The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(24)

“Let me guess,” Vail said. “No witnesses, no video.”

“Right. Not to mention I’d been out with friends at a bar. And no, I wasn’t drunk.”

“Okay.”

“And,” Johnson said, “the guy was black.”

“So are you.”

“Probably the only thing that saved my ass.”

“Again,” Curtis said, “what was the problem?”

“Leslie was forced to resign in case it got out about the shooting.”

“I didn’t have a great relationship with my chief,” Johnson said. “So he didn’t have my back.”

“Someone did,” Curtis said. “If you got that letter from the commish.”

Johnson laughed. “Trust me. That was done to help the department more than it was to help me. It was done to save face. If the media found out, another unarmed black guy getting shot by a cop …”

“Too many dicey ‘issues’ with the shoot,” Vail said. “Once the media starts digging and finds the first two—they put ’em under the microscope. Remember, this is New York City. Big stage as it is. Stuff can get blown out of proportion. And you know how it is. Some good shoots can look bad. Depends on how you spin it.”

Curtis frowned. “No shit.”

“So we good?” Johnson looked at him. “Partner?”

Curtis pulled open his door. “We’re good.”

Vail pointed at Johnson. “I still expect a dinner.” She gave her a broad smile, then got into the car.





12


After stopping by her office, Vail walked into the relatively small mobile command center and found it crammed with several people. Curtis was not present, even though it was straight up 5:00 PM.

She had guests coming over for dinner and Robby was taking care of the meal, so she hoped this did not drag on past 6:30.

The oblong room was considerably more crowded than the first time she had been here: with four more large bodies, there was not a lot of clearance to move about.

“Okay everyone,” Hurdle said, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Let’s get this thing going.”

The door swung open and Curtis walked in.

Hurdle made a point of checking his watch and then making eye contact with Curtis. He was a no-nonsense leader. If he told you to be there at five, he meant it. And he was making sure Curtis knew he meant it.

“Let’s do some quick introductions.” He nodded at the far end of the room and a short, stocky Latino man in his thirties began speaking. “Ray Ramos, DHS, Homeland Security Investigations. You can call me ‘Rambo,’ like everyone else does. Did three tours in Iraq, then hooked on with West Virginia State Police for nine years before scoring the gig with HSI. Been on CARFTF almost two years. I got no wife and no kids and no siblings so I’ll be working this thing sunup to sundown. Pretty much.”

In other words, he’s got no life. Then again, I could almost be accused of the same thing.

“Ben Tarkoff,” the middle-aged guy with bulldog features said. “Marshals Service. Been doing this fifteen years. Way I see it, you do the crime, you better be prepared to do the time. These *s think the rules don’t apply to them. I’m here to make sure they do.” He turned to the man seated next to him, who took the cue and perked up.

“Jim Morrison, Secret Service.” He was one of two wearing a suit—a black one with a red tie. “Yeah. Jim Morrison, like The Doors lead. I’ve been known to do some songwriting but I can’t sing too good. Karaoke’s about it. I’d say I’m no Jim Morrison—but I can’t say that because I am.” That got some chuckles. “Anyway, I got my degree in finance from Louisiana State and hooked on with the Bureau, ended up working the Violent Gang Task Force in northwest Louisiana doing financial analysis before hooking on with the service. So among other things, I can definitely help with tracking down and analyzing Marcks’s financials.”

“Suits aren’t necessary here,” Hurdle said. “Cargo pants, jeans, khakis, any of that is fine. Doing what we’re gonna be doing, most of the time we don’t wanna stand out and be tagged as law enforcement from a mile away. Be comfortable. Casual professional. Concealed carry shirts are good. When we go operational, we’ll gear up with tactical clothing and vests. Got it?”

Morrison nodded.

“Good to have you on board. Whether or not you can carry a tune, your skills and contacts are going to be key. Next.” He nodded at the man to Morrison’s left, also wearing dress clothes—a tan sport coat that complimented his dark skin.

“Travis Walters. FBI.”

They waited a moment for Walters to add something, but he did not.

“How long you on the job, Walters?” Hurdle asked.

“Two years. First task force posting.”

Terrific.

“Same goes for you. No suits. Anything you want to tell us about yourself?”

“Not interested in discussing my personal life. I keep that separate from work.”

Hurdle shook his head, then gestured at Vail.

“Karen Vail. FBI. Started with NYPD, made detective, then moved to the Bureau and worked as a field agent before my promotion to the Behavioral Analysis Unit several years ago. I’ve got a son in college and a fiancé with the DEA. And I curse too much and I get pissed off too easily. And I tend to work too much. Trying to fix all that, lead a more normal life.”