Bad Guys (4 page)

Inappropriate furnishings for an FBI field office, Gibbons thought, looking around the room. He'd always thought so. Eleven-by-thirteen Bokhara rug. Oversized mahogany desk. Swiss mantel clock next to the IBM pc. Color picture of the president on the wall over Ivers's head. Strange yellow-beige color on the walls, the color of eggnog. Gibbons looked around for a picture of J. Edgar, but he couldn't find one. J. Edgar wouldn't have approved of eggnog-colored walls. He wouldn't have approved of yellow walls. Just white, plain white.

Ivers's clothes wouldn't have sat well with the Old Man either. Three-piece, navy pinstripe. Sapphire stickpin in a powder-blue silk tie. Matching silk handkerchief carefully arranged in his pocket. Pastel blue shirt with a white collar. Blow-dried hair. Very ostentatious, even for the SAC of the Manhattan field office.

Ivers swept his nail parings into his hand and deposited them in the wastepaper basket. It was the only varnished wood wastepaper basket Gibbons had ever seen in his life.

“Well, Bert,” Ivers finally said, “how's retirement treating you?”

No one called him Bert, and no one ever referred to him by his
real first name, Cuthbert. It was Gibbons, just Gibbons. He could have corrected Ivers—again—but this time he didn't bother. It was good to hear these false familiarities every once in a while; it reminded him who his real friends were.

“Retirement is . . . quiet,” Gibbons said. “I get a lot of reading done.”

Ivers nodded, a dopey grin on his face. He probably thought that expression was enigmatic and inscrutable, but it wasn't.

“You didn't
have
to retire, you know? You met all the physical requirements, Bert. I'll bet you could've gone on to sixty. I could've fixed it with Washington . . . if you'd only have asked me.”

Gibbons exhaled, long and slow. This could almost be funny. No one wanted him out more than Ivers. He knew damn well what Ivers thought of him: an asshole from the old Bureau, one of “Hoover's goons.” He knew what Ivers was thinking right now: Look at this dinosaur, still wearing J. Edgar's regulation summer outfit, the seersucker suit, white shirt, regimental striped tie, black lace-up shoes (shined), summerweight straw snap-brim hat. But what the hell did he expect? After thirty years of being one way, a man isn't interested in changing his style.

“Well, Ivers”—Gibbons paused to relish the SAC stiffening as he heard his name used casually and without title—“fifty-five is old enough for an agent, don't you think? Old warhorses just hold up the campaign.” Gibbons smiled like a crocodile.

Ivers fingered his chin and smiled back. “I always liked your quaint allusions to the Roman Empire, Bert. Reading your reports always reminded me of my prep-school Latin exams. Do you still think of the FBI as the Roman legions enforcing the laws of the empire? Keeping the
pax
?”

“Absolutely.”

Ivers nodded slowly; he tried too hard to be clever.

Gibbons uncrossed his legs and pulled on his earlobe. “Are the pleasantries over now, Ivers?” Gibbons was never very good at niceties.

“You want to tell me why I'm here, or shall we talk about the kids next?”

Ivers leaned back in his chair. “There's one kid I want to talk about.”

“Who's that?”

“Mike Tozzi. Have you heard from him lately?”

Gibbons shrugged. “Not since the Bureau—in its infinite wisdom—decided to transfer him out to the graveyard.”

“Do you know why he was being sent out to Butte? Because he was a cowboy, a hothead who had to learn how to take orders.”

Gibbons grinned nostalgically. What a character Tozzi was. The only partner Gibbons ever got along with. “Well, he did come over to us from the DEA,” he pointed out to Ivers. The guys at the Drug Enforcement Administration were all cowboys, or at least that's how it seemed a while back. When it came to nabbing drug smugglers, they believed the means always justified the ends. Gibbons pictured Tozzi riding shotgun through the Everglades on one of those propellered swamp buggies, whatever the hell they're called. “As I remember, at one time you liked having a cowboy on board. He was good for the dirty work, you said. The attack dog in our stable, you once called him, I believe.”

Ivers didn't seem very interested in Tozzi's history. “You say you haven't heard from Tozzi since you left the Bureau?”

“He was my partner, not my wife.” Thank God.

Ivers glared at Gibbons, who was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Tozzi has become a problem, a potential embarrassment.” Ivers's tone was solemn now. “A potential scandal.”

“What's he done?”

“He's disappeared,” Ivers said. “I think he may have gone renegade.”

A renegade agent? Tozzi? Never. He's crazy, but he's not stupid.

“The Bureau hasn't had a renegade agent in some time,” Gibbons said speculatively.

Ivers picked up a file folder and handed it to Gibbons. “You recognize these.”

Inside the folder there were three pieces of paper, each one crumpled and carefully smoothed out again, then encased in its own lock-top plastic evidence bag. Gibbons scanned them; they were photocopies of top sheets from confidential FBI files. Each one had been routinely signed by the agents assigned to those cases, “C. Gibbons” and “Michael Tozzi.” The last sheet was from the file on Vincent “Clams” Clementi.

“These are cases Tozzi and I worked together,” Gibbons said matter-of-factly. “No convictions on any of them. Lack of sufficient evidence, supposedly.”

“Be more specific,” Ivers said.

Gibbons flipped through the plastic bags on his lap. “Harrison Lefkowitz, radical lawyer, celebrity, royal pain in the ass. Tozzi and I had him on harboring escaped cons, quote-unquote political prisoners. We had video and we had wiretap tapes to prove it, but for some unfathomable reason you nixed the bust, Ivers. As I recall, you said that while the evidence was fine for a routine felon, for a lawyer of Lefkowitz's cunning, the case would have to be superlative. Five weeks after we were taken off the case, one of these so-called political prisoners we observed at Lefkowitz's country house killed three people in a bank robbery in Putnam County, then went on a spree—”

“Never mind that,” Ivers interrupted. “What about the other two?”

“Congressman Danvers . . .” Gibbons smirked and shook his head. “Tozzi located his funhouse in the woods. Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Queers—or should I say the congressman's associates—making it with eight-, nine-, ten-year-old boys, all of them orphans or runaways. The congressman himself was into bondage. A regular leather boy. Washington ordered us to close that investigation. I guess it pays to be in the right party.”

Ivers was staring out the window. “And Clementi?”

Gibbons scowled. “Another guinea scumbag drug dealer. Mafia-connected, of course. Used to work for Sabatini Mistretta, then went out on his own after Mistretta's organization fell apart. The Clam set himself up with a network of junkies doing all his dirty work, junkies whose wives and kids were hooked on dope too, thanks to him. Clementi's a clever bastard, I'll give him that. Tozzi and I had him under surveillance for over a month, but we couldn't get anything on him that would stick in court.”

Ivers formed a steeple with his fingers. “Interesting.”

“Why am I here, Ivers?”

“Clementi, Lefkowitz, Congressman Danvers . . . all dead, murdered.”

Ivers let his statement hang in the air as if it meant something.

“Good,” Gibbons finally said.

“A United States congressman is murdered and you say ‘good'?” Ivers seemed hurt and disappointed by Gibbons's reply.

“I can't say he didn't deserve it.”

“That's not the point.”

“Then what is?”

Ivers exhaled slowly to compose himself. “Each of the victims was found with the Xeroxed top sheet from his own file crammed into either his mouth or . . . some other orifice.”

Gibbons couldn't hold back his grin.

“Furthermore those copies were made in this office, on the copier in the File Room.”

“And that's why you think Tozzi killed them? To borrow a phrase, insufficient evidence, Ivers.”

“The bullets that killed Lefkowitz came from a thirty-eight. Clementi was killed with a forty-four, the congressman with a nine-millimeter automatic of some sort.”

“Tozzi does like to change guns a lot. Always in search of the perfect weapon.” Gibbons was getting nostalgic.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“The MO could fit Tozzi. Good work, Ivers. That's how you build a good case.”

“Cut the shit, Gibbons,” Ivers snapped, finally blowing his legendary cool. “The first murder happened six days after Tozzi went AWOL. He's left his goddamn signature on each corpse. Of course he's the killer. He wants the world to know it's him. Why? Because he's got some kind of fucked-up romantic notion that he's a hero, a Robin Hood—no, a Superman—that he can make justice happen all by himself with a couple of slugs. Well, he's not a hero. He's just another killer, just another crazy with a gun and a cause. I want him neutralized, Gibbons. That's why you're here.”

Gibbons let it all sink in for a minute. “You're telling me that you want an old man to come out of retirement to put out a young stud with a mission?” He laughed out loud. “You're shittin' me, Ivers. Can't your men find him? Christ, he's only one guy.”

“I'm not asking, Gibbons,” Ivers said grimly.

A mean grin spread across Gibbons's lined face. “You guys can't find him, can you? And I'll bet you haven't even put him on the Most Wanted List because he'll make the Bureau look bad. Tozzi must be a better agent than I thought. I imagine this whole situation is pretty embarrassing for you, Ivers.”

“Look, Gibbons, the Bureau has the right to recall any agent in an emergency. You know Tozzi better than anyone who's currently active. Besides, you're intimate with his family. As of right now you're reactivated. Your orders are to find Tozzi and neutralize him.” Ivers avoided
Gibbons's eyes and stared at the pulsating green cursor on the screen of his computer.

Gibbons glared at Ivers. He was not intimate with Tozzi's goddamn family. Just Lorraine. And that was none of his business anyway. “And how the hell am I supposed to find him if the whole goddamn Bureau can't?” Gibbons asked angrily.

“The whole goddamn Bureau doesn't know anything about Tozzi. This is still an internal matter confined to this field office. Tozzi was your partner. You knew him better than anyone. I'm giving you carte blanche on this. Do whatever you have to. Just find Tozzi and”—Ivers paused and looked down at his blotter—“eliminate him before he hits anyone else.”

Gibbons mulled it over for a second, revealing nothing in his face. He wasn't convinced that Tozzi was responsible for these killings, but if it was true—well, he had broken the law and the law had to be enforced. “What about expenses?”

“Don't worry about that. I'll get you whatever you need.”

“I'll need access to the files on everything he worked on, including the cases he had before we worked together.”

Ivers nodded. “You'll have complete access to the files, plus unrestricted use of the computer. All Bureau field offices will be notified that you're on special assignment. You'll get total cooperation with no questions asked.” For just a moment, Ivers looked sad and disturbed.

Gibbons pulled on his lower lip, still mulling it over. “Sounds good,” he finally said as he stood up to leave. “I accept your kind offer, Ivers. Retirement is a fucking bore anyway.”

“One more thing,” Ivers said as Gibbons reached for the door. “Do you need a weapon?”

“Nope.” Gibbons closed the door softly behind him.

Bill Kinney filled his glass from the bottle of Beck's on the table in front of him. The waitress came by then and refilled Varga's coffee cup as she set down his hamburger. Kinney glanced at the crowded plate, French fries and coleslaw piled high on either side of the burger. He hated watching Varga eat.

Varga reached for the ketchup and poured out a neat mound at the edge of the fries. “So,” he said, “am I supposed to worry about this guy Tozzi?”

Kinney sipped his beer and shook his head.

Varga drew a ketchup circle on his burger. “You sure?”

Varga was getting to be an old lady. He knew damn well he had nothing to worry about. There was no reason for this meeting. “Tozzi doesn't know anything about you. He's got his own agenda.”

“And what's that?” Varga picked up the burger and took a bite. The fat under his chin shook as he chewed. Kinney looked away.

“He's getting back at all the guys he couldn't put away fair and square. The Clam just happened to be one of them. I'm sure Tozzi doesn't know he was connected to you. I'm the one who did the postmortem report on his apartment. Tozzi had been there, but I'm convinced he didn't find a thing. He tore the whole place apart, which just indicates how frustrated he was. Believe me, I know these things. Anyway the Clam was too smart to keep anything that incriminating around the house.”