fed implied that his own men were idiots. He looked up at the trooper. “I want photographs and evidence bags. That’s it! Go back out there and tell them we’re not taking the damn tire on the helicopter.”
The trooper would not even look at the man. Mallory was his higher power in this room, and her next words to Agent Cadwaller were heavily laced with acid. “Does Hoffman impress you as the handmaid type?”
Eventually, the FBI man realized that he was his own messenger boy today, and he left the diner. The trooper waited until the door had closed on Cadwaller, and then sat down on the other side of the booth. “The techs seem to think that flat tire might be important.”
“And they’re right. Did they open up the cell phone they found in the car?”
“No, ma’am. It didn’t w o rk, and they were in a big hurry. They told me Cadwaller never gives them time to do the job right. So they just bagged the phone.”
“And what does that tell you?”
He did not answer right away, but gave it some thought. Over the course of one morning, she had taught him, by punishing sarcasm, to use his head. He held up both hands to say that he could not come up with any brilliant answer for her. “All I know is this. They’ve been riding with this guy for a long time, and they hate his guts. Oh, and they do all the digging. Agent Cadwaller just stands around and asks if they can’t d ig any faster. I don’t know what that
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