When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [18]
They were bugged by his longish hair and his every-other-day shaving habits and his slight swagger, which didn’t represent cockiness, just the fact that he liked to walk around with music playing in his head.
Most of all, though, the Bureau was incensed by his casual approach to discipline. Right from the start, he was called a loose cannon.
Worse, he probably was a loose cannon. He’d been one as a gritty middleweight in the Boston Golden Gloves, and as an outspoken, and pretty unconventional undergraduate at Holy Cross, and even at NYU Law. Hell, he was a bus driver’s son, one of five sons. He had no business being at NYU Law, or maybe even at Cross. Why shouldn’t he speak his mind?
He’d gotten away with it in school, but not at the Federal Bureau. No loose cannons were permitted in the FBI. Not even ones who had solved at least two “unsolvable” murder cases during the past five years.
Awhh, stop the horseshit, he finally told himself. He was in trouble because he’d been pursuing the “human experiments” case for the past year and a half. Against orders. He had repeatedly disobeyed orders that went high up the chain of command. He was still disobeying orders, and much worse than that.
“This is Tom Brennan for Agent Stricker,” he said when Stricker’s overly pleasant, overly efficient assistant came on the line. “How are you, Cindy? Is Peter there for me?”
“Oh, it’s so nice to hear from you, Tom. One moment please.” Cindy was overly polite as ever. “I have to check and see if he’s at his desk. Be right back to you.”
Surprisingly, Stricker picked up immediately. He spoke in a whisper—always. Made you pay attention. The trademark Stricker sibilance.
“Tom Terrific. How is paradise? How is Nantucket? You’re supposed to be sailing, riding the surf. Hanging out at the beach. Get the hell off the telephone.”
“I’m calling from the beach,” Kit manufactured a high-spirited, buddy-to-buddy laugh. “Actually, I’m being pretty good for me. I’m on my way to becoming a world-class beach bum up here. There’s just one little thing.”
“There always is, Tom. Always just one thing, always a hitch in your swing. You’re supposed to be getting used to not worrying about the little things,” Stricker told him in the usual soft tones. “Wasn’t that our deal?”
“I know, I know. It was. And I appreciate the few weeks up here. It’s just that—I was on the Web this morning. I happened to see that a Dr. Frank McDonough was drowned in Colorado yesterday. It really weirded me out. Did you see it, Peter?”
Stricker couldn’t mask his annoyance for a second longer. His whisper rose a notch. “Tom, please let this phantom case go. Stay off the Web for a while. Christ, man. It’s already started to wreck a pretty terrific career.”
“Not really. But anyway, there was a Dr. McDonough in the original Berkeley think-tank group. I’m sure about that. Would you mind having somebody follow through with it? Maybe Michael Fescoe? Or Manny Patino? Just for my peace of mind? Check and see if it’s the same Frank McDonough.”
He could tell that Stricker wasn’t at all happy with the way the call was going. “Okay, Tom. I can do that for you. I’ll check up on the deceased. It’s Dr. Frank McDonough, right? You work on the personal demons. Work on your tan. Find some nice Nantucket chick to hang out with. Make love, not war.”
“If he’s the same McDonough, he’s number four, Peter. Doctors Kim, Heekin, Mekin, McDonough.”
“Right, I know all the particulars of the case, Tom. I know you think there’s a missing link, even though the folks in Quantico don’t see it that way. I’ll take it from here. You take care of the sun and sea.”
“Thanks for the help, Peter. You’re the best. I’ll check in about McDonough, though. Maybe tomorrow?”
He could hear Stricker’s sigh. If it was possible, his voice got even lower. “Give me your number on the island. I’ll call you there.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll check in. It’s really no problem. I’ll call you tomorrow. Well, the