“She gave a brilliant analysis; the woman is practically clairvoyant. We’re fortunate to have her on the team. You’d do well, Agent Emerson, to take a few lessons from her. If you want to make a career in the FBI, remember not to doubt what a woman says just because she’s a woman. Think twice before opening your mouth.”
Emerson emitted an anguished whimper. “I don’t understand! You don’t agree with her either.”
“The difference is that I respect her. You can brownnose all you want, but if you think I’m going to gang up with you to criticize a woman who’s worth two of you, you have another think coming.”
Emerson released a stream of air through his nose and chose to remain silent, uncertain how to respond to her criticism.
Tucker smiled again. She took out her mobile, looked up a contact, and pressed a button. “No reason to be down in the mouth, Emerson. Maybe Nelson’s in New Orleans. And who knows, Salazar may even be right.” She waved the rolled-up report at him. “But believe me, you and I are in the right place at the right time.”
33
PIECES OF SILVER
Washington, DC
Monday, August 29, 2005
Director Wilson looked down on the slow traffic along Pennsylvania Avenue, typical of a Monday in August. He was relaxed and disengaged, his hands in the pockets of his slacks, the bright sunshine illuminating his ruddy face. That attitude was somewhat belied by the tough set of his mouth and the slight frown above his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Am I the only one who sees this as a knife in the back?” Michael Verdon asked him from behind the desk.
Wilson turned and gave him a sympathetic but resigned look. “A badass is going to be a badass.”
“And we all know that’s how Stella Tucker operates.”
“Right. She may be a loose cannon, but she’s a smart operator too. I’ve seen enough of life to know that sometimes you need to pin a medal on a shit like Tucker to keep her from destroying someone you respect.”
Verdon nodded in disgust, but he went ahead and picked up the phone. He told his assistant to put the call through. He put it on speaker so Wilson could listen.
“Michael?” Dupree’s voice was clear, but Verdon, who knew him well, detected a wary tone.
“Aloisius, Jim Wilson’s here with me. It’s a beautiful day in Washington, though I guess you can’t say the same where you are. The television images we’re getting are dreadful. Things are going to get worse over the coming hours, and we think Operation Cage is in real trouble.”
Dupree replied prudently, for he knew that none of what Verdon had said so far was important enough to reach out to him during the storm. “Michael, Jim, what’s going on?”
“Dupree, we’ve had to make some decisions due to the weather conditions, the fact that your unit is divided and working two different regions, and the magnitude of the disaster that has cut off New Orleans.”
Dupree said nothing. The static on the line was the only sign that the connection was still live.
“We decided we needed to brief you,” Verdon added, doing his best to sound supportive. “We’ve been following your progress. Agent Tucker has informed us—”
“Am I hearing you right?” Dupree interrupted him. “Tucker contacted you directly?”
“Aloisius, please, take it easy and just listen!” Wilson raised his voice. “We’re your friends!”
Verdon patiently resumed. “As I was telling you, Agent Tucker has informed us that you’ve confirmed the presence of a Tampa policeman, Brad Nelson, in geographical proximity to all the family murders. She also informed us that Assistant Inspector Salazar has identified significant similarities between these murders and the murder of another family eighteen years ago.”
Dupree’s reply was swift. “Right, then, I guess Tucker neglected to tell you that although Nelson was on rescue teams in several of those locations, he came back early from Brooksville and he’s not officially in New Orleans right now. And she didn’t mention that even though Salazar believes the Composer could be a man named Martin Lenx, who killed his family eighteen years ago, Salazar also says Nelson doesn’t fit the profile.”
“I understood that Nelson was your principal suspect.”
“And are you asking me or swallowing the line Agent Tucker fed you?”
“Aloisius, for God’s sake!” the CJIS director exclaimed.
“Nelson is definitely a person of interest, but the evidence is circumstantial at best; we’re doing what we can to get hold of his partner on the rescue team and follow up. Earlier this morning, I asked Tucker to verify specific pieces of information. I still don’t have her report, but evidently you do.”
“Tucker tried to contact you, but she said it was impossible.”
“What else?” The question was sharp and impatient.
Wilson nodded, looking at Verdon. Dupree smelled what was coming. It wouldn’t do any good to try to hide it.
“Agent Tucker spoke with Nelson’s wife.”
“What?!” Dupree wasn’t asking how she’d managed it; he was too incensed she’d dared to do so without his authorization.
Verdon understood. “Given the information she’d gathered, she thought it was the right thing to do.”
“And why didn’t she ask me first?” Dupree snapped.
“Listen, Dupree, I know you’re upset, but comms are down. Cell phones don’t work in New Orleans. It took us almost an hour to set up this call, and no one has better resources than we do.”
Dupree ignored Verdon’s excuses. “When did you get confirmation that Nelson isn’t in Tampa?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“Why didn’t you let us know? The phone lines may be down, but I specifically ordered her to inform me of any new developments by email.”
“It wasn’t much more than you already had, and she figured that interviewing the wife would help advance the investigation.”
“When was that?”
“Dupree . . .”
“What time did she interview Nelson’s wife?”
“We don’t have that information,” Wilson lied.
Verdon tried to smooth things over. “You told us you were having comms problems because of the hurricane and the blackout.”
“I’m at the emergency ops center, with a generator and thirty operators taking phone calls. I find it hard to believe that she wasn’t able to get in contact.” His voice was bitter and sarcastic. “Interesting—now that you have something to tell me, you managed to establish communication.”
“Aloisius . . .” Verdon was trying his best to sound a conciliatory note.
“Aloisius,” Director Wilson went on, “here’s the deal. Nelson’s wife confirmed aspects of his behavior that caught our attention. He turned up at her house the day before yesterday. She said he was unusually calm, but acting mysterious and evasive. He’d completely changed his attitude from before. Here’s what he said, according to her, and I quote: ‘Everything that happened was my fault. I know I got everything wrong, but I’m going to find a solution. Right now I have to go, because I have something I can’t postpone, but when I get back, I’ll be ready to fix all the mistakes.’”