14

Stevens was at his desk at the BCA headquarters in Saint Paul when his phone started to ring. He was typing a report, hunt-and-peck style, a cold case he’d just closed on Friday. It seemed to be taking forever.

Distraction, he thought as the phone rattled beside him. Thank God. He reached for the handset.

“Stevens?”

Stevens sat up straight. “Carla.”

“The one and only.” Windermere paused. “Listen, I hate to take you away from whatever it is you BCA people do over there, but I need you in Brooklyn Center for a while.”

Stevens frowned. Looked around the Investigations department. It was pretty quiet for a Monday. Not much going on. “What’s up?”

“Long story,” said Windermere. “Anyway, listen, I’ll get you back to work in an hour or two, tops. Just come on in, would you?”

Stevens looked at the report on his desk, and then across the office to Tim Lesley’s door. Lesley was the Special Agent in Charge of Investigations, and he’d be waiting on the report. Right now, though, Stevens figured he could use a break. “Sure,” he said. “On my way.”

“Good. And, Stevens?”

Stevens paused. “Yeah?”

“Bring lunch.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Stevens parked his Cherokee in front of the FBI’s regional headquarters in Brooklyn Center. An imposing, five-story structure ringed with high fences and security checkpoints, the building was markedly more secure than the Bureau’s old offices, housed as they were in a commercial skyscraper in downtown Minneapolis. The FBI had just moved in a month or so prior, and Stevens was halfway into the city before he realized his mistake.

Was a hell of a time finding the place anyway. Stevens missed his exit off I-94, had to retrace his route along surface roads, past a couple truck-stop motels and light industrial warehouses before he found the place. He parked, showed his badge to a couple security guards, navigated the metal detector, and rode the elevator up to Criminal Investigations and cut through the office to Windermere’s cubicle. Set a paper bag of takeout Thai on her desk and grinned at her. “Brand-new building and they still can’t get you a real office, huh?”

Windermere scowled. “Nope. I took down Arthur Pender and Carter Tomlin and I still can’t get any privacy, Stevens.”

“Wait a second,” said Stevens. “We took down Pender and Tomlin. I think I helped a little.”

“You got an office yet? I rest my case.” Windermere eyed the bag. “What’d you bring me?”

“Pad Thai,” said Stevens. “It’s decent.”

Windermere rolled her eyes. “It’s Minnesota, Stevens.”

“Better than Taco Bell. What’s the story?”

“Yeah.” Windermere unpacked the bag. Set a foil takeout plate on her desk and removed the cardboard top. Studied the contents for a moment, her face impassive. Then she glanced at him. “Pull up a chair.”

Stevens pulled a chair over. Sat down and listened as Windermere explained the situation in between bites of pad Thai.

“So the rental car guy, Salazar,” she said, chewing, “he’s not the shooter. Omaha brought him in, flew him back here. He had a little tantrum in the interview room. Broke an FBI chair, but he never killed anyone.”

“But he rented the car.”

Windermere shook her head. “He didn’t even. And he got pretty mad when I had the gall to suggest he would ever rent from Liberty. Apparently he’s an Emerald Club member, whatever that means.”

“National?”

“Rented a white Chrysler 300C,” said Windermere. “Had it all week. Brought it back a half hour before our shooter returned his Chevy hatchback.”

Stevens reached into the bag and pulled out a second foil container. Cashew chicken. “A half hour.”

“A half hour, Stevens. Right about the time our shooter was giving me the cold shoulder in the parking lot.”

“So what’s Salazar’s play? How does he fit?”

“He doesn’t,” she said. “He swears he’s innocent. Right now, I have no reason to suspect otherwise.”

“You account for his whereabouts on Saturday? Do a background check, all that? Look for any ties to Spenser Pyatt?”

Windermere pointed across the office to a young kid bent over a computer. “Mathers’s on it,” she said. “We’re working this case. So far, we have nothing. Salazar spent the whole week selling manure at some trade show. Has witnesses putting him at the RiverCentre all Saturday morning. And then he was in transit at the time of the shooting.”

“Guy’s got a clean background.” Stevens looked up to find Windermere’s new partner standing beside him. Mathers, she’d called him. The kid was clean-cut and damned tall. He nodded at Stevens and then turned to Windermere. “No criminal record anywhere. No ties to Pyatt, at least not superficially. Maybe there’s something in his background.”

“Keep looking,” said Windermere. “A Minnesota TV billionaire and a fertilizer salesman from Iowa. Who the hell knows?”

Mathers nodded again and walked back to his workstation. Stevens watched him go. “Your new partner?” he asked Windermere.

Windermere grinned at him.

“Where’d you find him, the Bureau day care?”

“He’s a good kid,” she said. “Kind of goofy, but he saves me the grunt work.” Her smile faded. “Anyway, Stevens, this damn case is starting to give me a headache. I can’t hold Salazar, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“You think he’s clean.”

She nodded. “My instinct says yes.”

“You check out the airport? Maybe they have something on tape.”

“Just about to,” she said. “Was just waiting on you.”

Stevens stared at her. “That’s why you called me in? To ride out to the airport?”

Windermere shook her head. “No,” she said. “I need a statement. You witnessed the shooting, remember?” She grinned at him. “I just figured maybe I’d take your statement in the car.”