“You think I’m running off with it.”
“You had a plane do a flyover and didn’t tell me. You talked to some croc expert, you interviewed Killibrew about the Levine case, and the other detective assigned to Bendell’s murder. Is there anything else you haven’t told me about my case?”
“These photos,” Frank said. “It looks to me like they might be doing some kind of maneuver. Training exercises.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Sheffield looked at the tennis players, whooping at every shot. “There’s an agent from NCIS coming in tonight. We’ll be meeting at the downtown Four Seasons, eight o’clock. My SWAT guys will be there, and this agent is bringing his guys. He wants to hit Prince Key tomorrow night.”
“Jesus, Frank. You’re just dropping this on me. This fait accompli. No discussion, nothing. What the hell is going on?”
“The ante has just gone up.”
“Quit playing with me, Frank. What’s this about?”
“You ever hear of a chemical compound called HpNC?”
She stared at him, her lips pressed into a flat line as if she were holding back a spew of curses.
“It’s an experimental high explosive,” Frank said. “Makes dynamite and TNT, C-4, Semtex, look like firecrackers.”
Nicole pushed the hair from her face and stared at Frank.
“This NCIS guy is going to fill us in tonight. Now you’re up-to-date.”
She said thanks, but it didn’t sound as if her heart was in it.
* * *
Six calls, no pickups. Claude was sitting at the bar at his favorite strip club, Stir Crazy, staring up at the skinny girl with angel wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, watching her hump a silver pole.
He dialed Leslie’s number again, and again got nothing. Straight to voice mail. He clicked off. He’d already left three messages. He tried another text, sending the phone number Nicole had given him, the traitor working with the FBI. Then typing Call this #. This guy’s a spy. Off him.
While he was typing, another hoochie mama came up to Claude and pressed her bare boobs against his arm.
“Nice look,” she said. Reaching out, toying with the tips of his bolo tie.
“My fashion statement.”
“Yeah? What’s it say about you?”
“I’m not your average cowboy.”
“You look lonely, hun. You want a private dance?”
Claude leaned back and checked her out. Tight body, gym rat. Not more than twenty-five. Pretty brown eyes, kinky black hair gelled smooth.
Claude pressed SEND and heard the text whoosh away.
“Three dances,” Claude said. “Twenty bucks.”
“Dream on, sweetie.”
“Twenty-five.”
“That’ll get you one.”
“It’s a long time till payday, sweet cheeks. I’m living on PB and J as it is.”
“Time’s are tough all over,” the stripper said.
“How ’bout two for thirty?”
The girl frowned and her eyes strayed down the bar to the next chump.
“Thirty for two, and I’ll give you a tip up front,” Claude said.
“Yeah? What kind of tip?”
“Floss every day, and you won’t be spitting out all those stupid gold teeth when you turn thirty.”
Claude slid off the stool, walked toward the exit, the stripper shouting at him that he smelled like a bucket of shit.
He stood in the parking lot next to Dixie Highway, thinking about Sheffield and Nicole. Thinking about them together last night and today. Then he bent his head to the side and sniffed the shoulder of his checked shirt.
Hell, the stripper was right. He did smell pretty ripe. Maybe it was only his imagination but he believed he detected a lingering trace of Marcus Bendell, the human smoke bomb.
Which gave him an idea.
TWENTY-SIX
AT EIGHT ON SATURDAY EVENING, Magnuson and his men were waiting for Sheffield in the sixth-floor conference room of the downtown Four Seasons. Paneled walls, halogen lighting turned high, four long tables squared up in the center, covered with white tablecloths, each place setting with a bottle of Evian water, a leatherbound notebook, and a laptop computer.
Special Agent Magnuson was about Sheffield’s height but ran twenty pounds lighter and maybe ten years younger. As gaunt and sturdy as a Tour de France bike racer. He had white-blond hair and his pale blue eyes were probing and stern. Lips so thin, his mouth resembled a knife slit.
He shook Sheffield’s hand, gripping with excessive force, then introduced his three-man team. Rogers, Harris, Pipes.
He and his men were freshly barbered and decked out in versions of the same outfit. Spit-shined shoes, khaki trousers, and dark polos that hugged their brawny physiques. Behind him Sheffield’s SWAT team filed in, a ragtag bunch. They checked out the competition, whispering remarks to one another. His guys looked as if they’d been called away from a variety of Saturday activities. Backyard barbecues, movie dates, yard chores, and little Billy Dean Reynolds dressed as if he’d spent the day busting a string of wild broncos. Dusty jeans, beat-up cowboy boots, a red long-sleeve shirt with white pearl buttons.