Bad Guys (17 page)

Tozzi raised his eyebrows. “Fathers and daughters,” he murmured.

“Take a right at the stop sign,” she said, and turned up the volume so that the music filled the car.

Fathers and daughters, she thought wistfully as she looked into the side mirror and saw the terraced lawn in front of the big white house with the geranium pots on the steps, her father's house.

Gibbons sat down opposite Brant Ivers, who ignored him as he studied the papers on his desk. The SAC was wearing a pastel pink shirt and a contrasting paisley tie under a gray double-breasted suit. The desk's writing slide was pulled out where Ivers's lunch awaited him: a spinach salad in a clear-plastic container and a cup of strawberry yogurt. Gibbons stared at the fare. J. Edgar would've croaked if he'd ever seen this.

“Well?” Gibbons finally said.

Ivers peered over his half-glasses. He didn't say anything. Gibbons assumed this was supposed to be meaningful.

“You called me in here, Ivers. What do you want?”

Ivers took off his glasses and dropped them on top of the papers he'd been reading. Gibbons wasn't sure what the SAC meant to convey with this gesture. It could have been the prelude to either a pep talk or an ass-reaming.

“I just read your last report, Bert.” He reached for the cup of yogurt, pried off the lid, and started to stir it with a plastic spoon. “It's a little . . . spare.”

Gibbons watched him stirring up red glop from the bottom of his cup. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that's what I've got so far.” Gibbons resented being called in to explain himself. What he and Tozzi were onto was a hell of a lot more important than playing games with Ivers. He wished he could tell the SAC to fuck off.

Ivers dug into his yogurt a little more, then set it aside. “Have you forgotten that you're required to include everything you've done during the previous week in your reports? Even leads that bear no fruit?”

Gibbons smiled with his teeth. “Yes, Brant, I do remember how to write a weekly.”

“Then why did you omit your work with the Varga files?” Now Ivers was showing his teeth.

When the immediate flash of hate passed, Gibbons cooled down and realized that Ivers had been working on that line all morning. Dropping a bomb was one of Ivers's favorite ploys.

“The Varga stuff was a dead end,” Gibbons said. “Just a bad hunch.”

Ivers nodded and went for his yogurt again. He shoveled a drippy spoonful into his mouth. The sight nearly turned Gibbons's stomach. “I'll bet you're wondering how I know you went into the Varga files.”

“Hayes the librarian told you.” That big dumb-ass.

Ivers shook his head, smiling like the cat who caught the canary. “We've got a new system with the files. It was installed after you retired. Every Monday I get a printout of all the files that were called up and who requested them during the previous week. It includes hard copies too since Hayes records all traffic in the File Room on the computer. From what I see here, you spent a lot of time with the Varga material. It took you that long to figure out you were running up a blind alley?”

“I'm very thorough.” All of a sudden Gibbons had heartburn. He had Rolaids in his pocket, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Ivers see him popping them.

“I'm curious. What did you think Varga had to do with Tozzi?”

Gibbons was in a corner. He didn't want Ivers to know anything about his research into Richie Varga. Fucking Tozzi. Why didn't he say something about this goddamn new monitoring system in the office? The asshole never did think about the details. Well, fuck me, Gibbons thought, I've got to say something. Sometimes you've got no choice but to throw down a good card.

“I thought Tozzi's next target might be Richie Varga. It seemed crazy enough for Tozzi.”

“I don't follow you, Bert.”

“Tozzi thinks he's on a roll. He's three for three with this vendetta business. I thought he may be ready to take on something more challenging.”

“Like gunning down a guy hidden under the auspices of the Witness Security Program.” Ivers squinted skeptically. He was digging through his yogurt again, staring into the cup as if he were reading tea leaves. “Why would he go after Varga? Varga cooperated with the prosecutors.
A lot of hoods were put away thanks to him. Varga turned out to be a good guy.”

Yeah, so are you, Brant.

Bile was burning the back of Gibbons's throat. “Tozzi didn't think so. I remember some comments he'd made about Varga at the time of his grand jury testimony. He thought Varga was just as dirty as the guys he was ratting on.”

“And that's why you thought he might be after Varga? Sounds pretty weak to me.”

“It was just a hunch,” Gibbons said. “And not a very good one, as it turned out.”

Ivers set down the yogurt and picked up Gibbons's weekly report. He had a feeling the SAC was going to pick through the whole thing, point for point. What an asshole. Gibbons shifted in his seat. On top of everything else, his goddamn hemorrhoids were acting up.

But just as Ivers was about to say something, his intercom buzzed. He picked up the phone and listened. “Send him right in,” he said.

A second later the door opened and in walked Bill Kinney. Gibbons noticed
his
paisley tie and the matching handkerchief artfully stuffed in the breast pocket of his navy blazer. The young heir apparent to the SAC's paisley throne, Gibbons thought, then realized that he was just in a bad mood. Kinney wasn't such a bad guy.

“Sit down, Bill.” Ivers pointed to the chair next to Gibbons.

Kinney pressed his lips together into a smile and nodded to Gibbons as he took his seat.

“Bert, your investigation is going too slow. Tozzi has to be found before he strikes again. I've decided to assign Bill to this case. You'll work together on this.” Ivers's tone suddenly turned pompous, as if he were orating to a roomful of recruits. Gibbons knew this was all for Kinney's benefit.

“Bill, I want you to go over Bert's reports and read the file on Tozzi. Then consult with Bert and see if you can take a new approach to this investigation. This is top priority, Bill, so do whatever you feel is necessary to find Tozzi. You two are partners now on this.”

Kinney threw a sympathetic glance at Gibbons. That was a real low blow. It was understood that this was Gibbons's case, even if Kinney was being brought in to help. By stating that they were partners on the investigation, Ivers was letting them both know that from now on Gibbons's seniority meant shit.

“Now I have a lot of respect for the old gumshoe method of investigation,”
Ivers continued. “It's how the Bureau made its name back in Hoover's day. But you've got to take advantage of the available technology. The labs in Washington are there for a reason. Use them. Also, the files. Don't think of it as a vast library full of isolated reports. Now that everything is computerized, you can make the files work for you. Employ a little creativity in calling for universal searches. You may come up with something unexpected. Talk to Hayes. He can help you there.”

Gibbons's asshole was on fire. This was just a lot of bullshit, meant to show him what an antique he'd become. In thirty years with the Bureau, no one had ever complained about the “gumshoe method,” as Ivers called it. The fucking “gumshoe method” got results. Always did and always would. The fucking “gumshoe method” already found Tozzi, you goddamn nitwit.

Kinney's arms were crossed. Gibbons could see that it was even uncomfortable for him to have to listen to this crap. Ivers was using him, making him the sounding board because the SAC didn't have the guts to tell Gibbons this to his face, the spineless jellyfish.

Ivers sat up straight and folded his hands on the desk. He looked like a politician making a campaign address on TV. “Now, Bill, I expect you to give Bert a little refresher in what's developed here at the Bureau since he retired. Bert, I think Bill will save you from making any more time-consuming detours, like the Varga business. You two will make a good team, I think. Expertise combined with experience.” Ivers looked at Kinney and nodded as if he were very satisfied with this marriage.

“Any questions?” Ivers asked.

Gibbons waited for young Kinney to ask something bright to show the boss he was on top of things. But he didn't say a word. Gibbons was impressed.

“Are we through?” Gibbons asked testily.

“Bert, we won't be through until we've caught Tozzi.” Ivers was such a clever bastard.

“Well then, I've got business to attend to,” Gibbons said, getting up. “I'll talk to you later, Bill.” He abruptly headed for the door.

“Results, Bert,” the SAC called after him. “Keep that in mind.”

Gibbons shut the door behind him, thinking only about finding some Preparation H.

After he took care of his immediate problem, Gibbons went back to his desk, which was in the big room with all the other special agents' desks. The desks here used to be arranged in lines and were usually empty because special agents spend most of their time out of the office. Since Gibbons's retirement, though, the room had been remodeled with modular partitions that gave each desk its own private little cubbyhole. Gibbons didn't like the arrangement. What did a guy need this kind of privacy for? To pick his nose? Call his mistress? If you needed this much privacy, you had no business doing it at the office. Anyway, with the old arrangement, you could always see at a glance who was in and who wasn't. Now all you could hear was muffled, disembodied voices because you couldn't see anyone over the tops of these things. It turned the room into a stupid rat maze and all for what? It was just another good reason for being pissed off at Ivers.

“Bert?”

Gibbons turned around. Bill Kinney was standing at the entrance to his cubbyhole.

“What's up?” Gibbons had a knack for making innocuous little phrases like this sound like he was saying “fuck off.” He knew it, but he never made much of an effort to change his tone.

Kinney sat down in the beige molded plastic chair, the only other seat in Gibbons's office. “I feel bad about his little performance before.” Kinney's voice was low, and he deliberately avoided referring to Brant Ivers by name. “It was embarrassing and entirely uncalled for. I think it sucks.”

Gibbons picked up a paper clip and started to unbend it. When the paper clip was as straight as he could get it, he twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, I'd say it sucks too.”

“I also feel bad about him saddling you with me.” Kinney leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Tozzi was your partner, and this is your investigation. I don't want to horn in on what you've been doing. I've got a full plate with my own cases, so I don't need any more.”

“Did you tell him that?”

Kinney nodded. “He didn't want to hear about it. I think he was only interested in busting your balls.”

“Short-term gains are his specialty.” Gibbons bent the paper clip into an L so that it spun faster when he twirled it.

“How about if I do the computer work on Tozzi that he wants to
see while you go about your business on this case? Keep me posted on anything I need to know in case he corners me. Otherwise it's all yours.”

“Fine with me,” Gibbons said.

“Great.” Kinney smiled. “I appreciate this, Bert.”

“No problem.”

Gibbons wondered if he should tell Kinney that he hated being called Bert.

Kinney pulled out that gold stop-sign-shaped pocketwatch and checked the time. “Shit. I've gotta run.” He clicked the watch closed and got up to leave. “Lunch date.”

After he was gone, Gibbons pondered the term “lunch date.” It sounded like the kind of phrase they use in fashion magazines. He imagined a woman in a tight skirt and a hat with a brim wider than a pizza, picking at a spinach salad but not really eating it. Kinney was okay, though, Gibbons thought. But for the time being he could still call him Bert.

When Gibbons got home that evening, he cracked open a beer and started making a big breakfast for dinner—three fried eggs, a few slices of pork roll, and rye toast. He would've liked home fries with that, but they were too much trouble to cook and anyway they never tasted as good as diner home fries when he made them at home. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a classical station; the strains of a Liszt piano sonata competed with the sizzle of the frying pan. The music reminded Gibbons of fancy Viennese pastry topped with swirls of sweet cream and ribbons of icing.