The interior of the Taurus was slate gray with black and wood-grain accents. It reeked of burnt coffee and fast food. On the radio, Lennon and McCartney sang about A Hard Day’s Night. Two extra-large cups of generic gas-station coffee, one filled with candy-bar wrappers and one full of liquid, rested in the cup-holders of the center console. The man behind the wheel wore jeans and a black and white Chicago White Sox jersey beneath a puffy brown North Face coat. He was in his early thirties with a shaved head and acne-scarred cheeks covered by two days of brown stubble. And he was big. Not fat, but large and muscular. Marcus guessed by the way the man’s big frame was crammed inside the Taurus that he was at least six-foot-five and probably two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
The driver said, “Listen, buddy, I—”
“Shut up. Pull over into that lot.”
The man complied, flipped up his turn signal, and pulled into the nearly vacant lot of an office building. The big man threw the Taurus into park and said, “Okay, I’m going to reach for my wallet. I’m a cop. Just take it easy. Don’t shoot me.”
Slowly, he took out and displayed a faded brown leather wallet containing a Jackson’s Grove PD badge and an ID stating his name was Erik Jansen. Marcus reluctantly placed the Sig Sauer back into his shoulder holster. But he kept the knife in his left hand near the center console and knew that he could have the blade buried to the hilt in the guy’s throat before he could draw any weapon.
“Why have you been following us?”
Jansen raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just doing my job. Belacourt told me to keep an eye on you.”
“I didn’t see you at the briefing this morning.”
“I didn’t come in until this afternoon.”
“Call him.”
“Who? You mean Belacourt?”
“No, I mean Papa Smurf.”
“Come on, man. Let’s just forget about this. He’ll be pissed.”
“Not my problem. Make the call.”
Jansen reluctantly grabbed for his phone and dialed, his face a mask of frustration. Marcus could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. When a voice came on, he snatched the phone away from Jansen’s ear.
“Don’t you think you have better uses for your resources than following us?” he said.
The other end was silent for a moment, but then Belacourt’s voice came over the airwaves. Surprise still resonated in his tone, but he covered it well. “I wish I did. Unfortunately, I can’t force you to leave, and you won’t take the hint.”
Marcus didn’t get this guy. In his experience, local law enforcement usually had no huge problems cooperating with federal agencies. Sure, there were pissing contests and times when someone got their toes stepped on, but nothing like this. Nothing with this much ferocity and venom. “Why do you care so much about me? We’re all on the same team. All I want to do is stop this guy.”
“Let’s get something straight. You are not on my team. You are nothing but a distraction and a hindrance to this investigation. I know your type. I could tell what you were from the first second I saw you. You’re nothing but a—”
Marcus hung up the phone and cursed under his breath. Belacourt was nothing but a brick wall of closed-minded ignorance. If the Anarchist was going down, it would be without the cop’s help. To Jansen, he said, “I know it’s not your fault that your CO is an asshole, but trust me, there are more important things you could be doing right now rather than following me.” As he stepped outside, he added, “Besides, you need to get that window and tire fixed.”
“Tire? Oh come on …”
Marcus buried the blade of his knife in the front tire of the Taurus and then walked over to where Andrew was waiting to pick him up. At his back, Jansen called, “Was all that really necessary?”