say no and coming up short in the time I had before it’d become clear I was lying just to avoid it. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Uhm… when?”
“I’m free for most of this week. I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay.”
There was a piece of hate mail waiting at home, mixed in with the usual junk and bills. I threw it in the trash without bothering to read it. I wasn't in the mood to deal with other people’s anger. They thought they were doing right, but they knew jack. I could relate, but I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted, just now, to be reminded of better, simpler times.
It took almost an hour to dig out the trio of old photos of myself that I wanted to see again, slightly faded prints of me as a newly-graduated field agent. Young and fresh-faced. Crisp suit. Proud grin. I could still remember how I’d felt when they were taken, but the memory was a little dim now, fogged by the passing years and how far I’d come, the places the journey had took me to, the things I’d had to do.
I’d thought I was doing right, but I hadn’t known a goddamn thing.
12.
Hartford, CT. 1997.
Early Saturday morning, and the cold, clear day outside smelled like frost. My nerves were tingling slightly. Two blue-and-whites accompanied Naomi’s plain sedan across town to Travers’ place. Flashes streaked against the passing buildings from the single blue bubble strobe on our roof, the ‘Kojak light’ most unmarked cars carried.
“What’s on the warrant?” I asked.
“We can search his house, car, and person looking for anything pertinent to the investigation. This includes clothing, weapons, and personal effects, so we can look just about anywhere for what we need, given how easy all that kind of stuff is to hide. We haven't been able to get a warrant for a DNA sample, though.”
“No?”
“The judge said the evidence against him so far was too thin to allow it. But if there’s anything physical there, we should be okay to take it.”
“It’s not like we’ve got any DNA to compare it to, I guess.”
“Not yet, anyway,” she said.
We cruised through nearly empty streets. A smattering of people out early, but not many. My breath misted the window.
“How likely is it that Travers is going to give us trouble?”
“Not very. He’s pretty much a career criminal so he should know the drill by now. My main worry is that he’ll see us coming and try ditching evidence. Hopefully he’ll still be in bed when we arrive.”
I nodded. Unconsciously checked my gun in its shoulder rig. “Let’s hope so.”
We pulled up outside an ugly brick apartment building in a row of identical structures. Dwellings on all four stories, the highest of them firmly embedded in the slope of the roof. Drapes mostly still shut. Half a dozen steps up to the front door, a second set leading down to the basement apartment. The scent of stale steam from a heating vent somewhere nearby.
“Travers is on the first floor,” Naomi said.
Through the front entrance and up the cheap carpet-tiled stairs inside, trailing in the wake of four uniformed cops. By the time I reached Travers’ door it had already been forced open and Naomi had started giving him orders in the hallway.
“Mr Travers, I’m Detective Naomi Carson with Hartford PD and this is Special Agent Alex Rourke from the FBI. I have here a warrant to search these premises as well as your vehicle and personal effects. Your co-operation would be appreciated. Hopefully, this won’t take any longer than it needs to.”
Travers ran his eyes over the paper in Naomi’s hand. He was a tough, beefy-looking guy with a mop of untidy black hair and a couple of tattoos on his right arm. Faded grey T-shirt and boxers. “Car keys are on the table in the living room. Car’s parked out back.” He moved to the side to allow the cops past and looked me up and down. “Never met a Feebie before,” he said. “Guess I must’ve done something special to have you guys after
“I’m free for most of this week. I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay.”
There was a piece of hate mail waiting at home, mixed in with the usual junk and bills. I threw it in the trash without bothering to read it. I wasn't in the mood to deal with other people’s anger. They thought they were doing right, but they knew jack. I could relate, but I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted, just now, to be reminded of better, simpler times.
It took almost an hour to dig out the trio of old photos of myself that I wanted to see again, slightly faded prints of me as a newly-graduated field agent. Young and fresh-faced. Crisp suit. Proud grin. I could still remember how I’d felt when they were taken, but the memory was a little dim now, fogged by the passing years and how far I’d come, the places the journey had took me to, the things I’d had to do.
I’d thought I was doing right, but I hadn’t known a goddamn thing.
12.
Hartford, CT. 1997.
Early Saturday morning, and the cold, clear day outside smelled like frost. My nerves were tingling slightly. Two blue-and-whites accompanied Naomi’s plain sedan across town to Travers’ place. Flashes streaked against the passing buildings from the single blue bubble strobe on our roof, the ‘Kojak light’ most unmarked cars carried.
“What’s on the warrant?” I asked.
“We can search his house, car, and person looking for anything pertinent to the investigation. This includes clothing, weapons, and personal effects, so we can look just about anywhere for what we need, given how easy all that kind of stuff is to hide. We haven't been able to get a warrant for a DNA sample, though.”
“No?”
“The judge said the evidence against him so far was too thin to allow it. But if there’s anything physical there, we should be okay to take it.”
“It’s not like we’ve got any DNA to compare it to, I guess.”
“Not yet, anyway,” she said.
We cruised through nearly empty streets. A smattering of people out early, but not many. My breath misted the window.
“How likely is it that Travers is going to give us trouble?”
“Not very. He’s pretty much a career criminal so he should know the drill by now. My main worry is that he’ll see us coming and try ditching evidence. Hopefully he’ll still be in bed when we arrive.”
I nodded. Unconsciously checked my gun in its shoulder rig. “Let’s hope so.”
We pulled up outside an ugly brick apartment building in a row of identical structures. Dwellings on all four stories, the highest of them firmly embedded in the slope of the roof. Drapes mostly still shut. Half a dozen steps up to the front door, a second set leading down to the basement apartment. The scent of stale steam from a heating vent somewhere nearby.
“Travers is on the first floor,” Naomi said.
Through the front entrance and up the cheap carpet-tiled stairs inside, trailing in the wake of four uniformed cops. By the time I reached Travers’ door it had already been forced open and Naomi had started giving him orders in the hallway.
“Mr Travers, I’m Detective Naomi Carson with Hartford PD and this is Special Agent Alex Rourke from the FBI. I have here a warrant to search these premises as well as your vehicle and personal effects. Your co-operation would be appreciated. Hopefully, this won’t take any longer than it needs to.”
Travers ran his eyes over the paper in Naomi’s hand. He was a tough, beefy-looking guy with a mop of untidy black hair and a couple of tattoos on his right arm. Faded grey T-shirt and boxers. “Car keys are on the table in the living room. Car’s parked out back.” He moved to the side to allow the cops past and looked me up and down. “Never met a Feebie before,” he said. “Guess I must’ve done something special to have you guys after
Similar Books
