The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [76]
“Right here,” said Lamar, emerging from his office. “You’re lookin’ healthy.”
They shook hands, and Volont took notice of Lamar’s limp. “Any improvement?” he asked, with a hint of warmth in his voice.
“Still bothers me some,” said Lamar. “You want to talk in my office?”
As I followed Volont and Lamar into the doorway marked SHERIFF, I glanced at George. He looked a little apologetic. He should. Volont was the FBI equivalent of Machiavelli. We’d worked together before. Not exactly my kind of guy. If those two agents, Brandenburg and Hernandez, had been working for him, we were in deeper that I had thought. Much deeper. Volont was in charge of counterterrorist operations in a large chunk of the United States, and he’d worked with us once before. He was honest, fair, and very unlikely to share any useful intelligence with anybody in a rural Sheriff’s Department.
I managed to keep any expression of joy off my face as we all sat down. The twinge in my back had nothing to do with it.
It’s not often you get to watch a real expert at work. Volont was, among all the other things I thought he was, an expert in handling people.
He began by apologizing for any inconvenience his subordinate agents may have caused. He expressed concern about the snowmobile accident, and said that the Feds would gladly pay for any damage to our car. He further expressed concern for the behavior of Agent Brandenburg for kicking me, and for Agent Hernandez being so inept as to creep about the outside of the jail.
At that point, the con was in.
He then asked how we had come upon Brandenburg in the first place. Between Lamar and myself, we managed to tell the basic details of the encounter with the agents. We also gave a basic description of the two homicides, as background.
“I feel an apology is in order, for not touching base with your department, Sheriff, before we started the spot surveillance. I hope you understand, we have some problems with obtaining permission to divulge certain … aspects … of our work.”
Smooth.
Lamar accepted that. No real choice. “But,” he added, “I want to know why they were out there.”
It was very interesting. Volont had just told us that he was sorry, but wasn’t able to tell us the truth. Since nothing had been said to indicate that the “problems… divulging” had changed in any way, he had already warned us. Obliquely, but nonetheless, warned. So, now, he proceeded to tell us … well, not exactly the truth.
“We’ve had information,” he said, “concerning a possible meeting in this area. Not specifically at the farm where the two killings took place. We were watching, to see who attended.” He gave one of his familiar little tight-lipped smiles. “This is all concerning another matter, of course. One that has nothing to do with the area being observed.” He shrugged, regretfully. “I’m sorry, but my agents tell me that you really can’t see much of the Borglan place from their position.” He paused. “So, we don’t have any surveillance data we can share with you. I wish we did.”
“Me too,” said Lamar.
At this point, he’d really said he was sorry it had happened, he wasn’t able to tell us the truth, he’d proceeded to tell us something other than the truth, and had just reassured us that it was all better. Very smooth. If I hadn’t known him from before, he would have been a comfort. I was beginning to understand my feeling of being watched at Borglan’s, though.
I glanced at George, wondering if he was buying this. I couldn’t tell from his expression.
Lamar just said, “Maybe you should tell him some more, Carl.”
I did. I told him that the Colson brothers had been known to impersonate undercover officers on previous, documented occasions.
“I see,” he said. Noncommittal, but interested.
I told him that we had incontrovertible evidence that a person or persons unknown had called the Borglans at their Florida home on the night of the double murder. That, upon receiving that call, Cletus Borglan had left for Iowa the following morning. That he