Jennifer. That she hated you. She apparently thought that Jennifer could do better than a …” Beamon paused imperceptibly, choking a bit on the phrase, “halfspic living in a trailer park.”
Jaime’s face flashed with anger. “Fuck you, man.” He jumped to his feet and pushed a book lying on the desk in front of him as hard as he could, but Beamon stopped it easily before it hit him in the chest.
“Sit down,” Beamon ordered, raising his voice for the first time in the “interview.” The boy glared at him, his breath coming like he’d just run a race.
“I won’t tell you again. Sit.”
Jamie looked over at Michaels, whose wide-eyed stare seemed frozen to his face, and then sank back into the chair.
“Look, Jamie. You’re underage. You love Jennifer. Maybe she even talked you into this? Beenthere. It’s hard to say no to the woman you love. You start talking to me right now and I’ll do everything I can to make things go easy for you. At this point, I think we can keep this in Juvenile—keep you from being tried as an adult.” Beamon dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor loudly. “You keep fucking with me, though, and I’m going to make it my mission to get you. You’re a smart kid. You go look up some articles on me in the library. You’ll find that the people who come up against me end up in prison for the rest of their lives. Or dead.”
Tears clouded the boy’s eyes for the first time. “I didn’t do it, man. Don’t you think I want her back? Don’t you?”
He ran past them and out the door, slamming it behind him. Beamon didn’t bother to stop him.
“Jesus, Mark.” Michaels said in a loud whisper that sounded a bit panicked. “You just threatened to kill that kid!”
“Did I?” Beamon pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to shake the feeling that he’d have made a hell of a Gestapo agent. Ripping into a seventeen-year-old kid with a history of abuse—and who was probably lying awake at night imagining his girlfriend being raped in the back of a van or something—was right up there with clubbing baby seals on the fun meter. There were times when he really hated this job.
“So what do you think, Mark?”
Beamon sighed. “I got a bad feeling about that kid.”
“Really? You think he did it?”
Beamon shook his head. “No, that would be a good feeling. It’d mean I found our man—boy—and was on the verge of finding Jennifer. I’m afraid that he didn’t do it. And if that’s true, I don’t have a fucking clue where that little girl is.”
8
M ARK B EAMON SLAMMED HIS FOOT AGAINST the brake pedal and slid into a stand of snow-covered pines. The impact, slow as it was, knocked the snow off the trees and buried the front of his car. Apparently the snow-driving learning curve wasn’t real steep for Texans. At least not this one.
The condominium complex that had been his home for the past month sparkled as the beams of widely spaced floodlights bounced off ice clinging to the sides of the buildings. It had been the first place his realtor had taken him. The FBI had relocated him more times than he could remember—in fact, someone had recently pointed out that he might be closing in on the record. And with that many moves under his belt, the monotonous chore of looking for housing had become almost physically painful.
Of course, he had no one to blame for his career as the FBI’s tinerant lawman but himself. There was always some new office anxious to take on the man heralded as the best investigative mind in the Bureau. And there was always an office just as anxious to get rid of the man heralded as the biggest pain in the ass in the Bureau.
But that was the old Mark Beamon. He was the new, vastly improved Mark Beamon. He steppedfrom the car and kicked his front tire. Satisfied that he’d be able to get out the next morning, he started along one of the meticulously shoveled brick walkways that connected the forty units with the main office, frozen
Jaime’s face flashed with anger. “Fuck you, man.” He jumped to his feet and pushed a book lying on the desk in front of him as hard as he could, but Beamon stopped it easily before it hit him in the chest.
“Sit down,” Beamon ordered, raising his voice for the first time in the “interview.” The boy glared at him, his breath coming like he’d just run a race.
“I won’t tell you again. Sit.”
Jamie looked over at Michaels, whose wide-eyed stare seemed frozen to his face, and then sank back into the chair.
“Look, Jamie. You’re underage. You love Jennifer. Maybe she even talked you into this? Beenthere. It’s hard to say no to the woman you love. You start talking to me right now and I’ll do everything I can to make things go easy for you. At this point, I think we can keep this in Juvenile—keep you from being tried as an adult.” Beamon dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor loudly. “You keep fucking with me, though, and I’m going to make it my mission to get you. You’re a smart kid. You go look up some articles on me in the library. You’ll find that the people who come up against me end up in prison for the rest of their lives. Or dead.”
Tears clouded the boy’s eyes for the first time. “I didn’t do it, man. Don’t you think I want her back? Don’t you?”
He ran past them and out the door, slamming it behind him. Beamon didn’t bother to stop him.
“Jesus, Mark.” Michaels said in a loud whisper that sounded a bit panicked. “You just threatened to kill that kid!”
“Did I?” Beamon pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to shake the feeling that he’d have made a hell of a Gestapo agent. Ripping into a seventeen-year-old kid with a history of abuse—and who was probably lying awake at night imagining his girlfriend being raped in the back of a van or something—was right up there with clubbing baby seals on the fun meter. There were times when he really hated this job.
“So what do you think, Mark?”
Beamon sighed. “I got a bad feeling about that kid.”
“Really? You think he did it?”
Beamon shook his head. “No, that would be a good feeling. It’d mean I found our man—boy—and was on the verge of finding Jennifer. I’m afraid that he didn’t do it. And if that’s true, I don’t have a fucking clue where that little girl is.”
8
M ARK B EAMON SLAMMED HIS FOOT AGAINST the brake pedal and slid into a stand of snow-covered pines. The impact, slow as it was, knocked the snow off the trees and buried the front of his car. Apparently the snow-driving learning curve wasn’t real steep for Texans. At least not this one.
The condominium complex that had been his home for the past month sparkled as the beams of widely spaced floodlights bounced off ice clinging to the sides of the buildings. It had been the first place his realtor had taken him. The FBI had relocated him more times than he could remember—in fact, someone had recently pointed out that he might be closing in on the record. And with that many moves under his belt, the monotonous chore of looking for housing had become almost physically painful.
Of course, he had no one to blame for his career as the FBI’s tinerant lawman but himself. There was always some new office anxious to take on the man heralded as the best investigative mind in the Bureau. And there was always an office just as anxious to get rid of the man heralded as the biggest pain in the ass in the Bureau.
But that was the old Mark Beamon. He was the new, vastly improved Mark Beamon. He steppedfrom the car and kicked his front tire. Satisfied that he’d be able to get out the next morning, he started along one of the meticulously shoveled brick walkways that connected the forty units with the main office, frozen
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