Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [41]
“Why bristly?”
“Acting like he’s royalty. Never let us forget his dad was on a high committee in the Justice Department. Congressman Abbott he calls his dad, Congressman Abbott decides what toilet paper we get and how the Bureau wipes its behind, so you-all keep in line. When the truth is”—she lowers her voice—“Congressman Abbott was investigated for taking bribes.”
“Anything come of it?”
Rosalind scoffs. “Too well-connected. His son comes out here and gets a free pass right to Hollywood. Well.” She chuckles. “You know how they love G-men in the movies. The stars like a fella who carries a gun. And there was that show on TV about the FBI back then. The movie people wanted their favors and privileges, and they came to the new guy, and young Peter Abbott, he was so excited, he just went off on a tangent.”
I laugh. “Who was it?”
“Not like an actress in particular. It was poker games with entertainment lawyers. Tennis games with the famous movie directors. He got on great with the big shots but had problems managing the gentlemen working underneath him,” she recalls. “The street agents.”
“Like Dick Stone?” I ask quickly. “He was on the beard squad.”
Rosalind’s large watery eyes show recognition. “I remember him. He was straight as an arrow until he started working on that squad. Comes back to the office all scuzzy, with a scarf around his head, and the agents, they didn’t know what to do with him.”
“Why?”
“He was bitter. He would sit on the floor, like the hippies used to do? Staring up at us with a cockeyed look, probably high. I believe they wanted to bring him out, but like a lot of them, he had a hard time accepting the FBI philosophy. I’ve seen some of those guys; they were so lost, they would cry.” She clucks, remembering. “Oh Lord, he used to sit on the floor and chant ‘Hari Krishna.’ No wonder they sent him away.”
“To a drug program?”
“Nobody knew about drug programs. No, honey, back to the street. They just turned him around and spun him out of here. Out of Los Angeles, to Santa Barbara, Berkeley—they had him on something called ‘Turquoise’ in the Southwest, I believe.”
“Was it concerning the Weathermen?”
“Everything was a radical conspiracy. If you sneezed, it was the Weathermen.”
The door to the conference room opens and the players start filing out.
“Ana?”
It is Donnato, indicating I should take a walk with him.
“I’m off it, right?”
“No. You’re in. They want to amp up Operation Wildcat. Get you into Stone’s face. ‘Up his ass’ is the way Abbott phrased it.”
“Really?”
It’s like hearing you’ve been designated the leadoff hitter.
“He agreed to the sting at the BLM corrals,” Donnato says. “You got the nod. Big-time.”
“I was shocked the assistant director even knew my name.”
“He was very familiar with your background. I get the feeling he was waiting to meet you to seal the deal. You got the part, kiddo. You go up there and get yourself arrested. It will be a controlled operation using SWAT, the county sheriff’s department, every redneck lawman in the West.”
“I like it.”
“Good.”
“Mike?”
“Yes?”
“What else went on in there?”
“Sports talk. Dirty jokes.”
“What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing. Go. They’ve got you on the six-forty-five p.m. flight to Portland.”
“Do something for me? Take Rosalind to lunch.”
“Why, is it Mother’s Day or something?”
“Ask her about the beard squad and a case called Turquoise. She knows where the bodies are buried.”
As we head toward the stairwell, Rooney Berwick is coming out. He wears the same black jeans and black shirt as at the off-site when he fabricated Darcy’s driver’s license. His boots ring off the floor and the keys and tools and stuff on his belt still clatter, but the arrogance is missing. He looks thinner and gray in the face.
“Rooney!” exclaims Rosalind from behind us. “How you doin’?”
She trundles up and hugs him like a favorite nephew, two long-timers who have been through it.