Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand

in the morgue that begs to differ.”
    “Yes, all right ,” she snaps, her hands clasping again. A vein appears in her smooth forehead. “I understand that. But at the time, I wasn’t aware that he was dead.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I knew your victim, Detective March. He worked for me.”
    “What?” Bascombe says. “You mean, here?”
    “He wasn’t an FBI employee, Lieutenant. He was an asset. He was working undercover as part of this operation. The last contact we had with him was two weeks ago, and at that time everything was fine. So you can imagine my surprise when your test results popped up.”
    “So you can identify my victim?” I ask.
    The implications are electrifying. My John Doe not only has a name, but his death has a context. Under the circumstances, the FBI might be able to name not just the victim but his likely killer.
    “I can identify him, yes.”
    “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Bascombe asks, creaking forward in his chair.
    She responds with a pained smile. It dawns on me that Bea has more than a name to give. She knew this man. She felt responsible for him, at the very least. To her, this is more than just a case to solve.
    “I’m sorry if I was a little blunt before,” I say. “I realize what a shock this must be. But you’re in a position to help. Not only can you identify the victim, but I’m guessing you might have a good idea what happened to him—and where. If we’re putting all our cards on the table, the fact is, we don’t have much to go on.”
    “I figured as much,” she says. “There’s a problem, though, and that’s why you’re here. Like I said, I could identify him . . . but I can’t.”
    “You don’t really have a choice. You can’t obstruct a homicide investigation.”
    “If I don’t,” she says, “then you’ll have another homicide on your hands.”
    I start to answer, but Bascombe puts a hand on my arm. “Let her explain, March. Stop interrupting.”
    Another deep breath. “Like I said, he was working undercover. It seems obvious that something went wrong, that somehow his cover was blown. If you release his identity to the media and start investigating his murder, then we’ll be confirming to the people who killed him that they were right.”
    “Does that matter at this point?”
    “It does,” she says. “He’s not the only person we have undercover. Someone had to vouch for him, and if his cover was blown, that someone is in a lot of danger.”
    After a pause, Bascombe edges forward a bit more. “If they killed one, what makes you think the other isn’t already dead?”
    “I know for a fact he isn’t. We’ve been in communication.”
    “And he said he was in danger?”
    “That’s why we’re here,” she says. “Let me spell it out. I can’t let you have an ID on your victim, because it would put the life of my last remaining asset in jeopardy.”
    “So what are you asking me to do? Leave him in the freezer?”
    She blinks. “I’m not asking more than that. You’re not going to like this, Detective, but I don’t see that you have any choice. Not unless you want to be responsible for a man’s death.”
    “Go on.”
    Bea’s hand goes back to the files, removing one from the top of the stack. She hands it across the desk to me. Inside, there’s a glossy photo of a Caucasian male in his mid-thirties, a curly-haired man with thick eyebrows and the hint of laugh lines on either side of the mouth. There are also photocopies of a Texas driver’s license, a CHL , and a U.S. passport. Behind a stapled stack of typed pages, there’s also a Federal Firearms License—an FFL , required for gun dealers.
    The name on all the documentation is the same: BRANDON FORD .
    “This is him?” I ask. “Brandon Ford.”
    “It is as far as you’re concerned.”
    Bascombe snatches the file. “Let me see that.” He flips through the pages quickly. “This is his cover, is that what you’re