"File away, lieutenant. I'm pretty sure nobody in D.C. will give a shit about your whining. This investigation is a matter of national security. It's for the big boys and girls, not crybabies," he said, and walked to the car with Jessica, fully expecting to get punched in the back of the neck.
Always the gentleman, he opened the front passenger door for Jessica, avoiding the burning stare from Moody as he crossed back over to his own door. After he was seated behind the wheel of the distasteful rental car, he opened the purse in her lap without her permission, digging around inside it. She protested his invasion of privacy, but he pulled out the car keys before it got serious, and started the car.
He glanced around, checking for any of the local idiots that might decide to take matters into their own hands. Lieutenant Moody just stared at the car shaking his head, then spoke into a radio. An officer hopped into the Suburban immediately forward of Edward's car, and moved it out of his way onto the Petrovich's driveway. Edwards edged his own car forward and squeezed by the second Suburban. By the time he picked up speed, a few more police vehicles had moved to let him pass.
So that's it, he thought. Show a little balls, and get a little respect. He despised the low level of functioning that embodied their bullying world. None of this was tolerated in the FBI, where competence and intelligence was valued more than your ability to "square off" against another colleague. Then again, he had to remind himself there was a reason he investigated national security level crimes, and these guys sniffed around dumpsters all day.
"You alright?" he said, as the car cleared the maze of flashing red and blue police lights.
"I think so. I just want to talk to my husband. Something is wrong here, and I don't know how to help him," she said.
"The best thing you can do to help him is to convince him to come out of hiding. To turn himself in to us. He's in serious danger from the types of guys you saw back at the house. They don't care if there was mix up. His name and face went out on a national alert. They kill him if they find him before we do."
"Why would he be hiding?" she said.
He really hoped it was the shock of the situation that was causing her to fail to grasp the implications of her husband's predicament. If she was just plain stupid, it would detract from the overall experience. Then again, what did he care? He'd fucked plenty of stupid women before, but he'd never taken any of those relationships beyond the bedroom. He had thought this one might be different.
"I think we both know he's hiding, Jessica. Let's get somewhere quiet, and figure this out."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To our satellite office on Middle Street. We have a conference room and a few spare offices. Nice and quiet," he said, and savored the idea of being alone with her in that office, though he suspected the resident agent would insist on being present.
He'd let the comment made by Lieutenant Moody about the resident agent slide for now. He needed as much cooperation as possible from the locals, and Special Agent Margaret D'Angelo seemed to be on good footing with the Portland Police Department. He'd pay her back later for the comment Moody mentioned. He had a few like-minded connections in the right places, and he'd do whatever he could to make sure she continued to draw shitty assignments like Portland, Maine. The fewer uppity women in the major field offices, the better.
"Can we grab something to eat on the way? I haven't eaten since lunch," she said, confirming his earlier observation in the kitchen.
Now he would be able to work his magic. He had always been better at the interrogation side of the business, and had no intention of caving in to her needs so quickly. Like a hostage negotiation, Edwards needed to get something from Jessica before he indulged her in any comforts. This was shaping up to be a perfect evening.
"Let's get settled in at the office, and come up with a plan to help your husband, then we can take a walk to one of the restaurants in the Old Port. My treat. I just want to get the ball rolling here. He may not have a lot of time."
She nodded absently at his comment, and he could feel that this would turn out to be a very productive night for him. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Special Agent D'Angelo.
Chapter Thirty-One
Special Agent Sharpe stood in the middle of his operations center, listening intently to the multiple streams of chatter emanating from his agents. He kept a constant eye on the screens mounted to the wall at the front of the room, and occasionally glanced at his assistant, Special Agent Mendoza, who just shook his head every time their eyes met. None of the raids had yielded a suspect, and most of the teams had reported. If they came up empty tonight, he had no idea where they could turn.
He still had Munoz, but that would quickly become a sticky situation once the lawyers figured out that he had been transferred to FBI Headquarters. According to the immunity agreement signed by the Justice Department, Munoz should be back in Hartford, closing up his coffee shops. Instead, Munoz was hopefully sitting handcuffed in the back of a van, surrounded by Boston's FBI SWAT contingent, heading across Connecticut along Interstate 95. Sharpe wasn't about to lose his only lead so quickly, especially if they come up with nothing from the raids.
As he scanned the room again, he caught Special Agent O'Reilly's eye, and she nodded discreetly, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds. Intrigued, Sharpe made his way over to her workstation. Mendoza saw the furtive transaction, and started to drift in the same direction, but Sharpe cautiously shook his head. Mendoza gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and returned to his previous position at the communications desk. Sharpe didn't want to draw any unwarranted attention to Special Agent O'Reilly's research, and having both of them at one workstation, huddled over a screen, wouldn't help matters. The fewer people involved, the better, and if it became necessary, he could make an argument to have O'Reilly's CIS agreement augmented to Level One.
"Did you find anything?" said Sharpe.
"Something rather interesting, but I'm not sure it's going to help. I got a hit on the INTERPOL database for Daniel Petrovich. Take a look," she said typing furiously at her keyboard, as one of her screens split into two similar images.
One contained Daniel Petrovich's driver's license image, with statistics and basic information listed below; the other screen showed a grainier image, most likely taken from a camera using a zoom lens, but there was little doubt that the two images showed the same man. INTERPOL's own system gave the match a 96 % accuracy rating, and he was sure that the FBI's own facial matching software would agree.
He studied the sparse details on the INTERPOL Wanted poster.
A Warrant for the Arrest of Marko Resja, suspected of war crimes related murder, is issued on behalf of The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.
He glanced at Agent O'Reilly, who turned her head slightly, and raised an eyebrow. At this point, the sooner she signed a new CIS agreement, the better. This information could ignite a firestorm if it fell into the wrong hands. Daniel Petrovich was listed on active duty in the Navy during the period of time covered by the warrant. He couldn't imagine the fallout this could create. An active duty United States service member somehow connected with Serbian war crimes? What in God's name had General Sanderson done with this group?
"Anything on the other operatives?" Sharpe said, eyes still fixed to Petrovich's image, or whoever he claimed to be.