Douglas prayed that the kid wouldn’t salute him.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Indeed I did, Hank.” He tapped the folder. “A fine job your team did on that Helevito case. A very nice job indeed.”
Webber beamed. “Thank you, sir. But it wasn’t really my team, it was Agent Mulder’s.”
Douglas smiled without showing any teeth. “Of course. But it seems you came up with a vital piece of the puzzle, and exhibited some very fine investigative techniques.”
He waited while the young man did his best to contain his pleasure. This, he thought, was going to be a piece of cake.
“Tell me something, Hank, how did you like working with Fox Mulder?”
“Oh, boy,” Webber said enthusiastically. “It was great. I mean, they teach you all that stuff at Quantico, but it doesn’t really have anything to do wit…” He stopped himself and frowned briefly. “What I mean, sir, isn’t that Quantico doesn’t do its job. Not at all. I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Douglas said, still smiling, hands now flat on the folder. “It doesn’t come alive, does it, until you actually see it all in action.”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
Well, of course, it doesn’t, you idiot, he thought. Someone was going to owe him big time for this. Real big time.
“And you found working with Mulder instructive?”
“Absolutely.”
“By the book, everything in its place, nothing for anyone to be ashamed of?”
He knew the young man would falter, and he did, torn between his liking for Mulder and his loyalty to the Bureau. Douglas was well aware that Mulder used the book when he had to, and his own, rather unique experience when necessary. The problem was, that experience. Half the time, it seemed like nothing but hunches; the other half consisted of such wild speculation that Douglas was amazed the man had any arrest record at all.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind, Hank. It’s not really important.” He slid his hands off the folder. “As I said, this is fine work. Thanks to you, we should have no trouble in court putting Helevito away for most of the rest of his life.” The smile faded to an expression that was both an invitation to the inner circle and a warning against betrayed confidences. “But before you decide to make Mulder your hero, there’s something you should know.”
Webber frowned his puzzlement.
“And something I’d like you to do for me.” The smile returned, this time with teeth. “A personal favor. One, I think, which will not hinder your advancement in the Bureau one iota.”
Mulder wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say next. He had already explained to Barelli as carefully as he could that he couldn’t take on the case without authorization, or without a request from the local law enforcement agency, but the reporter refused to accept it. He kept insisting this was Mulder’s kind of thing, right up his alley.
Weird stuff, Mulder thought sourly; famous throughout the whole damn world for weird stuff.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, making sure Carl heard and saw the regret. “You said yourself the woman had been drinking. And was hysterical. As anyone very well might be who had witnessed something sudden and gruesome like that. Which is why, believe it or not, eyewitnesses aren’t always the best way to pursue a case. Get three people at the scene of a violent crime like this, and I’ll guarantee three different versions of what happened.”
“Look, Fox, I know—”
Mulder held up a palm. “What I’m saying is, Carl, that this woman was obviously severely shaken up. Like I said, anyone would be, and—”
“Speak for yourself,” a dry voice said from the doorway.
Barelli instantly leapt to his feet, a great, wolfish smile cracking his solemnity. “Dana! Darlin’!”
Mulder merely looked to the door. “You’re back early.”
Dana Scully made a face, tossed her purse at him and shrugged out of her light topcoat. “I got back last night. I got tired of looking at interstates. After a few days they’re all the same — boring. And very exhausting.”
She didn’t look exhausted to him. Her light auburn hair was in place, her slightly rounded face clear of any hint of weariness, and her clothes — a ruffled blouse and wine-colored jacket with matching skirt — were impeccable!
As practically always.
“You look perfect,” Barelli said, crossed the room and engulfed her in a hug.
“Hi, Carl.” She accepted the hug for only a few seconds, then slipped out of it so deftly Mulder wanted to applaud.
He nodded toward his friend instead. “Carl has a problem, but I’m afraid we can’t help him.”
“Bullshit.” Barelli laughed heartily. “You just need some convincing, that’s all. And this is just the little lady who can do it.”
Scully avoided another hug by catching the purse Mulder tossed back to her and, at the same time, preempting the other chair.
“So how was the trip?”
She took her time answering. “Nice. Very relaxing.”
“You should have stayed the whole time.”
“What, are you kidding?” Barelli folded his arms and leaned against the jamb. “You don’t know that little lady very well, Mulder. Can’t keep her mind off business for more than two hours at a time.” His smile was seductive, he knew it, and he used it. “Which makes me glad to see you, Dana. Maybe you can talk this guy into giving a friend a hand.”
Scully quickly glared at Mulder, who had already raised his hands to offer mock applause. Instead the right hand shot to scratch at the back of his head, while the left answered the perfectly timed ringing phone beside him.
He listened.
He watched Dana watching him.
He hung up and said, “Carl, I’m sorry, but I have to see the boss.” as he rose and reached for his suit jacket. “Let Dana know where you’re staying and I’ll call you later.”
“Mulder?” Dana frowned.
“No, don’t worry, I’m not in trouble.” He paused at the door. “I don’t think I’m in trouble.” He stepped over the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “How can I be in trouble? We just closed a big case.”
FIVE
Diamond Street was barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic on its easy downward slope toward the Potomac River. Richly crowned hickory and maple lined the worn curbs, hiding for most of its length old and small, brick and clapboard homes with front lawns scarcely large enough for the name. At the top of the slope were a handful of businesses, spillovers from South Washington Street. On the west side was Ripley’s, flanked on the left by a corner grocery, and on the right by a narrow three-story Victorian converted to a dress shop on the ground floor, law offices above. The bar’s simple brick facade was deliberately no advertisement; all there was was a dark green padded door over which hung a scripted sign in red. No window large or small. It was a neighborhood bar, no outsiders or the outside need apply.
Mulder stepped in and immediately stripped off his coat, sighing a little, pushing a weary hand through his hair. To his left were a half-dozen small tables, already taken; to his right, a wall covered above dark wood wainscoting with film and old radio show posters framed in polished wood. As soon as his vision adjusted to the dim lighting, all except for the bar itself from short candles in amber chimneys on the tables and sconces on the walls, he moved slowly toward the back, down a narrow aisle created where the mahogany bar began. That was filled too, but the noise level was low.
Conversation, quiet laughter, a few nods and smiles in his direction.
When the bar ended, the room opened up into a large square, with more tables, and high-backed booths settled against the walls. There was no TV, no jukebox; the background music piped through hidden speakers was barely loud enough to register. Sometimes it was country, sometimes jazz, sometimes themes from films and Broadway shows. It all depended on the mood Stuff Felstead was in when he opened for lunch.