Chapter 7
WHAT THE HELL?” URBANSKI raged, as surprised as anyone else. “That belongs to Mr. Fulsom!”
“Mr. Estevez, sir,” came the honeyed drawl of Chambers’s junior partner, “I would suggest examining the contents of that envelope in private.”
“This is outrageous!” Urbanski cried, reaching for the envelope.
Estevez pulled it back and gave everyone a hard stare, which seemed to shut them all up. “All of you, in my office.” And then, while the shocked silence still held, Estevez turned and looked at Chambers. “You too, Agent Chambers.”
Then he walked briskly down the hallway.
“I protest this in the most vehement terms!” said Fulsom. Nevertheless, he and the others followed Estevez down the hall. Chambers threaded the maze of desks and followed in their wake, aware that all eyes were turned in their direction.
Estevez opened the door and ushered everyone in. He strode past his secretary to his inner office, the others following, and shut that door hard. Then he moved behind his desk and sat down. The rest remained standing, and he made no effort to invite them to sit.
“All right, Agent Pendergast,” he said. “Mike Decker’s a personal friend of mine, and he strongly recommended you—and with FBI star power like that, I’m going to give you a little slack here.
But just a little. So before I apologize to one of our leading citizens, from whom you just snatched what looks like personal property, I’d like to hear your explanation. ”
“No explanation necessary,” said Fulsom hastily. “I demand that it be returned to me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of denying Mr. Fulsom the opportunity to hear why I picked his pocket,” said Pendergast. And with that he put his camera—a Polaroid 600 Impulse—on a nearby desk, along with its still-developing pictures.
Chambers had known from the jump his new partner played by his own rule book.
He’d also heard rumors he had a guardian angel high up in the Bureau.
But coming into the office in disguise like that, creating a bizarre spectacle in front of the entire CID—it made absolutely no sense, unless Pendergast was not just eccentric but crazy, and…
Pendergast turned to Estevez. “May I continue?”
“Just hurry up.”
“Gladly. Agent Urbanski here,” Pendergast resumed in a honeyed voice, “has made the vital point that security in this building is to be maintained at the highest level. In his latest posting he states, and I quote: Internal assessments are authorized and in fact encouraged. Or, to put it colloquially: snitch on your fellow workers if they stray.”
“Get to it,” Estevez said.
“In my admittedly short time here, I’ve noticed one particularly egregious lapse: Urbanski’s penchant for bringing men and women of wealth or authority into this secure area for private tours. A clear violation of protocol.”
“You little prick!” Urbanski began. “I have every right to bring important city officials in here—!”
“Quiet,” Estevez said, eyes still on Pendergast. “Continue.”
“Several evenings ago, while I was in the parking garage beneath the building, I happened to see a figure—whom I recognized as the distinguished Mr. Fulsom now standing before us—approach Agent Urbanski as he was getting into his car. From the body language, I gathered that our banker wanted something, perhaps a favor—and not necessarily an altruistic one. I managed to hear only the tail end of the hushed conversation, but enough to understand they would discuss the issue more fully at a restaurant in LaPlace at lunch the next day.”
Urbanski stared at Pendergast, eyes narrowed, face the color of day-old liver.
“I was troubled by this conspiratorial exchange. And so, with Agent Urbanski’s own admonitions regarding ‘internal assessments’ ringing in my head, I, too, went to LaPlace the next day, arriving at the rendezvous point a few minutes early—in the guise you saw just now—in order to have a few private words with Mr. Fulsom.
I mentioned I’d overheard the discussion in the garage the night before.
I told him that Urbanski was not a man to be trusted in such dealings; that I myself was an agent on the take and in disguise; and that if he let me pretend to be a shady lawyer employed in his service, I would see that—for a small cut—he got what he wanted.
I hinted that repulsing my offer would not result in a good outcome for him. He accepted.
“Soon afterward, Urbanski joined us. Naturally, he did not recognize me, and he swallowed Fulsom’s explanation that I was his attorney and must be part of the discussion. And then, over lunch, I learned of Mr. Fulsom’s concern about Operation Pink Champagne.”
This, Chambers knew, had been a sting operation the FBI had recently conducted in a French Quarter mansion involving sex traffickers, wealthy patrons, and underage prostitutes. Cameras had been installed, and female agents had impersonated ladies of the night.
“Sir!” Urbanski cried. “Are we really going to listen to this rookie talk such—!”
“Urbanski!” Estevez said sharply. “You’ll get your turn. Now stay quiet.”
Chambers could see Fulsom was white-faced, but at least he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
“Regarding Operation Pink Champagne, it seems Mr. Fulsom was on the premises the night before the raid. It was only after the raid that he learned about the cameras—and, according to rumor, one of the videotapes incriminated him. That videotape was duly deposited in our secure evidence room. For a consideration of fifty thousand dollars, Fulsom proposed to Special Agent Urbanski that, under the guise of a tour, he might retrieve said videotape and put the original into Fulsom’s hands. ”
This is crazy, Chambers thought—more than crazy.
“You will find the videotape in that envelope,” Pendergast said. “You will also find, among the pictures I took, the envelope being handed from Urbanski to Fulsom—I intentionally used a Polaroid so that the photos would develop in real time, and I could not be accused of doctoring them.”
He fell silent. Urbanski and Fulsom were themselves mute, as stricken as statues.
Estevez, still holding the envelope, stared at Pendergast. “Let me get this straight. You undertook, on your own, without any authorization whatsoever, to set up a sting operation—right here, in my field office? Without letting me know? And then you pickpocketed this man?”
Pendergast said nothing.
“I’m not even sure I have the legal right to open this envelope. We don’t have a warrant to search his person—and it was improperly obtained.”
“Not so, sir,” Pendergast said coolly. “We are in a high-security area on federal property, and I had direct evidence that a crime had been committed. If you check with legal, you will find that this evidence was properly obtained and will stand up in court. And of course, when you open that envelope you will find it is not his property, but the property of the FBI.”
Estevez turned red. “You have some nerve, Pendergast. Pulling a stunt like this is bad enough—but not informing your superiors makes your actions unprecedented in all my experience.”
Suddenly—without even realizing he was doing it—Chambers heard himself speak up. “Sir, before you say anything else, I think it’s important to get the facts straight here.”
Slowly, with the precision of a machine, Estevez’s eyes swiveled toward him.
“You know my record, sir—and you know my service.”
“Go on,” said Estevez, his voice with a menacing undertone.
“Agent Pendergast and I discussed this sting operation. And I—I approved it.”