Last Man Standing (32 page)

B
ates was still in the strategic ops room when the man entered. Bates looked up and did his best to keep the dismay off his
face. Buck Winters sat down across from him. The crease on his suit was Bureau letter-perfect, the shine on his wing tips
equally regulation. The insertion of his pocket handkerchief looked like it had been done with a ruler. The man was tall,
broad-shouldered, with confident, intelligent features, a walking poster boy for the FBI. Maybe that’s how he had risen so
far.

“I saw London leaving the building earlier.”

“Just checking in per his orders.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” Winters laid his palms flat on the table and seemed to study every feature on Bates’s face. “Why the
hell do you care so much about that guy?”

“He’s a good agent. And like you said, I was sort of his mentor.”

“That’s not something I’d lay claim to, frankly.”

“He’s almost gotten himself killed for this place a lot more than you or me.”

“He’s a hothead. All those HRT guys are. They’re not part of us. They go their own way and thumb their noses at the rest of
us, like they’re somehow better. What they really are is a bunch of alphas with big guns just itching to use them.”

“We’re all on the same team, Buck. They’re a specialized unit that takes care of stuff nobody else can. Yeah, sure, they’re
cocky, who wouldn’t be? But we’re all FBI agents; we’re all working toward the same goal.”

Winters shook his head. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I really do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

“They’ve also been the cause of some of the Bureau’s worst moments.”

Bates dropped his file. “That’s where you’re dead wrong. The Bureau throws them into the fire on a moment’s notice and when
something pops, usually because of knuckleheaded orders from the top that any guy on the front lines expected to execute said
orders could tell you in a heartbeat won’t work, they take all the heat. I’m actually surprised they haven’t ask to be split
off from
us.
”

“You’ve never played the games you need to, to move up here, Perce. You’re at the glass ceiling or, in your case, the steel
ceiling. There’s no getting through it.”

“Well, I like right where I am.”

“Piece of advice: When you stop rising here, you eventually start falling.”

“Thanks for the career advice,” Bates said curtly.

“I’ve been getting your memos on the investigation. Frankly, they’re pretty sparse.”

“So are the results of the investigation.”

“Cove, what’s the status? You were sort of vague on that.”

“Not much to report.”

“I trust you’re working under the assumption that any Bureau undercover who hasn’t shown after all this time is either dead,
or if he isn’t dead, he’s been turned and the way we should be looking for him is through an APB.”

“Cove hasn’t turned.”

“So you’ve talked to him? Funny, I didn’t see that in any of your reports.”

“I’m still feeling my way. But I did receive information from Cove.”

“And what did our illustrious undercover say about this mess?” “That he thinks he was set up.”

“Gee, that’s stunning,” said Winters sarcastically.

“That he doesn’t want to come in because he thinks the rat is somewhere in the Bureau.” Bates stared hard at Winters when
he said this, though he wasn’t really sure why. It wasn’t like Winters would be leaking secrets, would he? “He knows all about
the leaks happening and the blown missions. He thinks what happened to HRT was another one of those.”

“Interesting theory, but I’m assuming he has no proof of that.”

That question struck Bates as odd. “None that he cared to share with me,” he answered. “I’ve got it under control, Buck. I
know how busy you are, and I don’t want to clutter your legendary vision with small details. You have my word that if anything
big is going down, you’ll know beforehand. That way you can do the media circus. You’re really good at that.”

Winters could hardly have missed the sarcasm yet apparently chose to ignore it. “If I remember correctly, you and Cove were
really tight at one time. California, right?”

“We worked together.”

“About the time his family got hit.”

“That’s right.”

“A disaster for the Bureau.”

“Actually, I always thought it was a disaster for the Cove family.”

“What’s got me puzzled is how all this went down. As I understand it, Cove had discovered a drug crew’s financial operations
in that building.”

“And HRT was called up to hit it,” said Bates. “There were potential witnesses in there. HRT specializes in getting those
kind of folks out alive.”

“Boy, they really did a bang-up job of that. They couldn’t keep themselves alive.”

“They were set up.”

“Agreed. But how? If not Cove, how?”

Bates thought back to his meeting with Randall Cove at the cemetery. Cove believed there was a leak inside the Bureau that
accounted for all the things going wrong. Bates studied Winters for a moment. “Well, in order to accomplish something like
that I would suppose that somebody would have to have inside information of the highest order.”

Winters sat back. “Of the highest order. From inside the Bureau, you’re saying?”

“Inside is inside.”

“That’s a very serious allegation, Bates.”

“I’m not alleging anything. I’m just pointing out one possibility.”

“It would be a hell of a lot easier to turn one undercover agent.”

“You don’t know Randall Cove.”

“And maybe you know him too well. So well, you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Winters rose. “No surprises, Bates. Nothing substantial goes down unless I know about it ahead of time. Clear?”

As Winters left, Bates muttered under his breath, “Waco clear, Buck.”

W
eb was in his car when Ann Lyle called.

“Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to get something solid for you.”

“That’s okay. I just got some stuff on Cove from the Bureau; understandably it was like pulling teeth.”

“Well, I got you some
one
.”

“Who? Cove?”

“I’m good, but I’m not that good, Web. I’ve drummed up a D.C. police sergeant who was a regular contact of Cove’s when he
worked the WFO beat years ago.”

“A local cop as a contact for an FBI undercover? How’s that?”

“It’s not unusual for UCs to use a cop they trust to act as a go-between, Web. Cove had one of those during his first stint
here, and the guy’s willing to talk to you.”

He pulled the car over, grabbed pen and paper and wrote down the name Sonny Venables, who was still a uniform in D.C.’s First
District. Ann also gave him the man’s number.

“Ann, anybody else got hold of the Venables angle?”

“Not that Sonny said, and I think he would’ve mentioned it. He was Cove’s informal contact on his first tour through D.C.,
and that was a long time ago. Some folks might not make the connection. Though Sonny Venables tends to stand out,” she added.

“You sound like you know him.”

“Web, honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you tend to know everybody. I worked a lot with the D.C. cops.”

“And Venable’s willing to talk to me? Why?”

“The only thing he said was he had heard of you. And I threw my two cents in, for what it was worth.”

“But we still don’t know his take on things?”

“I guess that’s up to you to find out.” Ann clicked off.

Web called the number. Venables wasn’t in, and Web left his name and cell number. Venables called him back twenty minutes
later and the two arranged to meet later that afternoon. Web also asked him another question and Venables said he would see
what he could do. If the guy could give Web a handle on Cove, then Web might be able to follow it up. However, something was
bothering Web about Bates, namely that he had never told Web that Cove had worked at WFO before his stint in California. Not
that it really mattered. He had given Web a look at the guy’s file, and Web would have picked it up on his own, he supposed.
He just hadn’t had enough time to go through the man’s entire history. But why not tell Web?

Venables had asked Web to meet him in the early afternoon at a bar around the area of his beat, nothing unusual about that.
Web knew that that way you could quench your thirst and maybe overhear some info that might help you crack a case later. Cops
were nothing if not efficient with their time.

Sonny Venables was white, mid-forties and a veteran of almost twenty years on the force, he told Web as they were buying their
beers. He was over six feet tall and beefy, the kind of body mass one got from pumping lots of weights; the man looked like
he could military-press a semi. He wore a baseball cap that read
ALL FISHERMEN GO TO HEAVEN
and wore a leather jacket with the NASCAR logo on the back. His neck was almost as thick as his very wide head. His voice
had a twangy commonsense southern charm to it, and Web noted the circular outline of a can of tobacco chew in the back pocket
of his jeans as they walked to a booth in the bar. They found a quiet corner and settled down with their beers.

Venables worked the night shift, he told Web. He liked it, more excitement. “Be hanging it up soon, though, right at twenty
years. Go off and fish, drink beer and watch fast cars go around a little track the rest of my time, like most good cops do.”
He smiled at his own words and took a long pull of his Red Dog beer. From the juke-box Eric Clapton was going on and on about
Layla. Web looked around. Two guys were playing pool in the back room, a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a couple of Bud
Lights siting on the edge of the table. They occasionally glanced over at the booth, but if they recognized either Venables
or Web, they made no sign of it.

Venables eyed Web over the rim of his beer mug. The man’s face held enough wrinkles to be considered experienced and craggy.
A man who had seen a lot in life, mostly bad, Web judged, just like him.

“Always wondered about you HRT guys.”

“What’s to wonder? We’re just cops with a few more toys at our disposal.”

Venables laughed. “Hey, give yourself some credit. I got a few FBI buddies who tried out for HRT and came back with their
tails between their legs. Said they’d rather deliver a damn baby with just a stick between their teeth for the pain than go
through that again.”

“From the picture I saw of Randall Cove, he looked like he could’ve cut it at HRT.”

Venables studied the head on his beer for a bit. “You’re probably wondering what Randy Cove had in common with the likes of
a redneck-looking gent like myself?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“We grew up together in a backwater of Mississippi so small it never really did have a name. We played sports together all
the way through because there wasn’t much else to do around there. And our little backwater was state football champs two
years in a row. We also played together at Oklahoma.” Venables shook his head. “Randy was the greatest running back I ever
saw, and the Sooners have turned out more than their share of those. I was fullback. First string, three years running, just
like him. Blocked for Randy on every play. Threw my body in there like a damn runaway train and loved every minute of it,
though I’m really starting to feel the effects of it now. See, you just needed to get Cove a little bit of daylight and that
boy was gone. I’d look up from a pile of bodies and he’d already be in the end zone, usually with a couple of guys hanging
on him. We were national champs our senior year and he was the reason. Oklahoma didn’t believe in the forward pass back then.
We just handed the damn ball off to Randy Cove and let him do his thing.”

“Sounds like a friendship that would endure.”

“It did. I never had the talent to play pro ball, but Randy sure as hell did. Everybody, and I mean everybody, wanted him.”
Venables stopped there and ran his fingers along the top of the table. Web decided to just wait the man out.

“I was with him at the combine when he blew out his knees. We both knew it, as soon as it happened. It wasn’t like it is today.
Just go in and clean it up and then you’re back on the field the next year pretty much good as new. His career was over. Just
like that. And football, man, football was all he had. We sat on that damn field and cried together for nearly an hour. I
never even did that at my own mama’s funeral. But I loved Randy. He was a good man.”

“Was?”

Venables played with the pepper shaker and then sat back, tilted his cap farther up on his head and Web saw a lock of curly
gray hair spring out.

“I take it you know what happened to his family,” said Venables.

“I heard about some of it. Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

“What’s to tell? Bureau screwed up and it cost Randy his wife and kids.”

“You saw him back then?”

Venables looked like he wanted to throw his beer in Web’s face. “I was a damn pallbearer at the funerals. You ever carry a
four-year-old’s casket?” Web shook his head. “Well, let me tell you, that’s something you don’t ever forget.”