Appropriate, he thought, since my career has turned to garbage.
People had been staring at him all day, mostly silent. One of the veteran agents, a big ex-military guy named Dunn, had leaned in, shaken his hand, and said, “Really fucked up big time, didn’t you, Irish?” But most of the others just looked at him. He couldn’t tell what the looks meant, but settled on a mixture of pity and contempt.
His phone rang at one minute after nine a.m., summoning him to the office of the special agent in charge of the Tucson office. Sean walked unsteadily to the corner office of Sonny Weller, who looked nothing like a “Sonny.” Weller was another big guy. Sean was six three, and Weller had a good four inches and sixty pounds on him, none of it fat. His head was shaved bald, but he sported a wheat-colored walrus mustache. His real first name was something like Devon or Emerson or Winslow, but no one in the office dared call him that. No one screwed around with Sonny Weller.
“Sit,” Weller said. Sean could tell he was barely keeping his voice under control.
Sean sat. Weller made no move to close the office door. So he wanted the whole office to know what was about to happen. He had Sean’s file centered on the desk in front of him.
“Six months ago,” Weller said, “you sat right there in that same chair and promised me this shit was through.”
No niceties, Sean thought. It was just as well. It would be over more quickly that way. He nodded.
“You were going to get straightened out. You were going to be back on track, like you were when you first came to this office.”
“Let’s get it over with,” Sean finally said.
Weller barked out something that might have been a laugh. “Over with? Oh, it’s over with, all right.” He opened the file so violently that papers flew around the desk and he had to bend over to retrieve them. “Starts simple, doesn’t it, Irish? Eighteen months ago, falling asleep in a briefing. Helms was sitting next to you and said you smelled like you’d gone swimming in Jack Daniel’s. A few weeks later, you missed the briefing altogether. We had to reschedule an operation just to bring you up to speed. Your paper went steadily downhill. You conveniently forgot to do your paper on the Meléndez operation, and he walked. The SOB had been smuggling tons of illegal assault rifles across the border for two years. We spent a year and a half building the case with ATF. And he fucking walked, Kelly! Because you ‘forgot’ to fill out the proper forms.”
“Sorry,” Sean mumbled.
“Yeah, well. January of this year. You decided to party hearty and go get shit-faced before the op at Naco. Remember that one? The sixty illegals in the back of the cattle truck? We missed them, because you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You were so out of it you drove down the wrong road and were twenty fucking miles away!” His voice continued to rise.
“Sonny-”
“No, don’t ‘Sonny’ me. I gave you more chances than you deserved. As for yesterday, you totally skipped the operation. Arivaca is the middle of a fucking war, Irish. It’s the drug runners versus us versus the locals. Here we were, with this joint task force-us, the Bureau, DEA-doing what we’re supposed to do, namely keeping this country’s borders safe. DEA’s been undercover with Ray Acosta in Arivaca for six months. We’re ready for the raid, but see, our office’s forward observer isn’t there. You were supposed to be on the road to Acosta’s place. You were to keep us aware of his movements. But no, you were drunk off your butt, in your car-nearly a hundred miles away!” Weller took the file folder and threw it across the desk at Sean.
“There’s no need-” Sean began, picking up papers.
Weller crashed his fist down on the desk. Outside the open door, people were staring. “By not providing that support, you endangered the lives of other officers, Kelly. We’re damn lucky no one got killed. Never mind that Acosta got across the border. And you know what? They’re all screaming at me. Everyone from the local U.S. attorney all the way up the line to D.C. War on drugs, war on terror, interagency cooperation…all that shit. They want my head, and I’m handing them yours.”
Weller leaned back and was silent a moment.
“How bad?” Sean finally asked.
“Administrative suspension without pay, pending a termination hearing,” Weller said. “The hearing is in thirty days, but you’re done. There’s no way you won’t be canned at this point.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “And you know what’s really shitty about all this? You’re a smart kid, you have good instincts, and you’re good at putting things together with only a little to go on. Most of the guys in this office aren’t half as smart as you are.” He leaned back again, chair squeaking. “We all like a drink now and then, Irish. Most of us have even been rip-roaring drunk a time or three in our lives. But by God, you put people’s lives at stake. You put other officers’ lives in jeopardy because of your…problem. You promised me you’d see the damn counselor, even go to AA.”
“I did,” Sean said.
“What, once?”
“Twice.”
Weller nodded. “Right. Now get going. You’ll get a certified letter with a notice of the personnel action and the hearing date. I can’t support you anymore, not when you put lives at stake.”
Sean nodded. He stood up and numbly offered his hand to Weller. Weller stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it.
“Your weapon and your creds,” Weller said.
Sean nodded again. He didn’t normally wear the gun around the office-in fact, he only carried it during actual operations-but he’d known what was coming, so he’d brought it with him this morning. He handed the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter, holstered, to Weller, then passed him the leather case with his Department of Homeland Security credentials.
Sean walked out of the office into silence. Halfway back to his cubicle, someone said, “Hey, Irish, want to hit happy hour?” He didn’t recognize the voice and didn’t care. He just felt tired.
Sean said nothing. He picked up the black trash bag with the stuff from his desk. He stopped in to say good-bye to Dunn, and to A. J. Helms, who’d become his closest friend in the office. Helms just looked stricken. He’d been the one who arranged for Sean to go to AA, had driven him to the meeting. Sean felt a twinge of guilt-he’d even deceived his best friend. Instead of going to the meeting, Sean had sneaked out the back door, then came out the front when Helms picked him up an hour later, without having ever gone into the actual meeting.
His grandfather Seamus Kelly, who’d been a beat cop in Chicago, was fond of saying, “There’s no good Irish cop worth his salt who didn’t like a good drink now and again.”
Right, Sean thought. Now and again.
He hoisted the garbage bag onto his shoulder and walked out into the high desert air of southern Arizona. He had no idea where he was going.
2
SEAN DROVE AIMLESSLY AROUND TUCSON BEFORE finally being drawn away from the city, south and west. By midday he was in Arivaca.
Arivaca was a tiny town twenty miles or so northeast of the border. It was a strange combination of cultures. Its heritage was cattle ranching, and there was open rangeland all around it. But he’d been told it had once been an artist’s colony as well, that various hippies and bohemians and artisans made it a home base during the winter. Some of that character still showed through-now and then roadside stands were set up with various arts and crafts for sale. Sean had once bought a tiger’s-eye gem from an old hippie couple that came right out of Central Casting, all the way down to the VW bus. He’d sent the gem to his sister.