Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [138]
He also told me that agents from a ‘‘special team’’ were being strategically placed near the jail.
‘‘Where?’’ I asked.
‘‘Not sure,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Just don’t piss in any bushes . . .’’
He also said that he had three agents in town just to hang out at the bars in the evenings. Not so much to learn anything as to just be around and about.
I was beginning to feel even better. I knew two of the DEA undercover people. If they were all as nuts as those two, Maitland would never be the same.
The rest of Thursday, I managed to talk with Hester for a few seconds, as she was assisting another DCI agent on a major burglary investigation. She was filling in for an agent on days off, so she’d be able to be back in our area on Friday. Tomorrow.
I was out covering a little fender bender, filling in where Bud normally would have been working, when Volont returned my call. Message said he’d be in touch tomorrow.
Other than myself, only Hester, George, Volont, and to some extent Art were aware of the special preparations and of the impending threat from Gabriel. To everyone else, the visible precautions were just routine measures taken to secure Nola Stritch. Anything that seemed a bit out of the ordinary was to be explained as being required by federal procedures. None of the undercover people, or the ‘‘special team,’’ were known to anyone but our select little group. That could be a problem, as we were well aware. Since it had to be that way, preparations were made to inform everybody as soon as they had a need to know. The last thing we wanted was a couple of men in camouflage BDUs going after Nola and our people spotting one of the members of the special team and getting them mixed up.
We began by giving a specific order that all our people were to have their walkie-talkies with them, turned on, with the shoulder mike/receiver in place where applicable. That meant all the uniformed personnel in the area, including State Patrol. And me. I was to be in uniform so I wouldn’t attract attention, if you can believe that. True, though. Nothing stands out less in a bunch of cops than a man in a cop suit. We figured I could issue orders better that way, without having to identify myself to a bunch of troopers I’d never met. We justified it all with what George referred to as the ‘‘Phantom Phederal Phacts.’’
‘‘Yeah, I know, but federal regulations require it . . .’’
Worked like a charm.
Anyway, the procedure was for a message to be immediately broadcast from the main transmitter at Dispatch the moment contact was made. We had a heavily sealed envelope placed on the console. Instructions said that it was to be opened only if there were people who were armed trying to get Nola Stritch.
We were ready. As ready as we were ever going to be.
Twenty-six
FRIDAY, the 2nd of August, started for me at 0700, when I put on my best uniform, my only pair of polished lace boots, and got in my unmarked and headed for the office in the pouring rain. Brilliant flashes of lightning were coming about ten seconds apart, and the noise of thunder was virtually constant. I felt sorry for the special team. It was also very, very dark. Normally, when it got that way the streetlights automatically came on. But the lightning flashes were overriding the sensors, making the lights think it was brighter than it really was. Everybody had their headlights on, but it didn’t help a lot.
When I got to the office, I had to sit in the car for almost two minutes before running for the entrance, waiting for the rain to let up just a little.
I headed right for Dispatch. Sandy Grueber was on duty.
‘‘Sandy, any tornado warnings out?’’
‘‘Just a watch until eleven hundred hours,’’ she said, grinning as the water dripped down from my balding head onto my glasses. ‘‘Erosion gonna be a problem there?’’
I laughed in false appreciation, and then asked if all was well with the transfer of Nola to our facility.
‘‘What?’’
So, already a