The Famous and the Dead (24 page)

“That's what we'll find out, Mary Kate.”

“I like it when you say my name. Please talk to me now as an equal.” He asked about dinner and laughed when she said it was so good she'd eaten two. He asked about the play she was going to be in, and he said he'd always liked
Of Mice and Men
, and that he'd seen the countryside in California where the story was set. They talked about how her work at KFC was going, and after a while she felt like this was a conversation with a friend or relative. The SUV did not return. After she hung up, she got the numbers from her phone and her tattered address book, then settled back in the chair facing the window and texted them to Hood. She looked out at the street after every few entries. The rain looked like the tinsel you'd put on a Christmas tree. Two hours later she woke up with the bedspread pulled up tight and her phone on the floor.

T
he next morning Hood arrived early for work, parked in the semi-secure tenants' lot, and pulled his war bag from the front seat of the Charger. He set it on the roof while he got his coat on and locked up, then used his reflection in the car window to adjust his felt fedora and snug his tie. He was wearing his best navy power suit and highly polished black Allen Edmonds cap-toes to ward off the sense of defeat that had hounded him since the death of his father and the OGR hearing. As he approached the stairs, a woman with a large microphone and a man with a video camera were waiting for him just outside the small lobby of the elevator bank. He recognized the reporter. The man was already shooting and the woman surged into Hood's airspace with a flourish of hair and lipstick. “ATF Agent Charlie Hood, I'm Theresa Brewer with Fox News in L.A. How are you today?”

“A little early to tell.”

“What
can
you tell us about the gun allegedly used to kill Congressman Scott Freeman in San Diego last Saturday?”

“That's not our investigation.”

“But you testified to Congress earlier this week about the gun.”

“It's an automatic machine pistol made by Pace Arms of Orange County.” Hood pulled the fedora brim low and stepped past them into the elevator lobby. But the woman followed him and the videographer was still shooting.

“Is it true that you personally
visited
the accused assassin, Lonnie Rovanna, just five days before he murdered Congressman Freeman?”

“I interviewed him as part of an ongoing investigation.”

“What were you investigating?”

“I can't comment.”

“Is it true that ATF lost track of one thousand such weapons in a botched investigation in two thousand ten?”

“It wasn't botched. We got outmaneuvered.”

“But the guns went into Mexico, correct?”

“We believe so.”

“And now, apparently, at least one has come back to kill a United States congressman.”

Hood hustled up the stairs to the second-story ATF offices. The steel steps made a ringing sound that echoed in the concrete stairwell. He heard Theresa Brewer's footsteps behind him. “Representative Darren Grossly accused ATF of ‘irresponsible actions' regarding these automatic weapons. He said the Department of Justice is, at the highest levels, quote, ‘trying to cover up these actions by stonewalling' his investigation. Is this true?”

Hood stepped onto the first floor landing and turned to face the journalist. “I testified. I didn't stonewall. Have a nice day.”

“Did you act alone?”

“We always work in teams. Good-bye. I'm going to go to work now.”

“Before you testified, did your superiors at ATF ask you to protect their superiors? Maybe even the attorney general himself?”

“Don't be silly.” Hood tipped his hat and unlocked the ATF suite with his name tag chip. Dale Yorth glanced at him from the water-cooler in the hallway. Theresa Brewer was asking another question as the heavy door locked behind Hood. He made it to his cubicle, aimlessly enraged, his heart beating hard.

Yorth soon stood looking down at Hood over the low fabric partitions of the workspace. “Fox News?”

“They must have seen me on C-Span.”

“So did everybody else. I'm so sorry about this, Charlie. Can I come in?”

Yorth sat next to Hood's desk in the crowded cubicle. He had a slip of paper in his hand. “I just got off the phone with San Diego. Frank's gotten interview requests from
The
New York
and
Los Angeles Times
,
The
Wall Street Journal
,
Time . . .
” He looked down at the paper. “Well . . . I couldn't write fast enough. They all want to know about the Love Thirty-twos and they all want interviews with you. Soriana referred them to Washington but you know damned well they'll be back. That
Union-Tribune
story yesterday really caught fire. Shit. Hold on.” Yorth pulled his cell, checked the number and answered, then was quiet for a long while. “Yes, sir. Okay. Now that's a damned shame. He's here now. Yes, sir, I will. No, sir, he won't.”

He hung up and shook his head. “Lansing just let IA loose on you, Charlie. You're officially jammed as of right now. ATF has to show that something is being done. So I'm to put you on administrative leave. The leave is paid—you just have to stay home and be accounted for. In a way it's good. It will let you dodge these reporters. You know how it is—they'll lose interest in a few days. Sorry, but this is direct from Lansing.”

“Can I keep working?”

“AL is fully paid.”

“It's not about the
pay
. It's about Wampler. For all we know he's still got that Stinger and he intends to use it.”

“Do what you need to do, Charlie. Bust Wampler's ass. But I don't want to know about it. Just pick up the phone when IA calls. Be there. Act good. I'm on your side.”

“I'm taking the laptop.”

“I don't hear you.”

•   •   •

Hood went to his office and called Mary Kate's parents and siblings. Only her brother knew of Clint Wampler at all, and he knew very little—just some badass punk from a few towns over. But they all admitted to having told friends and neighbors about Mary Kate's move to California. Her mother had to inform the school district, that was the law. Hood realized that scores of people in Russell County could know she'd gone to L.A. and the ones who knew her might assume she'd gone to stay with her old friend, Amy. All it took was one of them to be an acquaintance of Wampler and the circuit was complete.

When Hood reached Amy by phone in L.A. she sounded vague and dismissive. Hood smelled fear. It took a few minutes of earnest cajoling but she finally admitted that Clint Wampler had showed up at her apartment when Victor was working. He'd put his hand on her throat and demanded to know where Mary Kate Boyle had got to and said if she went to the cops he'd come back and strangle her and leave her for Victor to explain.
I'm real afraid
, she said.
Is Mary Kate okay? I shoulda called the cops. I shoulda, I shoulda.

Hood told Mary Kate by phone, and for the first time in the several hours he'd spent with her, she was temporarily speechless.

“Where are you now?”

“Walking to work.”

“Are you close?”

“Yeah, another two blocks.”

“Good. Once you're inside, don't leave. Make sure you aren't alone there.”

“Hard to be alone, with a crew of four.”

“I'm going to make arrangements with a motel we work with in San Diego. It's a decent place. I'll send a cab for you at work and it will bring you there. Figure about one hour. Don't go back to the Windsor Arms. Don't pack. Don't panic. Just do your job and get into that taxi when it arrives. You're going to vanish for a few days, Mary Kate. Be invisible. Can you do that?”

“That hick bastard. I'm gonna lose my job and my room because of him? I got rehearsal later, you know.”

“You'll get back everything. Right now, just stay invisible.”

“I don't scare easy but he gives me the genuine creeps, Charlie.”

Hood read the news to ATF Buenavista: The crazy with the Stinger was on to Mary Kate Boyle, and probably on to them, too.

•   •   •

An hour later Yorth scouted the parking lot for reporters, then Hood locked the laptop in the trunk of his Charger and climbed in. The car bounced into the bright sunlight of Buenavista. He drove toward Castro Ford listening to the reports of rain in San Diego and he looked out at the endless blue sky overhead. He felt betrayed but free. ATF would fire him soon and loudly, he thought: damage control. It was a perilous feeling to know how very small he was within the bureaucracy, how unimportant and discardable, a single-use man. He wondered if the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department would can him, too.

He drove around to the rear of the dealership lot and parked in his usual place. He fished his camera from behind his seat and brought the new-car intake area into focus. All three rolling doors were up and he could see two men working on a white Taurus. There were three other vehicles waiting for attention but the dazzling cobalt blue Explorer was not one of them. His heart fell a little. He heard a Tejano-style song coming from the prep men's radio.

Mary Kate called and told him she had walked right past KFC and checked into a hotel of her own damn choice, using cash and a fake name, and Clint was nowhere to be seen. Hood took the name and address and told her to have food delivered and she said she'd already bought enough stuff at the market to last two days. She had a microwave and a pint-size fridge. And she'd talked to Tony at KFC, too, and he said he'd cover for her, no problem, just come back when she could and she'd have her old job. He'd offered to help but she hadn't told him squat about what was really going on.

“Don't rehearse tonight.”

“It's an evening rehearsal and I'm going.”

“He'll cruise downtown when you don't go back to the Windsor. Easy to spot you. Don't be a fool.”

“I'm nobody's fool, Charlie Hood. Not even yours.”

She hung up on him. Hood dialed but she didn't take the call. He drove around front and parked near Castro's silver Flex. The salesmen eyed him with a new humorlessness and Hood figured he'd been made. He headed across the lot to where the new SUVs were waiting but no salesman bothered to follow. He walked the rows of Explorers but the one he'd seen in the prep area—much like the one described by Mary Kate Boyle—was not there. He circled back and stepped inside the showroom to find that the display cars had been changed. He paused to check out the new black F-150 outfitted for off-road, a pink Fiesta, and a burgundy-colored Flex. The pickup stirred him.

“Hey, it's Charlie Hood, ATF's finest.” Castro came toward him, tossing one of the promotional Castro Ford soccer balls from hand to hand. “Come back to buy that Taurus?”

“I had my eyes on a cobalt blue Explorer but now it's gone.”

A shadow of doubt crossed Castro's face. “That's what happens to cars. Kind of like guns. They just vanish sometimes. I saw you for a few seconds on TV and I thought, man, I'm trying to sell that guy a Ford. Congress! You're a mover and shaker, Charlie. You should be thinking Lincoln Town Car, not Taurus
or
Explorer.”

“You sold it?”

“To a very nice soccer mom.” Castro spun the soccer ball on one finger, as if this confirmed his statement.

“Can you get another one?”

“Sure. But I can sell you a black one you'd like even better. Look, you've got black shoes and a black belt. Black is what a secret agent should drive.” Castro shot the soccer ball into the big bin of balls over by the Fiesta. “Of course, since you're government you've got that Charger for free, right? So why do you need to buy an Explorer?”

“I need a car of my own.”

Castro studied him. “No. I don't want to sell to you. Never thought I'd hear myself say that. What I want is for you to get out of my dealership. You proved on TV that feds are idiots. I don't sell Fords to idiots. Ford Motor Company didn't take fed bailouts either, like Chrysler. You deserve that piece-of-junk, government-subsidized wop Charger.” Castro barged through the front door and stood with his hands on his hips, barking out at the salesmen. “Hey, men! You see this guy drive up again, call the cops, okay? Tell them Israel Castro needs their help with a trespasser!”

Hood tipped his hat to Castro and burned rubber on his way out. Down Interstate 8 he tried again and got Mary Kate to pick up. “Keep inside, Mary Kate. Please. And call nine-one-one if something happens—if you even
suspect
that something is happening. Tell them you're part of a federal investigation and you're afraid for your life. Then call me. I'm asking you to do this.”

“I didn't think you cared.”

“Don't go to rehearsal. Keep the deadbolt thrown and don't leave the room.”

“I know what to—”

“Don't leave the room.”

“Okay! Okay! Fine. I'll sit right here at this rickety little table and wait for a handsome man with diamonds in his teeth to come rescue me.”

Hood said nothing, watched the ocotillo flashing past.

“You'd at least do that for me, Charlie. Right?”

“I would do that. Please, Mary Kate, stay low.”

“Charlie, I'm a blacksnake crawlin' through the berry patch.”

•   •   •

He drove up the steep dirt road toward his home. Cresting the rise he saw his home and the familiar carport and the Fox News van and Erin standing at the open front door, talking to Theresa Brewer while Gabe Reyes yelled and waved at the video guy, who was backing up slowly but shooting. The dogs bounded around, barking. Hood gunned the Charger and skidded to a stop in the gravel. The video shooter swung away from Gabe and captured Hood's brisk advance.

“Here's Agent Hood just now,” said Theresa Brewer.

“No, Charlie!” called Erin. “It's okay!”

“Be cool, Charlie!” yelled Reyes. “I got this.”

Hood was not only tall but fast and he covered the ground to the videographer before the man could get the camera down. Hood twisted it away and fumbled distractedly for the delete buttons as Daisy and Minnie herded and barked at the cameraman.

“These dogs bite?” he asked, backpedaling.

Erin waddled from the house wearing a loose muumuu, white hibiscus on a red background, both hands under her giant middle for support. “It's
okay
! I asked them to leave and
they were leaving
, Charlie!”

“And
you're
committing a crime,” Brewer told Hood. “You're abridging the constitutional rights of a free press.”