Chapter 7 #2
That conversation had taken place six months ago on a slow day at police headquarters.
Finding himself sitting idle and trying to stir up business, Mitch had called Tucker to see if there had been any leads on the investigation into the murder of his colleague, Randy Nelson.
At that point in time, the case had been cold for over two years.
The consensus was that Nelson’s murder had been payback for a successful drug bust that had yielded a huge harvest of cocaine, fentanyl, and Oxy.
You name it, the DEA and affiliated agencies had scored big, largely due to the undercover work of Randy Nelson and, in conjunction with him, Mitch Haskell.
Somehow—probably no one would ever know how—Nelson had been found out. The agency was certain that his murder had been a contract hit intended to make an impression that would discourage anyone else from interfering with Oz’s lucrative enterprise.
On that slow day when Mitch had asked about a new lead, Tucker had hedged, but eventually agreed to meet Mitch for coffee. After ten minutes of more hem-hawing, he’d relented and told him about Roland Malone.
“He owns and operates an Italian restaurant on Esplanade. I checked it out. Delicious food. Classy place. But it’s a front. He’s high up in the trade, hand in glove with Oz.”
“How’d you get on to him?”
“From a traitor who shall remain nameless.”
“Jim.”
“Nameless, Mitch. We have the snitch on about twelve felony counts, including conspiracy on a hit. We applied enormous pressure, he became cooperative, and then completely turned. He’s tucked away, in the protective custody of US marshals, and will be an important witness in court. If we ever get Malone indicted.”
“How close are you?”
“How far’s the moon? We can’t build a case on this felon’s word alone, and if we tried to get an indictment without something substantive in our back pocket—”
“You’d be tipping your hand to Malone.”
“Who’s as slick as owl shit. Also, real bad news. There’s been another hit since Nelson.”
“Another agent?”
“No, one of Oz’s dealers. Flashy guy. Flamboyant, loud-mouthed, big spender, and therefore dangerous to the operation.”
“Killed the same way as Nelson?”
“Yes. And now Paul Adler and that girl. Choked with what the ME guessed was a razor-sharp garrote. We believe Roland Malone not only has fingers in Oz’s business, but that he’s Oz’s executioner of choice.”
“What does the snitch say about it?”
“Not a goddamn thing. He stonewalls on anything regarding Malone, which, of course, makes us believe Malone does Oz’s wet work. But he does it so cleanly, we can’t nail him.”
In the six months since that conversation, neither the DEA nor any other agency had gathered evidence strong enough to get Roland Malone indicted. And they had to have Malone before they had a prayer of getting to the overlord he worked for: the faceless mastermind nicknamed Oz.
Mitch took another cautious look around the bar. Gus was schmoozing three young women who’d ventured in and were being ogled by the construction workers. No one appeared to be interested in Mitch, but paranoia was ingrained.
He asked, “Any significant evidence found at the crime scene on Bayou Coeur?”
“They’re still looking.”
“That means either no or you’re not telling.”
“That means they’re still looking, Mitch.”
“I was told the victims weren’t killed at the scene. Bodies were dumped, just like Nelson’s was.”
“So was the talkative dealer’s,” Tucker said.
“In Bayou Coeur?”
“No. He was found in a lake across the river in Mississippi.”
Mitch took a moment to process all this, then said, “The Adler hit has Malone’s imprint all over it. You know that, Jim. Talk to me.”
“Damn you, Mitch,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. We’re not advertising that we’re involved in this investigation. Not yet. It would be like switching on the light in a room full of roaches. They’d scatter.”
“But you’re looking at Malone?”
“Discreetly.”
“But closely.”
“Discreetly, Mitch. And I mean it.”
“I got it, I got it. Just keep me posted.”
“If I can.”
“You owe me, Jim.”
“For what?”
“For setting you up with… what was her name? Teresa? Terry?”
“We had one date!”
“Not my fault you mucked it up.”
Tucker swore again, then, “Look, I’ve gotta ask. What’s up with you and Bowie?”
Shit. “You’ve got a double hit on your hands, but it’s our tiff y’all are talking about over there?”
“So it’s true? You two are on the outs?”
“It’ll blow over.”
“Will it?” He paused, then asked, “Are you sober?”
“I wasn’t last Saturday night.”
“So they’re saying.”
“John got his shorts in a wad over it.”
“And then some, I heard.”
Jesus, the grapevine was thorough. “And then some,” Mitch admitted. “But we’re chill now.”
“You swear?”
“We’re chill.”
“All right then. I’ll update you if something worth sharing turns up.”
“Thanks, Jim.” He was about to click off when the other man halted him.
“One more thing,” the agent said.
“Still here.”
Tucker took a breath, blew it out. “You didn’t ask for advice or coaching. But I gotta say this. It’s no secret that the past couple of years have been hell for you. Under the circumstances, understandable.
“So cut yourself some slack, all right? The last thing you need is to bring down more shit on yourself. After I told you about Roland Malone, you said Bowie was lukewarm on him. So don’t get under Bowie’s skin over this possible-but-not-proven Bayou Coeur tie-in.
You’re an outstanding cop. It would be a damn shame if you fucked up your future by going off on a wild hare. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tucker sighed. “Yeah, right.” He clicked off.
Jim Tucker wouldn’t have told him everything he was privy to about the double murder or what the DEA had or didn’t have on Roland Malone. Remaining tight-lipped was a rigid rule of federal agencies.
But Mitch hadn’t told Tucker everything he was privy to, either.
Ellie had left at six o’clock after showing out Dylan’s last patient.
Dylan had stayed to review the handwritten notes she’d taken on a legal pad during today’s sessions, as well as those from yesterday, and had spent the last three hours transcribing them into each patient’s computer file.
Because her mind had continued to drift, the work had taken longer than usual. She was ready for home, a glass of wine, and a soaking bath. But she had one more patient file to review. The one she’d intentionally saved for last. Mitch Haskell’s.
She opened the leather portfolio and lifted out the yellow legal tablet.
She wasn’t surprised to see how very little there was on it to transcribe, so she pushed away from the desk in her inner office and, taking the notepad with her, went into the other room where she could contemplate more comfortably.
She hadn’t taken many notes during her session with Mitch because most of what he’d said hadn’t been noteworthy.
She’d recognized his derisiveness as a shield against any serious subject she might broach, but it had left her with very little to work with.
She hadn’t jotted down any key words she could later use in an effort to unlock something important that he was withholding.
The only time he’d revealed anything significant was when he hadn’t said anything at all. It had been when she’d asked him if last week’s drinking binge had to do with the anniversary date of his wife’s death. He’d divulged more by saying nothing than—
Suddenly the lock in the private exit door clicked, the knob turned, and the subject of her thoughts walked in. “This won’t keep until Thursday,” he said, and pushed the door shut with the heel of his boot.