Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(17)

Pine knew that Blum just wanted to keep busy, but the fact was Pine could pretty much do everything by herself. It was only a matter of time before the Bureau figured that out, too, and made her secretary expendable. But then again, the wheels of the FBI’s bureaucracy could turn very slowly. Blum might actually retire before they caught on.

“No, I’m—” She paused as Blum looked at her expectantly. “There is one thing. Can you find out if the letters j and k hold any significance? And not just as alphabet letters.”

“In relation to what?”

“They were carved on the hide of a dead mule at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I know it’s not much to go on, and I don’t expect you’ll find anything.”

However, Blum was looking pensive. “Well, one thing does come to mind. But let me research it for a bit.”

She walked out. Pine stared after her in surprise for a moment before spending the next hour going over her other case files in preparation for her monthly phone call with her supervisor. She had spent her time here getting to know all the law enforcement in the area. Pine had also visited the local Indian tribes, who, collectively, had an enormous footprint here. They were not the sort you won over in a matter of weeks. It was baby steps, a little at a time. But during her time here Pine had already captured a bank robber, broken up an opioid ring, and nailed a serial rapist preying on those living on tribal lands, and that had helped her gain the trust of those she needed to do her job.

She moved her case files to the side and finished her coffee, which tasted strong and acidic going down. She glanced over at the far wall that still bore the indentation of a fist.

It had not been thrown by Pine, but at Pine by a suspect who had decided to turn violent.

The second indentation in the wall below the first was larger.

It marked where the suspect had been thrown headfirst into the wall after his fist had missed its mark and Pine had brought the dispute to a swift resolution.

She was cuffing the man with her knee firmly planted into the lower back of the nearly unconscious man when Blum, who had certainly heard the scuffle, had calmly opened the door and asked Pine whether she needed the police to take the “moron” away.

It had been her suggestion that Pine leave the marks on the wall.

“Some people are visually stimulated,” Blum had said. “And a picture is worth a thousand words.”

It had been a brilliant suggestion, Pine had thought, and the marks had remained. The guy had filed a complaint against her. Said that Pine had attacked him without cause. Ever since then, Pine had kept a hidden video camera in her office with audio capability. The button to activate it was in the knee well of her desk. It wasn’t for her protection, at least not her physical protection. It was in case another “moron” tried to lie about who attacked whom.

Her cell phone buzzed. She looked at the number and frowned. She took another sip of her coffee.

Flagstaff was calling. Early. That was never a good thing.

“Pine,” she said.

“Hold for Roger Avery, please,” said a woman’s voice.

Roger Avery?

He was not Pine’s immediate supervisor, and thus she had not been expecting a call from him. He was two levels above her immediate boss. He’d been with the Bureau for only six years, less than half her time on the clock, but now agents were making supervisor in as little as three or four years. Pine had never filed the necessary paperwork to make supervisor and indeed had fought against every effort to take her from the field and plop her permanently in an office. She had a distinct opinion of an FBI supervisor: They sat at desks all day and told other agents how to run their cases, playing Monday morning quarterback at every opportunity, while others did the heavy lifting.

Pine could stomach her direct contact, but she never liked to talk to Avery. She’d rather undergo a colonoscopy without the propofol.

The voice came on a moment later. “Pine?”

“Yes, sir,” said Pine.

“Surprised to hear from me?”

“Well, I was expecting the call to go over my cases. But not from you, sir.”

“I like to keep my finger on the pulse, so I’m making the calls this week.”

Finger on the pulse. The man would have failed every polygraph given to him.

“The call’s on my calendar for this afternoon.”

“I just thought I’d get it done earlier. I know you don’t like to sit behind your desk. But if you’re busy?”

Like any other supervisor, he didn’t mean that. If she told him to take a flying leap, her ass was done. She said, “No, absolutely works for me.” She reached for her case files, but his next words made her stop.

“I’m sure you’re doing just fine on your regular caseload. I’ve never had to ding you on anything in that regard.”

His words were clear enough. He had had to ding her on sometimes too zealously pursuing her cases. Yet she had never felt that hurt feelings or a broken limb should ever be cause for not discovering the truth. The “moron” she’d launched into the drywall had not just filed a complaint against her, he’d also filed a lawsuit. Both had been dismissed after it was learned that the man had attacked cops and ordinary citizens with regularity.

“Okay,” said Pine. “Is there something else you need then, because I was actually just about to head out?”