We don't want that in this investigation, Ford. So you want to play macho here, go fuck yourself. I snap my fingers, someone more amenable takes over and you're out. This office will cooperate fully— within an effective command structure for the investigation. So will yours. You don't like that, again, go fuck."
Everyone got tense, except Zelek, who was looking mostly bored. Mo's testosterone kicked in for an instant, but it was followed quickly by the who gives a shit hormone. Yeah, he'd like to catch Howdy II, save the world from the latest menace. But it wasn't his sole responsibility. This was a job, not a crusade, and a job he had serious doubts about. Biedermann was an asshole, but only one of many, and you couldn't let them all bend you out of shape.
And anyway, Biedermann was right about this.
Mo shrugged. "Sounds good," he said cheerfully. "So I'll be down here tomorrow with some details on the new White Plains and Buchanan murders. I'd like access to your files. Two o'clock be okay?"
He was happy to see that his sanguine approach rankled with Biedermann. The SAC's poise slipped just a bit, a pout on his pursed lips, as he saw the goad in Mo's attitude. Zelek was looking at him speculatively. Morris and Garcia just watched their boss, uncertain.
10
I T WAS FOUR-THIRTY by the time Mo left the Federal Building and burst with relief into the air of Manhattan rush hour. The streets had filled with pedestrians and cars and buses, and a mood of eager and irritable desperation had come over the city. Hard day, get home, run for cover, kick back. For once Mo wasn't in a comparable hurry.
Before leaving the FBI offices, he'd made a call to Ty Boggs to let him know he was loose and on his day. Then had arranged earlier to meet at Ty's favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bang, over on East Broadway at Mott Street. Ty had to come over from his precinct house in the Bronx, which gave Mo half an hour to cover just a few blocks. So he took his time. He watched with amusement as a rip roaring procession of fire trucks tried to get through the traffic, sirens warbling and horns blatting as they stood like everybody else, pinned by gridlock. Everything motionless, and yet the street was a bedlam panic of red lights, massive glistening vehicles with roaring motors and bellowing sirens. Despite the air of urgency, a relentless stream of oblivious pedestrians slipped between the bumpers of the stationary behemoths. New Yorkers.
Paradoxically, the meeting with Biedermann had cheered him up. Dr. Ingalls had been right about how the SAC would want to crowd Mo and the NYSP out. But Biedermann's pushy attitude, the silent spooky presence of Anson Zelek, whoever he was, along with Flannery's machinations: It was all a good reminder to keep his distance from his job. For the moment he was feeling pleasantly disconnected from the whole thing.
The wall of roaring machines finally managed to move, and Mo kept walking. He was looking forward to seeing Ty, maybe he could shed some light on some of the undercurrents here. At the very least, he might help figure out ways around or through Biedermann.
Mo knew Tyndale Boggs from classes they'd both attended at city College eighteen years ago. Ty was older, having served in Vietnam before continuing college. He was a lieutenant in the Bronx PD now, while Mo was still just a State Police investigator, at a sergeant's pay scale. Ty claimed he owed his promotions to being African American at the right time and place and having a name that more or less combined the names of two great baseball players, but wasn't't true. He got there by being smart and capable and a bulldog on the case. He was in his mid fifties, a sturdily built guy with the face of a martyr, all the world's troubles etched into two deep horizontal lines in his forehead. Divorced now, he lived with his sister and her two kids. In Vietnam he'd been shot through the cheek, in one side and out the other, and it had left scars and
Everyone got tense, except Zelek, who was looking mostly bored. Mo's testosterone kicked in for an instant, but it was followed quickly by the who gives a shit hormone. Yeah, he'd like to catch Howdy II, save the world from the latest menace. But it wasn't his sole responsibility. This was a job, not a crusade, and a job he had serious doubts about. Biedermann was an asshole, but only one of many, and you couldn't let them all bend you out of shape.
And anyway, Biedermann was right about this.
Mo shrugged. "Sounds good," he said cheerfully. "So I'll be down here tomorrow with some details on the new White Plains and Buchanan murders. I'd like access to your files. Two o'clock be okay?"
He was happy to see that his sanguine approach rankled with Biedermann. The SAC's poise slipped just a bit, a pout on his pursed lips, as he saw the goad in Mo's attitude. Zelek was looking at him speculatively. Morris and Garcia just watched their boss, uncertain.
10
I T WAS FOUR-THIRTY by the time Mo left the Federal Building and burst with relief into the air of Manhattan rush hour. The streets had filled with pedestrians and cars and buses, and a mood of eager and irritable desperation had come over the city. Hard day, get home, run for cover, kick back. For once Mo wasn't in a comparable hurry.
Before leaving the FBI offices, he'd made a call to Ty Boggs to let him know he was loose and on his day. Then had arranged earlier to meet at Ty's favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bang, over on East Broadway at Mott Street. Ty had to come over from his precinct house in the Bronx, which gave Mo half an hour to cover just a few blocks. So he took his time. He watched with amusement as a rip roaring procession of fire trucks tried to get through the traffic, sirens warbling and horns blatting as they stood like everybody else, pinned by gridlock. Everything motionless, and yet the street was a bedlam panic of red lights, massive glistening vehicles with roaring motors and bellowing sirens. Despite the air of urgency, a relentless stream of oblivious pedestrians slipped between the bumpers of the stationary behemoths. New Yorkers.
Paradoxically, the meeting with Biedermann had cheered him up. Dr. Ingalls had been right about how the SAC would want to crowd Mo and the NYSP out. But Biedermann's pushy attitude, the silent spooky presence of Anson Zelek, whoever he was, along with Flannery's machinations: It was all a good reminder to keep his distance from his job. For the moment he was feeling pleasantly disconnected from the whole thing.
The wall of roaring machines finally managed to move, and Mo kept walking. He was looking forward to seeing Ty, maybe he could shed some light on some of the undercurrents here. At the very least, he might help figure out ways around or through Biedermann.
Mo knew Tyndale Boggs from classes they'd both attended at city College eighteen years ago. Ty was older, having served in Vietnam before continuing college. He was a lieutenant in the Bronx PD now, while Mo was still just a State Police investigator, at a sergeant's pay scale. Ty claimed he owed his promotions to being African American at the right time and place and having a name that more or less combined the names of two great baseball players, but wasn't't true. He got there by being smart and capable and a bulldog on the case. He was in his mid fifties, a sturdily built guy with the face of a martyr, all the world's troubles etched into two deep horizontal lines in his forehead. Divorced now, he lived with his sister and her two kids. In Vietnam he'd been shot through the cheek, in one side and out the other, and it had left scars and
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