They were waiting in my living room, a pair of them, like andirons flanking the fireplace, wearing dark suits and ties. Eddie Conklin was with them.
“Geez, Carlotta, you could stay in fuckin’ touch.” Eddie didn’t look pleased. “These guys about reamed me a new asshole by now.”
Roz, in black leather, emerged from the butterfly chair, yawning and stretching. I wasn’t sure if her I-just-took-a-little-nap routine was genuine or a put-on. She’s good.
“Hey, Carlotta, sorry. Shouldn’t have opened the door.” She glared at the trespassers before dipping into a sarcastic curtsy. “There are some gentlemen to see you, and they pushed their way in.”
“Miss Carlyle.” The elder unknown removed a slim leather folder from his breast pocket, followed it with his name, Dunfey, and the initials FBI.
“Him, too?” I nodded at the younger one.
“McNamara.”
Both sets of credentials looked legit. It was possible that Liz Horgan, unable to cope with the tension, had sprung a leak, run to the feebs. It was possible that Gerry Horgan had felt similar misgivings and opened up. It was possible that I’d been spotted jaywalking in a federal zone or openly dining with Sam Gianelli. Eddie’s presence gave me a hint, but I wasn’t about to speculate aloud in front of special agents Dunfey and McNamara, both still standing, both trying to peel their eyes off Roz’s tight leather butt as she excused herself and rapidly disappeared upstairs.
Dunfey, skinnier as well as older, asked whether I would mind discussing a certain matter that had been brought to their attention.
McNamara, in the brown suit, showed even teeth. “A friend, a colleague of mine, goes way back with Eddie here,” he said. “So far back that every once in a while he’ll do Eddie a favor.”
“I’m all for old friendships,” I volunteered when he halted expectantly. It didn’t seem like sticking my neck out.
“This bozo will even run a set of prints for Eddie, from time to time.” Dunfey narrowed his eyes into slits. “It’s not something he ought to do, really, considering Eddie’s just a private op.”
“Right,” I said, “but let’s not make a federal case out of it.”
Dunfey’s ugly smile stretched. “We can visit headquarters, if you’d rather.”
His threat meant the prints that I’d lifted from the pipe were not only on file, they were of special interest.
McNamara showed me more teeth. “Believe me, we’d prefer your cooperation.” He was playing good cop, Dunfey his evil twin. It wasn’t a bad performance but I’d seen it before.
I knew I had to talk or call my lawyer and dammit, the thing was I wanted to talk. I needed help, specifically the kind of help the feebs can provide. I didn’t have the clout, the power, and they had it in spades. They could haul the head of New Hampshire Motor Vehicles out of bed, track down the origin of the stolen Jag. They could trace Dana’s cancelled check in the blink of an eye, find the bank, hell, grab the clerk who’d cashed it. But I didn’t want to be shut out, and the feebs shut you out so hard you bounce. Plus I was worried they’d save the ex-presidents and the senators, and the hell with the little Horgan girl. I wanted a chance to talk to Veronica James, a chance to earn Dana Endicott’s thirty grand.
Dunfey snapped, “Are you familiar with the term ‘obstructing justice’?”
McNamara’s voice stayed cool. “Eddie says you didn’t tell him where you got the prints, and I believe him.”
“So who’s the guy?” I asked.
“You answer my questions, that’s how it goes. Where is he?” Dunfey was getting hot.
“Is he on the ten-most-wanted? Do I win a prize?”
“Look, we’ve heard about you. Don’t try to get cute with us.”
“I’ve heard about you, too. About people who died because the Boston Bureau protects informers instead of citizens.” Last year two agents got indicted for helping a local Irish mobster cover crimes ranging from extortion to murder.
“Those weren’t citizens!” Dunfey snapped.
“Right. They had vowels on the end of their names so they deserved to get dumped in a gravel pit.”
“Gianelli tell you all about it?”
They’d done some checking on me.
McNamara intervened. “Hey, it’s getting late, and we’re not making progress. This guy’s prints kicked up and we want to know where you got ’em. You used our resources—”
“I used Eddie.”
“Eddie doesn’t know shit.”
Conklin roused himself. “Yeah? Well, I know this: You schmucks ain’t Boston Bureau.”
They had to be Washington. Justice keeps files in D.C. on guys who’ve threatened public officials, on foreign-born terrorists as well. The feebs have a counterterrorism squad. Squad 5. I dropped Eddie a nod by way of thanks.
“Listen,” I said. “Whoever matches those prints, I figure he’s got to be major, to bring you guys up from D.C. And I also figure you didn’t have a clue till the prints came in.”
“We didn’t know this particular scumbag was in this particular area, and we’re glad to know,” McNamara conceded.
“In other words, I did you a favor.”
“You could put it like that. But we need to know everything you know about the man who made those prints.”
“Favor for favor,” I said.
“The hell with this! Where is he?” Dunfey was hot.
“Does Faneuil Hall mean anything special to you?” I said. “Faneuil Hall on April nineteenth?”
The two agents exchanged uneasy glances.
“Listen, I don’t want to stonewall you guys. I just want to tell my story to an agent I know.”
“You can tell it to us,” McNamara said.
“We’re in a goddam hurry here,” Dunfey insisted.
“Then the faster you get him here, the faster I talk.”
“Let’s take her in,” Dunfey said.
“Take me in, and I clam. Not a word.”
“Shit.”
“You guys could be heroes.” I broke the angry silence with a hint, an implicit offer.
Dunfey brought his fist down on the mantel. “I thought the guys in the Boston office were all corrupt anti-Italian bigots. We’re not gonna fly anybody in from goddam North Dakota, for chrissakes.”
“You won’t have to. He’s local, undercover. I don’t think it’s his real name, but he calls himself Leland Walsh.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Eddie said slowly. “He’s Bureau, and nobody fuckin’ told me?”
McNamara whipped out his cell.