I GOT IN my truck with Ned. We drove around the block and then the next with Coffman and Gibbs following in their car until I came across the La Bufadora restaurant. “You up for some Mex?”
“You bet,” Ned said. “I’m starving.”
I pulled in, parked, and got out, carrying the Handsome Bandit file to go over while we ate. I already regretted the comment about catching this guy after lunch. What if we couldn’t catch him at all? I’d let Anger and his pal Mr. Ego pick my foot up and shove it in my mouth.
Coffman caught up to us and took a firm hold of my arm. Too firm. I didn’t like it. He said to Ned and Gibbs, “We’ll see you two inside. I need to talk with Bruno.”
They hesitated and then obeyed the sergeant.
I shrugged out of his grip. Sweat ran in my eyes and made me squint. Damn heat.
Coffman waited until they went inside. “I don’t mind you taking the lead on these cases. I don’t. You’re one of the sharpest street cops I have ever seen. But I’m the sergeant. I’m the one responsible for what happens out here. You understand?”
He was right. I’d gotten a little ahead of myself. I’d forgotten what it was like to work with a team, with a sergeant supervisor. I’d been working too closely with Wicks, who treated me as an equal while we manhunted the lowest form of humans: serial rapists, murderers, and urban gangsters.
“No, you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I won’t let it happen again.”
He didn’t smile and patted me on the shoulder. “I know you won’t, son.” He started walking toward the restaurant door. I followed right next to him, the file sweaty in my hand. I brought my sleeve up and wiped the sweat from my eyes.
Coffman said, “I don’t want to gig you twice in so many minutes, but that was also wrong the way you talked to those people back there. I understand that they don’t see things the way we do. They come from a different culture than we do. We come from the street. They come from colleges. We need to get along, and if it takes eating a little shit, then we’re going to belly up to the table. You understand what I’m saying here?”
“Yes, sir. I read you loud and clear. You won’t ever have to worry about me again.”
“Thanks, Bruno.”
Inside, Gibbs and Ned sat in a large half-circle booth, the interior of the place all dark and cool and full of red vinyl. Ned said, “You two kiss and make up?”
Coffman sat down. “That’s enough of that shit, Ned.”
Ned whispered, “Yikes.”
What Coffman said outside made me rethink the way I needed to operate. I slid in on the outside edge, next to Ned, opened the file intending to read every report from all eighteen agencies. I shouldn’t have made that stupid-assed comment to all those FBI agents.
In the file, everyone—all the involved agencies—knew this guy, Dominic Johnson, and no one could put the grab on him.
In the back of my brain, I registered that the other three—Ned, Coffman, and Gibbs—ordered and that Ned flirted with the cute waitress. Coffman had shaken off his hollowed-out episode of staring out the window upstairs in the FBI office, enough to dress me down for the errors of my ways. Still, I fought over whether or not to talk to Wicks about it. Coffman just complicated matters. If I went to Wicks now, I’d come off sounding like sour grapes, retaliation for the scolding Coffman gave me.
I pulled out of my own trance long enough to order a couple of chicken tacos and an iced tea.
Ned reached over and closed the file. “Let it go, big man. Let’s eat, relax, and have a good time, huh? We’ll get back to it soon enough. All work and no play makes Bruno a dull boy.”
I looked at him too long, something niggling at me about what I’d just read or just seen in the file. I closed my eyes and tried to let it bubble up.
Coffman said something to me that didn’t get through. Then, said louder, “Bruno? Hey, Johnson, you hear me?”
Ned said to Coffman, “Hold it. Hold it. I’ve seen him do this before. Let him think.”
I took in several deep breaths and let them out. I smiled and opened my eyes.
Ned slapped me on the back. “I’m liking what I see, partner. Come on, give.”
I opened the file to the front page, with the two paper-clipped pictures. “What do you see?”
They all leaned in to look at the photos.
Gibbs said, “I see a white trash dude named Johnson. What happened, Bruno, you just realize he’s a relative?”
Ned chuckled. “Wish I would’ve said that.”
“Come on,” I said, “quit foolin’ around and look. Really look.”
They all went silent and stared.
“I’m not gettin’ it, partner,” Ned said. “Just tell me.”
I pointed to the color booking photo and stuck my finger right below his face. “What do you see?”
The minute stretched out, then Ned muttered, “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” He shoved on me. “Let me out. Come on, let me out. Let me out.”
“What?” Gibbs said. “What? I don’t see it.”
Ned all but shoved me out of the booth. I got up. He got out, reaching in his pocket for a quarter as he walked fast to the phone booth in the hall that led to Los Baños.
The waitress brought our food and set it on the table. I grabbed a taco. “You better eat. I have a feeling we’re going to be rolling hot in about five minutes.”
Coffman, his expression serious, stared at me. I’d just done it again—left him out of the loop, left him sitting there like a bewildered child.
I chewed the taco, pointed at the color booking photo, and spoke around the food. “The guy’s a hype, a heroin addict. Look at his eyelids—they’re droopy, and his pupils are constricted.”
Ned hung up the phone too loud and ran out to the car.
Gibbs stopped, a forkload of beans and rice about to go into his mouth. “Now where’s he going?”
I said, “To get a map out of the car.”