Birds of a Feather (6 page)

“Let me know. In the meantime, I'll try to think of an angle to get to Slater.”

Jack grimaced as he hung up. He had a plan brewing in his mind as soon as he heard Slater had obtained a lawyer … but knew it was a plan that if known, would never be approved.

On Thursday in El Paso, Texas, it was eleven o'clock in the morning when Special Agent Adams awoke to the sound of Yolanda opening the bedroom curtains. She had been up for an hour and was already dressed.

“Christ, close those,” muttered Adams. “The sun feels like someone hit me between the eyes with a hatchet.”

“Serves you right,” replied Yolanda, leaving the curtains open.

“How much did we drink last night?”

“How much did
you
drink is more like it. Come on, get dressed. It's almost lunchtime.”

Half an hour later, Adams wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Yolanda looked up from the table at the sound of a can of Budweiser being opened.

“After last night I thought you would have had enough. What's this? The hair of the dog?”

Adams nodded and took three gulps out of the can before sitting down.

“Want to talk about it?” asked Yolanda.

“What's more to say,” replied Adams, taking another gulp of beer, more as an excuse to avoid eye contact than to drink. “We got a gun tucked away in every room of the house. Don't go out without taking the one in your purse. Always keep an eye in the rear-view and the doors locked.”

“It's not that. I understand why we are on high alert, but …”

“But what?” snapped Adams, yanking a kitchen chair out to sit down. “What is it?”

“That's what I'm asking you. These last two days you've hardly said a word to me. Even last night when I drank with you, I may as well have been drinking alone. I know you. There's something going on you haven't told me.”

“Can you blame me for being a little upset over what happened to Greg?” said Adams angrily. “He was my partner for Christ's sake!”

“Don't give me that,” she replied in annoyance. “There's something else going on. I've watched you when you've been recalled to go out on special ops with the military. I've seen you when you and Greg were in the thick of things. Things I knew to be secret and things I've never asked about. But something has changed. These last couple of days you've hardly spoken.” Yolanda's face softened and she leaned forward and put her hand on his and said, “I'm worried about you. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

Adams lowered his voice, but his response was terse. “This is different. The bad guys crossed the line with Greg. They had to be sent a message.”

“Had? What kind of message?” she asked, gripping his hand tight.

Adams stared at the Budweiser and didn't respond.

“What have you done?” cried Yolanda.

Adams looked at her and said solemnly, “Nothing I feel guilty about, so quit worrying.”

Yolanda stood up and stared at Adams for a moment, before shaking her head in exasperation and walking out of the room.

Adams stared after her. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. That he would do anything to protect her.

His cellphone rang. It was his boss.

“Get in here immediately,” seethed Weber.

“I thought you gave me a week off,” replied Adams.

“No time to be funny … you stupid, dumb fucker. You really did it this time. Davidson and a DA are going to interview you. They decided to leave me out of it to show impartiality because I know you. What a laugh that is. After what you did, I don't know you at all and I don't want to.”

Adams hung up. He slowly finished the beer and left without saying goodbye to Yolanda. He was afraid to. He knew he would break down if he did.

District Attorney Norman White waited in Davidson's office for Adams to arrive.

“How long have you known John Adams?” asked White, grimacing as he took a sip of coffee.
Not exactly Starbucks …

Davidson leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

“I was transferred in here five months ago to head the FBI contingent in the office. I met him then for the first time.”

“What kind of officer is he?”

“Well, he comes under the direct command of Weber, but this is a small enough office that we all know each other to some degree. I consider Adams to be a loose cannon. Not one to follow rules, particularly. Surprising for a guy trained with the Special Forces … they usually follow orders to a T. Adams and his partner … or ex-partner now, were always working on their own and taking unnecessary risks.”

“Did they get any positive results in their invest-igations?” White asked.

Davidson sat forward in his chair, momentarily drumming his fingers on his desk before replying. “Yes, I would have to admit they did,” he replied. “Adams was good at developing confidential sources. It gave him an advantage.”

“Does he have lots of friends in the office?”

“No. I would say none. He is more of a loner type.”

“What about Greg Patton? Isn't he close to him?”

Davidson shrugged. “I think the type of high-risk work Adams does, combined with his pattern of continually ignoring policy, necessitated that he trust his partner. I'm sure the two men are close, but other than Patton, Adams pretty much sticks to himself.”

“I was wondering if he might have already confided to someone about what he does.”

“Maybe his wife, I don't know. With the psycho-logical mess Patton is in right now, I doubt he would even tell him.”

“I can't make Adams's wife testify against him, regardless.”

“How do you want to play it when he comes in?”

“No doubt he acted out of a blind rage, but now he has to realize he did what he did in broad daylight and in front of numerous witnesses. He'll know he's caught. We'll be polite, but lay our cards on the table. We can even sympathize with him a little for what prompted his rage.”

“What do you think he's looking at for jail time?”

“With his co-operation, an understanding judge might go along with a twenty-four- to twenty-eight-year sentence.”

Davidson shook his head sadly. “He'll have to spend it in solitary.”

“It was his choice to do what he did.” White took another sip of coffee and made a face. “God, this stuff is awful.”

“He may demand a lawyer … or even arrive with one.”

“Possible, but I doubt it. In my experience, law-enforcement types who have crossed the line feel so guilty they are actually relieved to confess. You know him, so sit close and play the role of a sympathizer. I'll tell him I can make a submission to a judge for an agreed sentence. Once he admits it, I'll step out while you officially give him his rights and record a full confession. I'll bet you a dinner he doesn't request a lawyer.”

Adams arrived and nodded silently as Davidson introduced him to Norman White. The three men sat down, with White behind the desk while Davidson sat beside Adams, his chair arranged at a right angle to face him.

“Mr. Davidson is present because he is with the FBI, and your own boss with Customs, could be viewed as lacking impartiality,” said White.

“So I heard,” replied Adams. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“You were seen, John,” said Davidson, softly. “Two days ago at the Red Poker.”

“I was seen?”

“Three of Chico's guys were right there,” said Davidson.

“Not only by those three men,” added White, “but by independent witnesses in two other cars who saw you cuff him and put him in your own car before absconding with him.”

“So I picked him up. What's the big deal?” replied Adams.

“His body was found yesterday,” said White. “Shot with his own gun.”

“Barely even off the road,” added Davidson. “It was like you wanted it to be found.”

“If he was murdered, I'm not responsible,” stated Adams firmly.

“Look, John, we know you're a Special Forces operative who sometimes goes on secret missions,” said Davidson, “but this obviously wasn't one of them. Nobody is going to come forward and say you were authorized.”

“Authorized to do what?” replied Adams. “I told you, I didn't murder him.”

“John,” said Davidson, “you've been caught red-handed. I know you know that. It's time now to make the best out of a bad situation.” Davidson leaned forward, giving Adams a friendly squeeze on his shoulder and added, “It's time to come clean, John. Let's try and work through this together.” Davidson then leaned back in his chair, giving Adams a sympathetic smile and a nod of encouragement.

After a moment of silence, White said, “I think, basically, you're a good man. You know what you did was wrong. Deep down inside you wanted to get caught. It's why you left the body on the side of the road. What we're doing is giving you a chance to tell your side of it. Explain what happened to your partner so a judge will get the full picture and realize the extent of the atrocity that triggered you to do what you did. Then I can make a submission for an agreed length of incarceration.”

“Let's talk about it, John,” added Davidson, giving Adams another sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Adams sighed and said, “Okay, I'll tell you what happened. I did pick Chico up at the Red Poker.”

“And then you drove him out into the desert,” noted White.

“Yes. I wanted to scare him. Make him think I was going to kill him if he didn't talk. I wanted to find out who ordered Greg's kidnapping.”

“You already knew it was the Guajardo cartel,” said Davidson.

“Yes, but Guajardo himself was meeting with other cartel bosses in Cancun at the time. He may not have even known about it. He left the Carrillo Fuentes brothers in charge, but there is no evidence they ordered it. I was hoping to scare Chico into giving me the truth.”

“And then what happened?” asked White softly. “Tell me how it went wrong.”

Adams sighed. “Yes, it did go wrong,” he admitted. “Chico laughed at me. The asshole never did say who ordered it. He never believed I was going to kill him.”

“But by him laughing … naturally it would have infuriated you,” said Davidson.

“It would anybody,” agreed White.

“I'll say I was infuriated,” said Adams bitterly. “I was angry at myself.”

“Angry at yourself … for what he made you do to him?” asked White.

“No. I didn't do anything to him. I was angry I hadn't realized some of his guys had followed us out into the desert.”

“What are you talking about?” asked White, glancing questioningly at Davidson.

“From the Red Poker, I guess. I presume it was his guys. When Chico was laughing at me and saying I wouldn't kill him, I asked how he could be so sure. He told me to look out the back window of my car. It was hard to see because the sun was in my eyes, but I could make out a car parked down the road from where I was parked.”

“What did you do then?” asked White, well aware that Davidson was shaking his head.

“What could I do?” replied Adams. “I was pissed off at myself for not realizing I had been followed. Chico was demanding I let him out of the car immediately, so I did. I knew he probably had a gun permit so I threw his gun as far into the desert as I could and drove away. Last I saw of him he was walking over to get it. I don't know what happened after that.”

“So you actually expect me to believe you being there was simply a coincidence with him being murdered by someone else?” said Davidson, while fighting to control his anger.

“Could be a coincidence, or maybe they thought he ratted and killed him for talking to me. Another scenario is he was collecting money from pimps in El Paso. I only took his gun. I didn't bother with his wallet so I don't know how much cash he had. The guys who followed us out there might have decided to use the opportunity to rob him.”

“No way that happened!” yelled Davidson. “You were in a fit of rage over what they did to your partner and you took him out into the desert and murdered him. Admit it!”

“I'll admit I was outraged,” Adams replied calmly. “I have also offered you alternative possibilities to what you had thought happened. If you are going to question me any further, then I want an attorney present.”

Davidson and White watched Adams stalk out of the office.

“He's guilty as sin,” said Davidson. “I don't believe his story of a second car one bit.”

“I agree with you, but it would sure leave doubt in a jury's mind. We would never get a conviction.”

“Then we'll get more evidence. There is no way we can let him get away with it.”

White sat forward with his elbow on the desk and stroked his chin a moment, before asking, “Is he known to be a hard drinker?”

“Not particularly,” replied Davidson.

“I could smell the booze on him as soon as he walked in,” noted White. “He's under enormous pressure right now.”

“Good point. I bet he cracks soon,” replied Davidson. “All good cops who fuck up eventually do. Their conscience gets to them.”

“Time to find out what makes him tick and figure out what the best plan of attack will be,” said White. “I would think a full psychological profile is in order.”

“I'll get hold of the criminal profilers.”

“With what has happened, do you expect him to be transferred?”

“Without his confession, it puts his agency in an embarrassing position. If they transfer him it will imply to the Mexicans he is being relocated to protect him. They may think we are condoning what he did.”

“But if he isn't moved, the cartel may kill him,” noted White.

“That would save everyone a lot of embarrassment,” replied Davidson evenly.