We thanked her and walked back down the driveway. Joe kicked at a few pebbles in the street, and we stood with our backs to the house.
“No Cleveland cops are driving little Oldsmobiles,” he said. “It’s an Alero, for crying out loud. That’s not a department-issued car. No antennas on it, even.”
“You know of any detective named Davis or Davidson?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Looks like we’ve got a fake.”
He nodded and gazed back across the street, at the Westons’ house. “What we’ve got is an unknown third party,” he said. “Could be significant.”
We finished up the block and talked to two more neighbors who’d been visited by “Detective Davis” the previous day. They’d all seen a badge, but he hadn’t been in uniform, and he hadn’t been one of the cops they’d talked to in the early days of the investigation.
It was dark by the time we left. Joe wanted dinner, but I made him drive back to the office first. I wanted to call Amy and ask if she’d seen the photographs. It was late, but Amy typically went to work late in the morning and stayed until the early evening hours. I caught her at her desk.
“That’s the SUV,” she said immediately.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Those fancy alloy wheels stand out.” I could hear keys clicking on her keyboard as she typed furiously. “You have any idea what their tie to Weston is yet?”
“No, but I do have another favor to ask.”
“I don’t know, Lincoln. My car’s still in the body shop from the last favor I did you.”
“Okay,” I said casually. “That’s fine. I don’t blame you. Well, I’d better be going, but thanks for checking the photographs.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, and I grinned. “I was just giving you a hard time, Perry, don’t freak out about it. What do you need me to do?”
“You know who Jeremiah Hubbard is?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. I want to know everything he’s been up to in the last six months. He’s in the paper pretty regularly, but I want to know why, when, and who he was involved with.”
The typing on her end of the line stopped. “You think Hubbard’s got something to do with Weston?”
“He might.”
“Lincoln,” she said, “you’ve got to give me this story.”
I sighed. “Amy, we’ve been over this a thousand times. It would be very bad for business if I kept turning confidential cases over to you. I know you want a good story, but I can’t do that.”
“Bastard. Oh, well. As long as you keep me updated.” The typing resumed again. “I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
As I hung up someone rapped loudly on the glass panel of the door with his knuckles, a sound like hail on a window. Joe and I looked at each other and frowned. We weren’t used to receiving drop-in clients, and it was late in the day.
“Come in,” Joe said. The door opened and Detectives Swanders and Kraus stepped inside, accompanied by a third man I didn’t recognize. He was of average height, with a slim build and neat, carefully parted hair that looked like he spent a lot of time on it. His clothes were well tailored and unwrinkled. It was all I needed to see to know he wasn’t a cop. The briefcase in his left hand confirmed it.
“Fellas,” Swanders said, nodding at us. He was one of those rare guys who could say “fellas” as a greeting without making you wince.
“Swanders,” Joe said, nodding back at him. “Kraus. How you boys doing?”
“Doing fine,” Kraus said, dropping onto one of the stadium seats without waiting for an invitation to sit. Swanders joined him, but the stranger stayed on his feet, crossing the office with a purposeful stride that made me think he was used to being the dominant force in most rooms. He reached in his pocket as he neared the desk, withdrew a slim leather case, snapped it open, and held it out for us to see. There was a badge on the left side and an identification card encased in plastic on the right. Joe pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look but kept his feet on the desk.
“FBI,” he said. “Heavens. We’re way out of our league now.”
The stranger tilted the badge in my direction, and I looked at the name on the identification card. THADDEUS CODY, it read, SPECIAL AGENT, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
“Thaddeus,” I said. “No shit? I bet you resent the hell out of your parents, don’t you?”
He gave a tight smile. “Call me Thad,” he said. “Or Agent Cody.”
He put the leather case back in his pocket and looked from Joe to me as if expecting further reaction. A look at our faces told him he wasn’t going to get it, so he nodded and sat down.
“You gentlemen been in business long?” he asked, crossing his legs at the ankles after smoothing the crease in his slacks.
“Same office for nineteen years,” Joe said.
Cody raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cody glanced at Swanders and then said, “What’s the point of lying to me, Mr. Pritchard? You’re not exactly getting off to a great start.”
Joe dropped his feet to the floor and pulled his chair up to the desk. “What’s the point of asking questions you already know the answers to, Agent Cody? And I don’t give much of a damn what kind of start we get off to, considering you weren’t asked to come here. If you’ve got something to talk to us about, why don’t you start talking? Otherwise, I’ll be on my way to get some dinner. It’s late, and I’m a grumpy old man who likes his food.”
Swanders snorted and turned to Cody. “Told you.”
“Told him what?” I asked.
“Told him you fellas might be difficult just because you feel like it.”
I grinned at him. “That’s the beauty of being self-employed.”
Cody cleared his throat and gave us a pained expression, as if maybe he’d picked up a splinter from the stadium seat.
“I apologize, gentlemen.” He nodded at Joe. “There was no need for me to start off by asking questions I already know the answers to. And, yes, I’ve got something to talk to you about.”
“Our rates are pretty reasonable,” I said. “But if you’re wanting us to crack a challenging case that has you FBI boys stumped, the retainer fee is going to be sizable. We run the risk of damaging our reputation by hanging out with Bureau boneheads.”
Cody pointed his index finger at me and opened his mouth to snap off a quick retort but then stopped himself. He tucked the finger back into his fist and dropped his hand to his lap, then turned his head to the ceiling and exhaled heavily, like he was releasing tension and coming to peace with himself before assuming a yoga position. I thought for a minute he might roll right onto the floor, stand on his head, maybe, or strike a swan pose. He kept his eyes on the ceiling for a few seconds and then rolled his head back down, smiling now.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “How about we put a spotlight on you two, give you ten, maybe fifteen minutes for the comedy routines? You can take shots at my employer, my wife, my mother, whatever. When you’ve completed the first act, I’ll applaud real politely, and then maybe we can get down to business.”
Kraus laughed, and Joe shrugged. “Let’s just get down to business, Cody.”
He nodded, then leaned down and opened his briefcase. He withdrew a manila folder and took four eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs from it. He spread them on the desk, facing us. I immediately recognized two of the men in the pictures; they were Rakic and Krashakov, the Russians I’d spoken with earlier in the day. The other two I didn’t know. One was a heavyset man with a thick mustache, fleshy chin, and small dark eyes. The other was younger, with dark hair, a goatee, and a nasty scar across his left temple.