Mike glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. “It won’t be unsolved for long.”
“Oh, is that right? I guess you and your old college buddy have got that one all worked out too, huh? Goddamn it, when are you going to get it through your thick fucking head that I’m in charge of this investigation!”
“You were in charge of the murder case,” Mike said. “It’s over.”
“It’s over when I say it’s over! Goddamn it, I hate it when you local peons start telling federal officers how the game is played. I make the rules, and I’ll tell you—”
Without saying a word, Mike stepped forward, grabbed Abshire’s tie and tightened the Windsor knot until Abshire started to choke. “Let me tell you what the rules are, Mr. Federal Officer. I toed the line when there was a pending investigation and prosecution, because I took an oath to defend, obey, and serve the federal government, even when it’s represented by pricks like you. But the trial is over now, and the feds are packing their bags and praise God getting the hell out of Tulsa.”
Abshire started to speak, but Mike tightened the knot until the agent’s tongue came sputtering out of his mouth. “Now, my friend, Mr. Kincaid, may be an attorney, but regardless of who his client is, he tries very hard to learn the truth and do the right thing, two motivations which you could never be accused of having. Mr. Kincaid needed a few FBI documents to complete his investigation, so I got them for him. And frankly, if you don’t like it, we’ll see how well trained you federal assholes really are.”
Mike loosened his grip just enough that Abshire could speak, barely. “What are you saying?” Abshire whispered hoarsely.
Mike smiled. “Cards-on-the-table time? I’m saying that if I find out you so much as lodged a complaint against me, I’m gonna flatten your miserable little face. Got it?”
Abshire nodded his head.
“Good.” Mike dragged him to the door, still gripping his tie. “Be seeing you.” He shoved Abshire out the office door and closed it after him.
Ben wagged his head back and forth. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mike.”
“I know,” Mike said. He grinned from ear to ear. “But, damn, it felt good.”
Mike glanced at his watch. “He’s late.” He pounded his fists together.
“Keep your machismo in check, pal. He’ll be here.”
“Then where is he?”
“Maybe he thought we were meeting at the federal building. You know how easily these guys are confused.”
“Possible. I’ll go next door and take a look around.”
With Mike’s absence, the office seemed quiet, almost dead. It was way after hours. Everyone else had gone home; the night shift worked out of a different building. Ben looked over his notes, preparing what he would say. He had to get this right. If he made stupid mistakes, he wouldn’t accomplish anything.
After two or three minutes passed, Ben heard someone walking down the outside hallway. “So did you find—” He looked up, startled. It wasn’t Mike.
“All right,” Stanford said. “I’m here. What did Morelli want, anyway?”
“Well…actually, I was the one who wanted to talk to you.”
Stanford peered through his half glasses. “What about?”
“I…think we should wait until Mike gets back.”
“Why? Surely you can say whatever you have to say without hiding behind him.”
Ben felt the burn creeping up his neck. “We can start now if you like.”
“Very good,” Stanford said. “Shoot.”
“Number one. Someone tapped my phone.”
“Indeed? Who would want to do such a thing?”
“You,” Ben said simply.
“Is that a fact?” Stanford’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What makes you think so?”
“A friend of mine named Loving. He’s the one who detected the tap in the first place. He later found the blue box on a transmission pole down the block from my office.”
“Oh, well,” Stanford chuckled. “That proves I did it.”
Ben slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is a copy of your application for a warrant to tap my phone. I gather you tried every judge in the Northern District, and they all said no. You didn’t have probable cause, and even if you did, it would’ve been a clear violation of attorney-client privilege to allow you to tap the opposing attorney’s phone while a criminal proceeding was in progress.”
“So I got turned down. So what?”
“So you did it anyway. Without authorization.”
“Suppose I did. Just speaking hypothetically. What do you care? You got your client off the hook.”
“I think the phone tap was just one renegade act in a longstanding renegade operation, orchestrated by you. At first I suspected Abshire, but then I remembered what Mike told me—that Abshire wasn’t authorized to go to the bathroom without your okay. You used Abshire, your hotheaded underling, to create a smokescreen, a camouflage. The person really pulling the strings was always you.”
“Mr. Kincaid, where do you get these farfetched ideas?”
“I’ve done some checking, using the Freedom of Information Act and some FBI records Mike managed to obtain. You haven’t had authorization for half the things you’ve done since this operation began.”
Ben slid more documents across the table. “You started this investigation almost three years ago, on your own initiative, based upon evidence, flimsy at best, that Tulsa was the drop site for a major drug-smuggling operation. After two years and the expenditure of tons of FBI money, your investigation was getting nowhere. Just when it looked as if the money would dry up and your operation would be shut down by your superiors, some new evidence providentially appeared linking Lombardi and DeCarlo to the Cali drug cartel. Evidence that you obtained from an unnamed informant who was never verified, I might add.
“Even then, the paperwork indicates the FBI denied authorization for some special operation you wanted to mount. I’m reading between the lines a bit here, but it appears you wanted to supply arms and ammunition to certain people in a certain South American country in exchange for information about drug smuggling. The FBI said no, so you borrowed some pals from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and hired a few soldier-of-fortune types to staff your operation.”
“That’s an awful lot of reading between the lines,” Stanford said, smiling pleasantly.
“Feel free to stop me anytime I go wrong.” Ben continued. “During the following year, your little cadre stirred up a lot of dust but precious little hard evidence. Nothing like the bombshell you needed to promote yourself from a mid-level paper-pushing post to a position of senior authority. To your credit, you did eventually turn up a drug-running operation, though rather a small one, which you still haven’t managed to link to Lombardi or DeCarlo. And of course, you didn’t find that operation through any investigation of your own. You found it by tapping my phone and having someone follow me around. Christina and I led you to the drop site in the Creek forest; you nabbed the bad guys and took all the credit. And shot a little boy in the process.” He glanced at Stanford. “How am I doing?”
Stanford leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. “Go on.”
“Of course, you totally blew it the night Lombardi died—you missed the delivery. You raced to Lombardi’s apartment, warrant in hand, hoping to find some drugs. They were never delivered. I don’t know why—maybe the supplier got wind that the FBI was in town, or maybe Lombardi died before he completed some essential prerequisite. You saved your butt by arresting Christina for murder. The evidence was slim, but you worked double-time making it stick, all to lend some validity to your precious investigation. You even resorted to breaking into her apartment. You, or your accomplice, must’ve been there before DeCarlo’s blond goon showed up. But he was looking for information, and Christina and I arrived before he had a chance to find anything. You were there to hide a packet of cocaine where you knew she wouldn’t find it, but the police would.”