Last Man Standing (33 page)

“Is that what Cove told you, that it was the Bureau’s fault?”

“Didn’t really have to tell me. I was a cop. I know how those things shake down. Ended up in D.C. because my wife’s from here.
Randy started out with the Feds here too. I guess you know that. Used me as a go-between because he knew he could trust me,
and that’s a rare thing in his line of work.”

“It seems to be a rare thing in a lot of lines of work.”

The two men shared a knowing look that seemed to come at a good time, perhaps strengthening a fledgling bond.

“Then Randy got transferred out to California and that’s where his family got hit.”

“I understand he took out his revenge.”

Venables laid a cold gaze on Web, a look that clearly said the man had far more secrets than he would ever care to part with.
“Wouldn’t you have?”

“I guess maybe I would. Cove must really be something. The Russians are no lightweights.”

“Try growing up the wrong color in shit-poor Mississippi.” Venables leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “I heard
about you. From the papers, some from Ann Lyle.” He stopped and seemed to be checking Web out. Then Web realized Venables
was staring at the messed-up side of Web’s face.

“In almost twenty years on the force, I’ve pulled my gun maybe a dozen times, and fired it on six occasions. Four times I
missed what I was shooting at, and twice I didn’t. I’ve never been hurt on the job, not even a hangnail, and that’s something
to brag about in this town, especially these days. Now I’m in the First District, which isn’t lily white and rich Northwest,
but it’s not exactly the Sixth and Seventh Districts in Anacostia, where your team got shot up. And I have great respect for
guys on the thin blue line who’ve taken it and gotten back up. You seem like a damn walking ad for that.”

“I never asked to be.”

“Point is I respect you or else I wouldn’t be sitting talking to you. But the thing is you’ll never get me to believe that
Randy has done anything wrong. I know undercover work screws with your mind and Randy’s got no reason to feel good about the
Bureau, but what happened to your team is not something he’d ever be a party to, I want you to understand that.”

“And I want you to understand that while you seem sincere as hell and I wouldn’t mind sharing another beer with you some other
time, I can’t accept a statement like that at face value.”

Venables nodded in understanding. “Well, you’d be a real dumb-shit, I guess, if you did.”

“He could’ve walked away. I checked on that. Bureau offered him a new life, full pension. Why do you think he didn’t take
it?”

“And, what, spend the next forty years mowing his grass in a cookie-cutter suburb in the Midwest? That’s not Randy. What else
was he going to do except keep on plugging? It may sound funny, but he took pride in his work. He thought he was doing good.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to find out the truth. If Cove was part of it, I may take out my revenge just like
he did. I can’t promise you I won’t, friend of his or not. But if he had nothing to do with it, I’ll be his best buddy. And
believe me, Sonny, most folks would rather have me as a friend than an enemy.”

Venables sat back and seemed to be considering this. Then he apparently made up his mind and hunched forward, eyed the pool
players chalking their cues, smoking their cigs and sipping their beers, and started talking in a very low voice. “I have
no idea where Randy is. Haven’t heard from him since before this all went down. Way before, in fact.”

“So he never talked to you about what he was working on?”

“You got to understand, I was his contact on his first gig through

D.C. Now, I’ve seen him on his latest tour through here, but not for business, so to speak. I knew he was working on something
pretty big, but he never told me what.”

“So you two weren’t that close anymore?”

“As close as you can be to somebody like Randy. After what happened to his family, well, I don’t think he could really be
close to anybody again. Not even to old Sonny Venables from Mississippi and all those damn blocks I threw for him.”

“He ever mention another contact he might have been using on the force?”

“No, if he was using anybody, it would’ve been me.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Little over two months ago.”

“How’d he seem?”

“Tight-lipped, mind somewhere else. Not looking too good, actually.”

“He hasn’t been back to his place in a while. The Bureau checked that out.”

“I never knew where that was; we always met on neutral ground because of his work. We’d just talk about old times, really.
Just somebody to talk to is what he wanted, I think. If he needed me to pass something on, I did.”

“How’d he get in touch with you when he wanted to meet?”

“He’d never call me at home. Called at the precinct. Used a different name every time. And each time we met he’d tell me the
new name he’d be using next when he called, so I’d know it was him.”

“And he hasn’t called?” Web eyed him closely. Venables appeared to be dealing straight with him, but one never really could
be sure.

“No. Not one word. I started to worry something happened to him. In his occupation, that’s a legitimate concern.”

Web sat back. “So I guess you can’t really help me track him down.”

Venables finished his beer. “Let’s take a walk.”

They went outside and strolled down a street that was pretty empty. The workday wasn’t over yet and most folks were probably
still in their offices, counting the minutes until they could bolt, Web figured.

“On his first tour through WFO there was a place that Randy would use as a drop spot if he wanted to leave me a message. He
told me he’d also use it to change clothes, as a safe house of sorts.”

“The Bureau know about it?”

“No. Even back then I don’t think he trusted the higher-ups at the Bureau all that much. That’s why he used me, I guess.”

“Probably a smart move. Have you been there lately?”

Venables shook his head. “Guess I’m a little afraid of what I might find, not really sure why. Don’t even know if Randy uses
it anymore. It could have been demolished, for all I know.”

“Care to give me that address?”

“You smoke, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do now.” Venables pulled a pack of Winstons out of his coat pocket and handed it to Web, who took it. “Better light up,
in case anybody’s watching.” Venables handed him a book of matches.

Web lit up and tried not to gag and then slipped the pack into his pocket. “I appreciate the help. But if Cove was involved
. . .” He let his voice trail off.

“If Randy did something like that, I don’t think he’d want to go on living.”

As Sonny Venables walked off, Web went back to his car, ripped open the Winstons and clutched the rolled-up piece of paper
inside. He looked at the address written on it. Also inside the pack of cigarettes were three small photos folded over. Web
had asked Venables about any light-skinned black kids about Kevin Westbrook’s age who had been reported missing in the city
in the last month, and this obviously was what he had found. Web looked at the three photos; they were all slightly different
versions of Kevin, he decided. All hopes of a decent life, their expressions told him, had already been torn from them. He
drove off.

T
wenty minutes later Web stared out the car window, his spirits hovering near an all-time low. Venable’s offhand remark had
proved to be right on target. Where once stood Randall Cove’s old safe house there was an open construction pit; a tall crane
rose in the middle of this hole, and a group of construction workers were just now walking off the job after what looked to
Web to be a hard day’s work. Judging from the degree of work already performed there, Web had to assume that Cove had not
been using his old digs in the recent past. It was a total dead end. Web crumpled up the piece of paper with the address written
on it and threw it on the floorboard. But he still had one more angle to take on Randall Cove.

He called Romano from the car. “You up for a little snooping around?”

He picked up Romano and they headed south toward Fredericksburg.

Romano looked around the car’s interior. “What a piece-of-shit car.”

“It’s a Grand Marquis, the director is probably driven around in one of these.”

“Still a piece of shit.”

“I’ll try to do better for you next time.” He glanced at Romano and wondered what Angie told her shrink about him. With Romano
as a significant other, she probably had a lot to talk about to a mental health professional.

“How’re things at HRT?”

“Same old, same old. We haven’t been called up for anything. Just training. I’m getting bored with that, man.”

“Hang in there, Paulie, you’ll be getting to fire your guns pretty soon.”

“Maybe I should go join the French Foreign Legion or something like that.”

“You just won’t admit when you have it good.”

“The guys been talking about you some, Web.”

He should have been expecting this change in the conversation, but it still surprised Web. “So, what’s the word?”

“Pretty even split for and against.”

“Gee, I thought I was more popular than that.”

“It’s not that. Nobody thinks you’re a coward, Web. You’ve done too much crazy stuff over the years. Almost as crazy as me.”

“But . . .”

“But some of the guys think if you freeze once, you’ll freeze again. What happened to you wouldn’t have made a difference
in what happened to Charlie Team, but next time it might.”

Web stared straight ahead. “I guess I can’t argue with that logic. Maybe
I
should go join the French. You armed?”

“Do politicians lie?”

R
andall Cove lived on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, Virginia, roughly fifty miles south from Washington, D.C., and Cove’s
work arena, which roughly doubled Ann Lyle’s twenty-five-mile rule of thumb on the minimum distance undercover agents should
keep between their abode and their beat. Cove’s home address was one of the pieces of information Web had surreptitiously
read from Bates’s file.

Just missing the brunt of rush-hour traffic, forty minutes later they pulled down the quiet suburban street where Randall
Cove lived. It was a line of carbon-copy townhouses, many with rental signs out front. There were no moms or kids outside,
though the weather was pleasant, and there were very few cars parked on the street. The community actually looked abandoned,
and Web knew it would be until the commuters started arriving from D.C. and northern Virginia. This place had bedroom community
written all over it, no doubt with mostly single people or childless couples living here until their salaries or expanded
family demands prompted them to move. He could understand why Cove would pick such a place to live. No curious neighbors,
people keeping to themselves and no one around during the day when he was probably at home. Most undercover agents in the
drug arena did their hunting at night, he knew.

There was a government-plated Bucar parked in front of the house. “Fed babysitter,” commented Romano. Web nodded and pondered
how best to handle it. He drove up to the Bucar and he and Romano got out.

The agent rolled down his window, glanced at Web’s and Romano’s FBI identifications and then at Web.

“You’re famous now, don’t even need to show your creds,” said the agent, whom Web didn’t know. He was a young guy, full of
vigor and promise, and Web figured he was probably hating life right now, watching a house no one expected Randall Cove to
ever come near again. He got out of the car and extended his hand to the pair.

“Chris Miller, out of the Richmond Field Office.” He flashed his own credentials, which he pulled from his right breast pocket
so that he could shake with his strong hand, which was how the FBI trained you to do it. If the Bureau did nothing else, it
enforced upon its agents a stark commonality of how they performed the smallest details. Without looking, Web knew that Miller
had an extra layer of lining in his jacket so the gun he carried there wouldn’t wear a hole in it. He also knew that when
he had pulled in behind Miller and approached the car, Miller’s gaze had been on the rearview mirror and then locked on Web’s
eyes, for eyes always told a person’s intent.