Deputy Chief Stan Davies stood in his office doorway, kneading a piece of Nicorette gum between his front teeth and studying the two men who had just stepped inside the lobby of the Bozeman police station. Both were tall and broad-shouldered, and both wore dark wool overcoats over their suits. Got to be from the marshals’ office in Great Falls, he thought. All the US Marshals he’d ever met were built the same way – and, like these two, itching to show you just how tough they were. Time for another big swinging-dick contest.
Davies sighed, flicking a glance to the wall clock. Quarter to six. Whatever bullshit had just arrived on his doorstep had to be wrapped up and tied with a pretty little bow in the next half-hour, come hell or high water, or he’d be in the doghouse again with the missus – and his daughter. Dealing with one pain in the ass was enough.
The guy with the neatly combed brown hair stepped into the bullpen first. He was taller than his partner but not as wide through the shoulders; he looked more like a middle-aged guy into swimming or long-distance running. He had the big, sorrowful eyes of a dog you had just caught chewing on your favourite shoe. He’s the one in charge, Davies thought, crossing his arms across his chest. He’s gonna do all the talking.
The man’s partner was the one who really stood out. First, he was butt-ugly. Looked like the Mr Potato Head toy: a big, shaved head; big ears jutting out a bit; and a thick black paintbrush moustache. Not a good look. Second, and far more interesting, was how the guy was carrying himself: tense and watchful, like at any moment he’d be asked to take a bullet for Mr Brown Eyes.
Davies noticed something else: they were both dressed a little too slick for cattle country.
Not marshals, he thought. Federal agents.
Mr Potato Head spoke first. ‘Chief Porter?’
‘He’s not here. Stomach flu. I’m Deputy Chief Davies. How can I help you boys?’
‘Phil Bradley. Assistant special agent in charge here in Bozeman. I don’t think we’ve met before. This is Noel Covington.’
Mr Brown Eyes – Covington – extended his hand and gave his top-wattage smile – the kind, Davies was sure, that not only melted the panties off plenty a lady but also charmed his way through plenty of tough situations. The man’s palm was smooth, no doubt from daily moisturizing, and he barely had a wrinkle on his face, no doubt from some skincare regime using products he picked up from reading one of his homo magazines. Davies disliked him immediately.
Mindful of the nearby ears, Mr Potato Head – Bradley – moved in closer and spoke in a low, hushed voice. ‘I understand you have her in custody.’
Davies nodded. ‘We do,’ he said, tired and bored. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss this, being the little errand bitch for Fart, Barf and Itch, when he retired.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ Bradley asked. His forehead was shiny with sweat.
Davies nodded, smiled a bit. ‘We have. Several times.’
‘What’d she tell you?’
‘Oh, lots of real interesting things – especially about your man Kevin Fields and the other, the taller gentleman with black hair, Billy something or other.’
Neither Covington nor Bradley provided the man’s last name.
Davies snapped his fingers. ‘Vieira,’ he said, taking real pleasure at the pissed-on-my-parade expressions these two government yoyos were wearing. ‘Billy Vieira. He was wearing the same Western Grid uniform as your man Fields.’
Covington stared down at the tops of his fancy shoes. Bradley didn’t look away – seemed, if anything, ready to take charge of the situation.
‘She called 911,’ Davies said, enjoying this. ‘When my boys arrived, they found Fields and Vieira on the floor, unconscious and hog-tied. She told them a third man was involved, but she didn’t know his name. Said he was following her and gave us a physical description. I take it he’s also one of yours, the third man from your Tactical –’
‘Sir,’ Bradley began.
‘Sir. Wow. You two must be really deep in the muck. How are they doing, by the way? Fields and Vieira? Last time I heard, they were, ah, still incapacitated.’
‘They’re recovering, thank you for asking,’ Bradley said. ‘Have you spoken with your attorney general?’
‘Sure did. Got off the phone with Miss Banks about forty minutes ago, when she called me at home and told me I had to come in on my day off to attend to some urgent business. She informed me some people would be coming but didn’t give me any names, said she couldn’t explain what the fuss was all about. So, how about it, fellas?’
‘You have the cell phones?’
‘Confiscated them, just like Attorney General Banks asked.’
‘The computer?’
‘Got that too.’
‘You view the contents?’
‘Nope, and neither did my men.’ Although I certainly tried, Davies added privately. He had wanted to see what might be on ’em, figure out what had gotten the AG’s panties all in a bunch, but the phones and the laptop were password protected.
‘What about your men?’ Bradley asked. ‘They take any pictures?’
That got Davies’s dander up. ‘I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,’ he said. All his men knew taking pictures of a crime scene with their phones was against regulations. Still, he had checked ’em to be sure, and they hadn’t.
‘Today is my grandson’s birthday,’ Davies said. ‘It was arranged for my day off so I could be there. He’s at my house now, waiting on me, and I’ve been standing here for a good hour waiting on you, so my patience is about worn thin. You’ve got ten minutes to clean this shit up.’
Covington spoke for the first time. ‘I only need five,’ he said, and invited himself into Davies’s office.