Cajun Justice(15)

Hold your tongue, Cain. Don’t make this worse.

“Also, you’ve got a meeting with the doc tomorrow at nine.”

“I already knocked out my physical for the year,” Cain said. “Scored excellent in every category except flexibility.”

“I’m talking about Dr. Anna Spencer, the Service’s psychologist. She’s been ordered by the director to meet with each of the Dirty Dozen to determine your suitability for this line of work.”

“You gotta be kidding me.” Cain knew he was raising his voice. “Sometimes I think I’m the only sane one here.”

LeRoy tilted his head and widened his eyes. “Go home. Get some rest. Just be prepared for tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Cain stood and turned to leave.

“Slow your roll.”

Cain stopped midstep.

“Because you’re on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation, I’m going to need to hold on to your badge and gun.”

“Boss!” Cain exclaimed. “You can’t take my badge and gun. This is just an administrative inquiry.”

“My hands are tied,” the King replied apologetically. “This is coming down from higher up.”

“How high?”

“Nosebleed high,” LeRoy replied.

Cain reluctantly handed over the tools of his trade. His identity was tied up in his job. He searched for a loophole. “DC is a violent place. You leave me nothing to defend myself with.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Nobody is desperate enough to rob a man in a Sears suit and a Walmart tie.”

“Hey! This might not be a hundred-dollar tie like yours, but it’s nice. My sister sent this from Japan.”

“Let’s not waste time talking about Japanese fashion. I got more knuckleheads to deal with. Now, don’t forget. Tomorrow at zero nine hundred. Answer her questions right so I can get you back on POTUS’s detail.”

“Gladly,” Cain replied.

“And one last thing. Your keys. Turn ’em over. You can’t drive a government car while you’re on administrative leave pending a”—the King used air quotes—“‘management-directed inquiry.’”

“A management-directed inquiry?” Cain repeated in disbelief. “Sounds more like a witch hunt. And history showed us how that ended.”

“Then you better get rid of your broom and black hat, because they’re getting the matches and piling up the straw.”





Chapter 14



The day passed slowly. Cain’s family called to wish him a happy birthday, but it didn’t feel like his birthday. There was no cause for celebration. His thoughts had huddled around his psychological evaluation. If I can just get this test over with, I’ll be reinstated, he reasoned.

The next morning he faced the bathroom mirror. The sunlight peered through the window, brightening the small room. “Let’s go with the half Windsor knot,” he said aloud. “Gotta look extra sharp today.”

Cain exited his house. He felt the crisp, cool morning air. He loved Arlington in April. He intended to get into his sedan, and then remembered that he had been ordered to leave it at the office. That’s embarrassing, he thought, regarding his lapse in memory. Maybe my work life is becoming as muddled as my personal life.

Given that he was clad in a suit and tie, he had to rethink his commute to the shrink’s office. It had been several months since he had ridden his motorcycle, but he put the question of whether he had lost any of his riding skills out of his mind. His concern was the inch of dust on the cover. It may have been waterproof, but it wasn’t dustproof.

Last time he rode the motorcycle was in winter. When he’d yanked off the cover, the neighbor’s cat, which had been sleeping on his seat, snarled and darted off. Tigger probably scared me more than I scared him, Cain recalled. “All right, let’s see if Tigger is underneath. Here, kitty kitty.” He carefully removed the cover to give Tigger enough notice and so that the dust wouldn’t dirty his suit. Second by second, the shiny Harley-Davidson with lots of chrome came into view. It still looks as beautiful as the day you gave it to me, Claire Bear. It was a Road King from 2003—the year Harley celebrated its hundredth anniversary—and his wife, with financial help from her father, had gifted it to him to commemorate his service in the United States Navy. Claire had wanted to buy it in fire truck red, but her father, a prominent defense attorney in New Orleans, had persuaded her to pick blue to symbolize the oceans that the navy sails. Cain loved the classic look of the motorcycle, with its leather saddlebags and whitewall tires. He was beyond thankful for the gift and never held it against his father-in-law that he defended the same types of drug criminals that Cain helped put behind bars as a counter-narcotics pilot.

The Harley hemmed and hawed as it cranked and spit out bluish-gray smoke from its exhaust before finally settling into a rhythmic rumble. The entire motorcycle gyrated, and Cain rolled the throttle a few times to warm it up. He threw on his brown aviator jacket, put on a pair of riding glasses, snapped the button on his low-profile helmet, donned his leather gloves, and cruised toward the White House.

The wind blew past his ears and the cold stung his face. His feet shifted the gears as his hands pressed the clutch. He and the motorcycle operated as one—man and machine linked together. When he arrived at the shrink’s office, he noticed a fancy BMW with vanity plates but no other motorcycles in the lot. You never see a bike outside a shrink’s office, he observed. I don’t need a shrink; I just need to ride more.