floor-“told me to butt out and go back to Boston, and he made fun of my accent, by pronouncing it Bahston.”
Quirk ticked that one off on his forefinger. “I am, of course, en-fucking-raged,” Quirk said. “Which is not good either, because I also can whup you to a frazzle.”
Quirk smiled briefly and without humor at both of them, and held up a third finger. In Reilly O’Dell’s wallet I found some business cards, with his name on them, and the name of his company, Stealth Security Consultants. I passed the license and one of the business cards to Quirk. Still holding his third finger up, in mid-count, he read them. And put them in his pocket.
“Third,” he said. “You guys were participating in the illegal arrest and interrogation of a man whose constitutional rights you have violated worse than Sherman violated Atlanta. Fortunately, I happened by, and seeing an illegal injustice in progress, made a citizen’s intervention. And now”-Quirk held up a fourth finger-“I discover that Mr. O’Dell, here, appears not even to be a police officer.”
I bent over Vest and took the wallet from Vest’s left hip pocket. I opened it and learned that his name was Edgar Grimes and that he too lived in Washington. And he too worked for Stealth Security Consultants. I gave his driver’s license and one of his business cards to Quirk.
“Dandy,” Quirk said. “Now, what the fuck is going on?”
Grimes had turned over on his back and sat on the floor, his back against the wall. His head was in his hands and he was rubbing his temples. The blood continued to run between his fingers and soak his shirt. O’Dell sat up stiffly on his bed not looking at anything. There was very little color in his face, and I could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. His nose seeped only a trickle of blood.
I went to the bathroom, put cold water on a facecloth, wrung it out, and handed it to Grimes on the floor. He held it against his nose.
“You can’t stonewall,” Quirk said. “You’re down here representing somebody with enough clout to get the cooperation of the local Sheriff. Since you’re from DeeCee, it’s probably somebody in government. You’ve participated in a kidnapping. You’ve been caught by a policeman. We get the U.S. Attorney down here from Columbia with one phone call. We get the press down here with one other phone call. You people have fucked the duck, and your only chance to step out of it is to talk to me, frankly”-Quirk flashed the humorless smile again-“and openly.”
I could hear both breathing, and then O’Dell sighed.
“You got a good argument,” he said. We waited.
The late morning sun beamed in through the east-facing bedroom window, and highlighted the dust motes, which drifted in and out of sight as they passed through the sunlight. The motel room was generic. Combination desk, dresser with a television set. A straight chair, two queen-sized beds separated by a table. A phone on the table, a lamp on the wall above it. The walls were beige, the rug was tan, there was an inexpensively framed print on the wall of some Anjou pears in a rose medallion bowl. The closet was behind a louvered door, the bath was past it. There was a brown Naugahyde armchair by the window. On top of the television set was a cardboard stand-up, which described the fun to be had in their lounge.
Grimes continued to hold the cloth against his nose. O’Dell sat up straight. His face was pale and scared; his wide, loose mouth seemed hard to manage.
“You used to work for the government,” Quirk said. “Twenty years in, you took your pension and your contacts and set up in business for yourself.”
“Yes,” O’Dell said.
“And when you were a Fed,” Quirk said, “you mostly spent your time subpoenaing records.”
O’Dell started to protest and stopped and shrugged his high shoulders and nodded.
“You’re in with tough guys, now,” Quirk said.
O’Dell nodded. His hands were folded down at
Quirk ticked that one off on his forefinger. “I am, of course, en-fucking-raged,” Quirk said. “Which is not good either, because I also can whup you to a frazzle.”
Quirk smiled briefly and without humor at both of them, and held up a third finger. In Reilly O’Dell’s wallet I found some business cards, with his name on them, and the name of his company, Stealth Security Consultants. I passed the license and one of the business cards to Quirk. Still holding his third finger up, in mid-count, he read them. And put them in his pocket.
“Third,” he said. “You guys were participating in the illegal arrest and interrogation of a man whose constitutional rights you have violated worse than Sherman violated Atlanta. Fortunately, I happened by, and seeing an illegal injustice in progress, made a citizen’s intervention. And now”-Quirk held up a fourth finger-“I discover that Mr. O’Dell, here, appears not even to be a police officer.”
I bent over Vest and took the wallet from Vest’s left hip pocket. I opened it and learned that his name was Edgar Grimes and that he too lived in Washington. And he too worked for Stealth Security Consultants. I gave his driver’s license and one of his business cards to Quirk.
“Dandy,” Quirk said. “Now, what the fuck is going on?”
Grimes had turned over on his back and sat on the floor, his back against the wall. His head was in his hands and he was rubbing his temples. The blood continued to run between his fingers and soak his shirt. O’Dell sat up stiffly on his bed not looking at anything. There was very little color in his face, and I could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. His nose seeped only a trickle of blood.
I went to the bathroom, put cold water on a facecloth, wrung it out, and handed it to Grimes on the floor. He held it against his nose.
“You can’t stonewall,” Quirk said. “You’re down here representing somebody with enough clout to get the cooperation of the local Sheriff. Since you’re from DeeCee, it’s probably somebody in government. You’ve participated in a kidnapping. You’ve been caught by a policeman. We get the U.S. Attorney down here from Columbia with one phone call. We get the press down here with one other phone call. You people have fucked the duck, and your only chance to step out of it is to talk to me, frankly”-Quirk flashed the humorless smile again-“and openly.”
I could hear both breathing, and then O’Dell sighed.
“You got a good argument,” he said. We waited.
The late morning sun beamed in through the east-facing bedroom window, and highlighted the dust motes, which drifted in and out of sight as they passed through the sunlight. The motel room was generic. Combination desk, dresser with a television set. A straight chair, two queen-sized beds separated by a table. A phone on the table, a lamp on the wall above it. The walls were beige, the rug was tan, there was an inexpensively framed print on the wall of some Anjou pears in a rose medallion bowl. The closet was behind a louvered door, the bath was past it. There was a brown Naugahyde armchair by the window. On top of the television set was a cardboard stand-up, which described the fun to be had in their lounge.
Grimes continued to hold the cloth against his nose. O’Dell sat up straight. His face was pale and scared; his wide, loose mouth seemed hard to manage.
“You used to work for the government,” Quirk said. “Twenty years in, you took your pension and your contacts and set up in business for yourself.”
“Yes,” O’Dell said.
“And when you were a Fed,” Quirk said, “you mostly spent your time subpoenaing records.”
O’Dell started to protest and stopped and shrugged his high shoulders and nodded.
“You’re in with tough guys, now,” Quirk said.
O’Dell nodded. His hands were folded down at
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