Color of Blood(7)
Dennis made a storied career out of his successes on tough investigations for the IG. He had been thrown into some of the most complicated situations, and he nearly always returned with the prize: a cocaine-addicted station chief, an undercover agent stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars meant for his sources, even a station chief in Bangkok who had strangled a male prostitute. Dennis was convinced this last guy was a serial killer but could never prove it.
His success was based on an idiosyncratic investigative approach that, well, carried some risk. He had discovered years ago that he could get much more important information from an interviewee if he verbally shocked them. Dennis accomplished this by blatantly offending his subjects and sometimes even threatening them with charges he could not possibly bring against them. The shock treatment often disoriented his subjects, pried out character weaknesses and most interestingly, tended to betray a liar. It also helped him cut through all the clever manipulation by resourceful, bright, and motivated people.
One of Dennis’s friends in the IG’s office once termed his investigative approach “The Socrapic Method”—half Socratic inquiry, half total crap. Even Dennis thought that was pretty funny.
Each trophy Dennis brought back to the IG’s office emboldened him in this approach, but eventually there had been problems. Like London, and of course, Nicaragua.
His wife’s death and his meltdown had changed everything. Even Dr. Forrester’s observations about his behavior made him self-conscious and unsettled. It’s not that he took glee in baiting St. Regis, but he literally did not know any other way to extract as much information in as short a period.
The glory days of limitless investigative freelancing had given way to new politically correct processes and Dennis, for one, was not adept at patience.
Yet he knew he had to cut it out, for there was not much to Dennis’s life except work: chasing Agency miscreants to the corners of the Earth was a full-time job that kept him busy. He was afraid of what might happen if he lost interest in work.
Polishing off his drink, he raised the empty glass to the bartender and jiggled it, the universal sign for “more alcohol please.” He worried how in the hell was he going to do his job if he couldn’t use his old methods. They were the only tricks he knew. Any silly investigator could sit down and politely, respectfully ask questions of a conniving, lying subject. Hell, the entire IG’s office was full of those kinds of investigators.
What worried Dennis more, really, was Marty’s attitude about his old methods. His boss seemed unusually serious about his threat. In fact, Marty had stopped into his office right before he left on this assignment and gently warned Dennis, again, that he needed to follow the new protocols.
“I’m not kidding, Dennis,” Marty said. “Do you roger me on that?”
“I copy you,” Dennis said. “I’ll be Little Goody Two-shoes.”
Dennis swirled his drink for the twentieth time and looked around the mahogany paneled bar, its varnish reflecting the bright afternoon sun streaming through the windows. He flinched at the wattage of the Australian glare and took another sip.
***
It was hot and he looked at his watch. Today Dennis was going to visit Garder’s abandoned apartment. The Australian agent was late. The fact that he had to be observed by a friendly was bad enough, but now the guy was late.
A maroon Toyota sedan pulled up. A woman behind the wheel leaned forward in her seat and waved at Dennis. He approached the car, and she rolled the window down.
“Are you Dennis Cunningham?”
“Yep.”
“Righto, I’m here to pick you up,” she said.
Dennis settled into the passenger seat. The woman smiled and reached out her hand. “I’m Judy. Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks.” Dennis shook her hand. “We’ll meet your boss at the apartment?”
“My boss?”
“Yeah, your boss. Is he going to meet us there?”
“Were you expecting to meet my boss today? I wasn’t told that.”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “I’m supposed to be shadowed by an Agent White.”
“I’m Agent White, Judy White. I’m your Australian Federal Police contact here in Australia.”
Dennis looked at the woman for several seconds. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t know why I was expecting a man. My boss suggested it was a guy, but what does he know?”
“We have female agents in Australia. I presume the United States has plenty of female agents. In fact, I’ve met several in your FBI.”
“Yes, we’ve got plenty of women in law enforcement. I’m sorry if I was confused.”
Judy kept her eyes on the road and tried not to betray a sense of unease she felt toward the American. He had only been in her car five minutes and she could feel her jaw muscles tighten with tension. Why do I always get these awful assignments? she thought.
She tried small talk with the Yank, but it was useless; he simply grunted an affirmative or shook his head for a negative. Judy was thankful the apartment was in Subiaco, a suburb near Perth, so the ride was less than twenty minutes.
***
The apartment complex was modern with several two-story brick buildings arrayed around a small parking lot. Judy led him to a ground floor apartment that had a large band of yellow police tape across its door. A policeman sat smoking a cigarette on a white plastic garden chair.