Werewolf Cop by Andrew Klavan Page B

kept changing the drop, and we think he was also using a laptop that wasn’t on the warrant. We didn’t get much but, come on, just the fact of them. . . .”
    This didn’t sound good, Zach admitted to himself. But it wasn’t enough to overcome his loyalty.
    â€œBroadway ain’t dirty,” he drawled. “I’d know if he was.”
    If Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell had been married to the man, she’d have recognized that drawl. Grace knew it well. It meant Zach was digging in, end of conversation. He was—as Grace often whispered in frustration as she swished from the room—stubborn as a mule in cement when he wanted to be.
    But Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell was deaf to it. She kept at him. “Dominic Abend knows we’re after him, right? More than that, he probably knows we’re the only agency that is after him in any meaningful way. Makes sense he’d want someone inside. Doesn’t it? Goulart’s vulnerable. He has the divorce. The lawsuit on his old house. We know he just applied for a twenty-thousand-dollar loan. . . .”
    Which he wouldn’t need if he was on the take , Zach thought—but he was so disgusted with all this now, he wouldn’t even grace it with an argument anymore. He knew why Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell hated Goulart. Everyone in the Bureau knew. Goulart wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about her, and some of what he said was true. That would get you in Dutch with any boss. But to call him dirty. . . .
    Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell could not keep the tension out of her voice anymore, or the gleam of anger out of her big eyes. This had not turned out the way she had hoped or imagined—and she was so desperate at this point not to lose Zach’s respect that she wouldn’t let it end, wouldn’t let him go. She was too insecure to realize that that would have been her best move—or, if she did realize it, she couldn’t get herself to do it.
    â€œLook, I swear to you,” she said, “this is not personal. This is not about him and me. All I’m asking: keep an eye out. Make sure. See something, say something. We have a line on Abend now for the first time. That’s the only reason I bring this up. Otherwise I would have waited till we had more proof. But I don’t want Abend to slip away like that container ship just because we didn’t do due diligence. . . .”
    There was a light, brisk knock at the door. It clicked open a crack and Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell’s receptionist stuck her round, dark, pretty face in.
    A flash of green-eyed annoyance from Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell. “What?”
    â€œThere’s a call for Detective Adams,” she said. “From overseas. A Professor Gretchen Dankl. They sent it up here because she says it’s urgent.”
    â€œI better take that,” said Zach. He didn’t bother to disguise the subtext: Plus I’ve had enough of this crap.
    Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell could only nod, pressing her fists to her hips, deflating with a long sigh.
    â€œAll right,” she said, and then added more or less pathetically: “We good?”
    â€œYeah,” said Zach, meaning no . “We’re good.” Meaning: You’re on my shit list for certain.
    He strode toward the face in the doorway. “Put it through to my cell,” he told her.
    His cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he stormed angrily down the hallway toward the elevators. He snapped it out.
    â€œAgent Adams,” he said.
    The voice on the line was an eccentric cocktail of qualities. It was deep, almost masculine, but vulnerable and womanly, tremulous like a damsel’s in distress but at the same time somehow also strong, grimly determined. She spoke rapid-fire. A thick German accent but perfect English.
    â€œDetective Adams. This is Professor Gretchen Dankl. I have received your e-mail.”
    â€œYes, Professor. Thank you for getting back. I wanted