Crooked River(48)
This was messed up. Coldmoon wasn’t going to tolerate one more disrespectful comment from this jumped-up jackass in uniform. He was about to say more when he caught Pendergast’s warning glance.
“Commander Baugh,” Pendergast said, “I will gladly share my conclusions with you when we have drawn them. For the time being, I will continue working in confidence.”
“I promise you, Pendergast, this lack of cooperation will have consequences.”
Pendergast rose, his voice still mild. “Thank you, Commander. Now, as you just pointed out, we have warrants to serve—and so we’ll take our leave.”
As they departed the air-conditioned haven into the sweltering parking lot, Coldmoon turned to Pendergast and exploded in anger. “That bastard! Where does he get off talking to us that way! And you let him!”
“Agent Coldmoon, there’s a word to describe our response, and that word is strategic. It isn’t strategic at the present time for us to do battle with the commander. Recall that you’re still new to this task force—and its shortcomings.”
Coldmoon felt some of his anger at the commander shifting over toward Pendergast and his lack of fight. “You can’t let him talk to us like that. We’re FBI, for Chrissakes.”
“His day of reckoning will come. But first, it’s crucial we get the drift results from Dr. Gladstone—and we must do all we can to keep her name out of the investigation. I can’t imagine how Baugh learned of her involvement.”
“Why? Is she in any kind of danger?”
“We are all in danger.”
“What from?”
“I don’t know—and that’s what makes it so very dangerous.”
28
SMITHBACK SAT IN the driver’s seat of his Subaru, parked beneath a broken streetlight, half a block from the LeeTran bus stop. There was nobody on the street, and the kiosk was empty.
He glanced at his watch: quarter past ten. Christ, the guy was fifteen minutes late already. But it was the only lead he had, and he would sit here half the night if he had to. Faint sounds came to his ears: an argument in Spanish; boat traffic on the river; and a car horn braying “La cucaracha,” Doppler-shifting as it passed by.
He wondered, for the thousandth time, who it was that had called him. It was a gruff voice with a Spanish accent. Smithback had lived in south Florida long enough to know there were dozens of variations on a Spanish accent, but he’d never learned to tell them apart. The voice had said to meet at this bus stop at ten in the evening—in a southwestern neighborhood of Fort Myers not far from where he’d had the unpleasant encounter with the guys in the street. He wouldn’t say anything beyond that, except to tell Smithback he had information.
Information. That could mean anything. Smithback’s beat was Miami; his byline wouldn’t be known around here. And the call had come over his cell phone, which almost certainly meant it was from one of the cards he’d given out. But he hadn’t passed out more than a dozen; most people he’d encountered in the barrio had simply refused to take them.
Just then, he saw movement on the next block. Instinctively, he crouched in his seat, watching. The shadowy figure crossed the street, coming closer, and quite abruptly Smithback recognized him. It was that old landscaper, the one he’d seen mowing the lawn who had spoken no English. What the hell was going on? Was it coincidence?
As he watched, the lean man kept coming, walking intently, looking straight ahead, until he reached the kiosk. Then he stopped, glanced around once, and took a seat: arms folded, body rigid.
Rising from behind the steering wheel, Smithback regarded him carefully. Everything about the man’s body language told the reporter this wasn’t a person waiting for a bus. The old man, like just about everyone else he’d encountered in that neighborhood, had been unwilling to talk, at least in public. And he knew the reason: fear. In recent years, waves of gangs had swept over these streets like plagues, hollowing them out and transforming the neighborhood into a nightmarish shadow of what it had once been, with the drug dealing, shootings, abandoned buildings, and graffiti-covered walls.
The gardener unfolded his arms long enough to take a puff on his cheroot, and as he did so, Smithback saw his fingers tremble. He was afraid, all right. It was clear the man was taking a big chance to talk to him, and Smithback wasn’t going to expose him to further danger by delaying. He took another look around to make sure the street was still deserted, then started his engine and drove the half block, pulling up in front of the bus stop.
The man glanced up and their eyes met. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then the man nodded faintly, dropped his cheroot on the pavement, rose, and got into Smithback’s car, crouching down much as the reporter had done minutes earlier. He did not offer either a greeting or a name. Immediately, Smithback pulled away from the curb and they drove into the night.
“?Adónde?” Smithback asked.
The man waved a hand. “Drive. Circula. Around.”
So he did speak English—after a fashion, anyway. And Smithback recognized it as the voice he’d heard over the phone.
He’d conducted enough interviews like this to know brevity was important. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.
“?Eres tonto? You crazy? You are the one looking for help. You are the one asking questions everywhere, asking for trouble for people—you and us. If they knew I was talking to you…ya valió madre.” The man shook his head.