give me that,” she replied in annoyance. “There’s something else going on. I’ve watched you when you’ve been recalled to go out on special ops with the military. I’ve seen you when you and Greg were in the thick of things. Things I knew to be secret and things I’ve never asked about. But something has changed. These last couple of days you’ve hardly spoken.” Yolanda’s face softened and she leaned forward and put her hand on his and said, “I’m worried about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Adams lowered his voice, but his response was terse. “This is different. The bad guys crossed the line with Greg. They had to be sent a message.”
“Had? What kind of message?” she asked, gripping his hand tight.
Adams stared at the Budweiser and didn’t respond.
“What have you done?” cried Yolanda.
Adams looked at her and said solemnly, “Nothing I feel guilty about, so quit worrying.”
Yolanda stood up and stared at Adams for a moment, before shaking her head in exasperation and walking out of the room.
Adams stared after her. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. That he would do anything to protect her.
His cellphone rang. It was his boss.
“Get in here immediately,” seethed Weber.
“I thought you gave me a week off,” replied Adams.
“No time to be funny … you stupid, dumb fucker. You really did it this time. Davidson and a DA are going to interview you. They decided to leave me out of it to show impartiality because I know you. What a laugh that is. After what you did, I don’t know you at all and I don’t want to.”
Adams hung up. He slowly finished the beer and left without saying goodbye to Yolanda. He was afraid to. He knew he would break down if he did.
District Attorney Norman White waited in Davidson’s office for Adams to arrive.
“How long have you known John Adams?” asked White, grimacing as he took a sip of coffee. Not exactly Starbucks …
Davidson leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
“I was transferred in here five months ago to head the FBI contingent in the office. I met him then for the first time.”
“What kind of officer is he?”
“Well, he comes under the direct command of Weber, but this is a small enough office that we all know each other to some degree. I consider Adams to be a loose cannon. Not one to follow rules, particularly. Surprising for a guy trained with the Special Forces … they usually follow orders to a T. Adams and his partner … or ex-partner now, were always working on their own and taking unnecessary risks.”
“Did they get any positive results in their invest-igations?” White asked.
Davidson sat forward in his chair, momentarily drumming his fingers on his desk before replying. “Yes, I would have to admit they did,” he replied. “Adams was good at developing confidential sources. It gave him an advantage.”
“Does he have lots of friends in the office?”
“No. I would say none. He is more of a loner type.”
“What about Greg Patton? Isn’t he close to him?”
Davidson shrugged. “I think the type of high-risk work Adams does, combined with his pattern of continually ignoring policy, necessitated that he trust his partner. I’m sure the two men are close, but other than Patton, Adams pretty much sticks to himself.”
“I was wondering if he might have already confided to someone about what he does.”
“Maybe his wife, I don’t know. With the psycho-logical mess Patton is in right now, I doubt he would even tell him.”
“I can’t make Adams’s wife testify against him, regardless.”
“How do you want to play it when he comes in?”
“No doubt he acted out of a blind rage, but now he has to realize he did what he did in broad daylight and in front of numerous witnesses. He’ll know he’s caught. We’ll be polite, but lay our cards on the table. We can even sympathize with him a little for what prompted his rage.”
“What do you think he’s looking at for jail time?”
“With his co-operation, an understanding judge might go along with a twenty-four- to twenty-eight-year sentence.”
Davidson shook his head sadly. “He’ll have to spend it in solitary.”
“It was his choice to do what he did.” White took another sip of coffee and made a face. “God, this stuff is awful.”
“He may demand a lawyer … or even arrive with one.”
“Possible, but I doubt it. In my experience, law-enforcement types who have crossed the line feel so guilty they are actually relieved to confess. You know him, so sit close and play the role of a sympathizer. I’ll tell him I can make a submission to a judge for an agreed sentence. Once he admits it, I’ll step out while you officially give him his rights and record a full confession. I’ll bet you a dinner he doesn’t request a lawyer.”
Adams arrived and nodded silently as Davidson introduced him to Norman White. The three men sat down, with White behind the desk while Davidson sat beside Adams, his chair arranged at a right angle to face him.
“Mr. Davidson is present because he is with the FBI, and your own boss with Customs, could be viewed as lacking impartiality,” said White.
“So I heard,” replied Adams. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
“You were seen, John,” said Davidson, softly. “Two days ago at the Red Poker.”
“I was seen?”
“Three of Chico’s guys were right there,” said Davidson.
“Not only by those three men,” added White, “but by independent witnesses in two other cars who saw you cuff him and put him in your own car before absconding with him.”
“So I picked him up. What’s the big deal?” replied Adams.
“His body was found yesterday,” said White. “Shot with his own gun.”
“Barely even off the road,” added Davidson. “It was like you wanted it to be found.”
“If he was murdered, I’m not responsible,” stated Adams firmly.
“Look, John, we know you’re a Special Forces operative who sometimes goes on secret missions,” said Davidson, “but this obviously wasn’t one of them. Nobody is going to come forward and say you were authorized.”
“Authorized to do what?” replied Adams. “I told you, I didn’t murder him.”
“John,”
