you were a Ranger. A lot of drugs are moving through this part of the world, and the money that comes with it has rotted out enough of the law enforcement in these parts to matter. None of us knows who to trust. You’re not from around here, and that’s to your advantage.”
I tried to move my cuffed hands. “Some advantage.”
He shrugged. “You say the deputy killed all those people this morning. The warrant says different. It’s your word against the deputy’s.”
I should be a courtroom strategist. “Wouldn’t you like to know who was in charge of clearing and securing the trailer park?” I asked him. “The drug shipment was just sitting there, guarded by folks who probably took part in yesterday’s raid. The whole area should have been thoroughly searched.”
“Yeah, you’d think,” Gomez agreed. “From memory, there were no DOAs found in that truck yard. Maybe that’s the reason it wasn’t cleared.”
“Shouldn’t have made any difference.”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
“Maybe whoever conducted the raid had any bodies moved,” I speculated. “Or maybe the people who leased that part of the facility were tipped off.”
“I like the way your mind works, Cooper, but you’re still not going anywhere.”
A soft tapping on the door distracted me.
“Is that who we’ve been waiting for?” I asked him, my back clammy with sweat.
“Maybe.” Gomez stood and went to answer it, keeping the .45’s watchful eye on me. There was nothing I could do about who was gonna come through that door. My hands were secured behind my back and Gomez knew what he was doing. I’d waited for some kind of an opening, hoping one would come along, but nothing had presented itself. Ranger training.
“Be cool, Vin,” he warned, meaning that he was about to take his focus away from me for a few seconds and that he knew I might try something dumb. Maybe because he already knew from first-hand experience that dumb often seemed my first option. The door opened. My heart rate rose into triple figures, bracing for the next surprise of the day.
“You must be Ranger Gomez,” said Arlen Wayne as he breezed in, showing his ID. He shook Gomez’s hand, giving it a hearty pump. Moving on, he said, “Hey Vin, how you doin’, bud?” He said it like he was excusing himself for being a little late for racquetball.
“You got here fast,” I said.
“They briefed me on the plane.”
Spotting the S&Ws on my wrists seemed to confuse him. He glanced at Gomez, looking for an explanation.
“You told me to detain him.” Gomez shrugged.
“Yeah, but cuffs?”
“You didn’t say make him a nice brunch and put on sports.”
“Jesus, Arlen. This is your suggestion … ?” I complained.
“Nice work, Ranger,” said another familiar face coming in behind Arlen. “Best not to take any chances.” A preppy Tommy Hilfiger face beneath perfect JFK-style hair … If I remembered correctly, the last time we saw each other the mouth in that familiar face promised “to fucking get me”. I noted he walked with a limp from an injury, I was pleased to say, that he blamed me for.
“Berkley Chambers,” I said. “How unpleasant to see you again.”
“See? Already it starts,” the man complained in mocking fashion to no one in particular.
“Got something in your shoe, pal?” I asked him. “Looks to me like you’re walking kinda funny.”
The upturned corners of his lips headed south.
“Vin, I see you remember CIA Crime and Narcotics Deputy Chief Bradley Chalmers ,” said Arlen, stressing the asshole’s correct name and title.
“What’s he doing here?”
“We’ll get to that,” he said, and then introduced Chalmers – whom I knew as the philandering former deputy Assistant Chief of the CIA’s Tokyo station – to Gomez.
When I’d crossed paths with Chalmers a couple years back he was the CIA’s point man in an attempt to stymie the investigation into the bombing of the Transamerica Pyramid building in San
I tried to move my cuffed hands. “Some advantage.”
He shrugged. “You say the deputy killed all those people this morning. The warrant says different. It’s your word against the deputy’s.”
I should be a courtroom strategist. “Wouldn’t you like to know who was in charge of clearing and securing the trailer park?” I asked him. “The drug shipment was just sitting there, guarded by folks who probably took part in yesterday’s raid. The whole area should have been thoroughly searched.”
“Yeah, you’d think,” Gomez agreed. “From memory, there were no DOAs found in that truck yard. Maybe that’s the reason it wasn’t cleared.”
“Shouldn’t have made any difference.”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
“Maybe whoever conducted the raid had any bodies moved,” I speculated. “Or maybe the people who leased that part of the facility were tipped off.”
“I like the way your mind works, Cooper, but you’re still not going anywhere.”
A soft tapping on the door distracted me.
“Is that who we’ve been waiting for?” I asked him, my back clammy with sweat.
“Maybe.” Gomez stood and went to answer it, keeping the .45’s watchful eye on me. There was nothing I could do about who was gonna come through that door. My hands were secured behind my back and Gomez knew what he was doing. I’d waited for some kind of an opening, hoping one would come along, but nothing had presented itself. Ranger training.
“Be cool, Vin,” he warned, meaning that he was about to take his focus away from me for a few seconds and that he knew I might try something dumb. Maybe because he already knew from first-hand experience that dumb often seemed my first option. The door opened. My heart rate rose into triple figures, bracing for the next surprise of the day.
“You must be Ranger Gomez,” said Arlen Wayne as he breezed in, showing his ID. He shook Gomez’s hand, giving it a hearty pump. Moving on, he said, “Hey Vin, how you doin’, bud?” He said it like he was excusing himself for being a little late for racquetball.
“You got here fast,” I said.
“They briefed me on the plane.”
Spotting the S&Ws on my wrists seemed to confuse him. He glanced at Gomez, looking for an explanation.
“You told me to detain him.” Gomez shrugged.
“Yeah, but cuffs?”
“You didn’t say make him a nice brunch and put on sports.”
“Jesus, Arlen. This is your suggestion … ?” I complained.
“Nice work, Ranger,” said another familiar face coming in behind Arlen. “Best not to take any chances.” A preppy Tommy Hilfiger face beneath perfect JFK-style hair … If I remembered correctly, the last time we saw each other the mouth in that familiar face promised “to fucking get me”. I noted he walked with a limp from an injury, I was pleased to say, that he blamed me for.
“Berkley Chambers,” I said. “How unpleasant to see you again.”
“See? Already it starts,” the man complained in mocking fashion to no one in particular.
“Got something in your shoe, pal?” I asked him. “Looks to me like you’re walking kinda funny.”
The upturned corners of his lips headed south.
“Vin, I see you remember CIA Crime and Narcotics Deputy Chief Bradley Chalmers ,” said Arlen, stressing the asshole’s correct name and title.
“What’s he doing here?”
“We’ll get to that,” he said, and then introduced Chalmers – whom I knew as the philandering former deputy Assistant Chief of the CIA’s Tokyo station – to Gomez.
When I’d crossed paths with Chalmers a couple years back he was the CIA’s point man in an attempt to stymie the investigation into the bombing of the Transamerica Pyramid building in San
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