she wasn’t about to share that with Gordon.
“’Cause you always know more than you let on.” Gordon shrugged and slumped deeper into his chair. “When you’re not around the guys in bank robbery call you the freaking Cheshire Cat.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” It was, after all, better than some of the things she’d been called since entering the hallowed halls of Quantico four years ago.
“You think it’s got anything to do with your brother?” Gordon asked.
“No.” Her voice was cold, her heart colder. “I don’t think it has anything to do with my brother.”
“But with Delgado—”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with Patrick.” She looked at Gordon, feeling the bite of anger and grief that she’d been fighting since the accident six months ago.
She was getting better. Most of the time those emotions only surfaced at night—in disjointed dreams of her brother lost and cold someplace and her unable to find him. But sometimes she was ambushed by her feelings, caught unawares by the terrible reality that Patrick was dead. Gone.
Murdered.
“Okay.” Gordon raised his hands in truce. “But I think you’re wrong.”
Maggie didn’t say anything and they drank in stiff, uncomfortable silence.
“Whatever it is I hope I’m being reassigned to the Delgado task force. I’ve had it about up to here—” he held his hand about a foot over his head “—with bank robberies and celebrity stalkings.”
Maggie smiled. They were in L.A., after all. Celebrity stalking, bank robberies and gangs composed about seventy-five percent of the workload.
“How is it over at gang violence?” Gordon asked. “Better?”
“I wouldn’t say better. I’d just say less mundane.”
He nodded his head. “I like less mundane. But since your brother got killed and that witness—”
“Gordon,” she said through tight lips, “shut up.”
“Right. Shutting up.”
She had the sinking fear that Gordon was right. She was here because of her brother. Maybe she would be removed from the Delgado case because of the media coverage surrounding Patrick’s death.
Nothing like a few headlines shouting Dirty Cop or, worse, Dead Cop Linked to Drug Lord to sully a whole family’s name. No matter if they were true or not.
“Hey, did you see the Lakers game yesterday? I swear I keep betting on the wrong team—”
Luckily, Gordon’s small talk was cut short by the sudden opening of Deputy Walters’ door.
Curtis Johnson, the agent in charge of the Delgado task force and the closest thing she had to a mentor in the Bureau, stood in the doorway like a huge black shadow in an ill-fitting suit.
“Come on in,” he said in his deep baritone that sounded like the voice of God in the cartoons Maggie had watched as a kid. Gordon leaped up and Curtis stepped out of the way as Gordon walked past him. Maggie took her time, trying to catch Curtis’s eye before going in those doors, but she couldn’t discern anything from his locked-down expression.
Her ulcers didn’t like this one bit.
“Relax,” Curtis whispered as she walked by.
“Easier said than done,” she whispered back.
Curtis chuckled and followed her into Deputy Walters’s inner sanctum.
Maggie took a deep breath and pulled the loose collar away from her throat. The oak paneling and oil paintings seemed to close in on her with every breath. Her father had this dream of her being the first female assistant deputy director of the West Coast Bureau, but if that meant working in this ever-shrinking room every day, dear old Dad could forget it.
Deputy Walters was a small man who looked far younger than his years and much too young to be the assistant deputy director in charge. He was dwarfed by the large oak desk he sat behind, which Gordon loved to make penis compensation jokes about. But there was no joking about this meeting.
Walters had held his position for five years and in the year since the Bureau had put Delgado on the Ten Most Wanted list, Walters had already gone through two agents in charge. Flores and Smyth hadn’t managed to bring down Delgado and were now fielding bomb threats and UFO sightings at their desks.
Curtis had been put in charge a month ago and she’d been angling to get on his team from the start. Two weeks ago, he’d brought her on board. And so far she’d turned up nothing. Trying to get information on Delgado was like running into a brick wall headfirst. No one in the neighborhoods would talk. No one in jail would talk. They’d offered one convict reduced jail time on a twenty-five year sentence and the guy wouldn’t budge.
I’ll take the time, he’d said. Better alive in jail than dead on the street.
They had thrown in relocation and protection to sweeten the deal, but he’d only scoffed. You can’t take me where Delgado won’t find me.
Delgado ruled his syndicate with fear and brutal violence. Anyone even suspected of talking to the Feds was killed, their families were killed, their dogs were killed.
So far it had been a pretty effective deterrent.
“Have a seat,” Walters said with a smile that was about as warm as an ice bath. She and Gordon sat in the chairs across from him and Curtis stood to the right of the phallic desk.
“What’s going on?” Gordon asked, his eyes darting between Walters and Curtis.
“Delgado is on the move,” Curtis replied.
He turned and hit a button on his remote and the screen on the right wall was illuminated with the face of the handsome Hispanic man who’d been all over the newspapers and television in the past few days.
“Caleb Gomez was released from the naval hospital in San Diego four days ago,” Curtis said and Maggie sat back, wondering what a Pulitzer-prize winning hostage survivor had to do with one of the most brutal gang lords in Los Angeles. “According to his press release, he is planning to spend time recuperating in New York City.”
Curtis clicked the remote and a bad surveillance photo of Gomez dressed out like an East L. A. native standing in front of a taco stand with Delgado filled the screen.
“What’s Delgado doing with a journalist?” Gordon voiced Maggie’s thoughts. “That’s like suicide for Delgado.”
“Or the journalist,” Maggie added.
“That’s what we’re wondering, too,” Curtis said and jerked his thumb toward the screen. “This photo was taken three and a half years ago. According to Gomez’s editor at the Los Angeles Times, that’s about when Gomez stopped taking assignments and was working on what he called his ‘next Pulitzer.’ The Times had
