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

saying?”
    “Correct.”
    “What we’re looking for is a positive identification. This doesn’t do it. Brandon Ford doesn’t exist. We’re not in the business of investigating people who don’t exist.”
    “Well, you are now.”
    They stare each other down, the big lieutenant and the slender, slight FBI agent. Her eyes shine with—what? Anger? Determination? At least it’s obvious now why she didn’t bring in a bunch of supervisors and liaisons. She doesn’t have any institutional authority to assert. She knows what she’s doing is, at best, unorthodox, probably unethical, and possibly illegal. Not that things like this don’t happen. They just don’t happen officially. The only authority she can call on here is moral. Work with me or you’ll get somebody killed.
    “It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” I begin.
    “Detective, here’s what I want. You have to leave here determined to investigate the murder of Brandon Ford. He’s a licensed gun dealer, he’s underwater on his mortgage and in danger of foreclosure, he’s got an ex-wife and two kids who need support every month, and he’s desperate for cash. So desperate that he’d be happy to supply anyone who asks with any quantity of AK-47s they require. That’s who’s in your morgue, and that’s what you have to tell the media. When you do, the people responsible for . . . Brandon’s death will second-guess themselves. They’ll think their suspicions were wrong.”
    “With all due respect,” I say, “this man wasn’t just executed. He was tortured. Presumably they were trying to make him talk—”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “Don’t you think, under the circumstances, that you’d be better off pulling out your other asset? There’s no way of predicting what might happen.”
    She glares at me, stony-faced. “That’s not an option, I’m afraid.”
    Though she may look young, though she may look like a pushover, Bea Kuykendahl has a spine. She’s not about to give ground, which means we’re at an impasse. I can feel it, and so must Bascombe. He shifts uncomfortably, not too pleased with the choice before him.
    “I can take this?” I ask, rising to my feet with the file in hand.
    She waves her hand in permission.
    “Ready, sir?” I ask.
    I’m afraid he’ll say something. Afraid he’ll commit us to a course of action. I want more than anything to get him out of the room before that happens.
    “Listen—” he says to her.
    “We need to think this over,” I say.
    Bea squeezes her clasped hands. “Fine. Just remember what I told you. You’re playing with a man’s life, Detective.”
    She doesn’t move to escort us out. As we leave the bullpen, the door opens and a couple of agents who look as young and disheveled as their boss file in. They lock eyes with us, clearly knowing our purpose here. I push past them, ignoring the hard looks.
    Bascombe and I don’t talk until we’re outside, back in the car, sitting with the engine running and waiting for the air-conditioning to cool us down.
    “That’s not what I was expecting,” I say. “I don’t know what she expects me to do.”
    “You know exactly what she wants.”
    “Yeah, I just don’t know how to go about doing it. How do you investigate someone who doesn’t exist? Leaving him on the slab is one thing—that’s bad enough—but going through the motions, pretending I’m on the case. That’s just a waste of time.”
    “I don’t know,” he says.
    I look at him, but he doesn’t look back.
    “It wouldn’t require much. Just put the story out there, make a little bit of an effort. If that’s enough to get her insider off the hook, maybe it’s worth doing.”
    “You’re serious, sir?”
    He grips the wheel thoughtfully. “I think I am. That girl, I like her spunk. She’s putting it on the line and I don’t feel like disrespectin’ that, not if we don’t have to.”
    “I’d rather know whose murder I’m really investigating.”
    “You’re