Payne nodded.
“Is it Tretiak, the accountant?”
Payne nodded again.
Renee shrugged. “Well, that’s impressive, but I think you have to consider the odds that he’s not giving you accurate information. Even with an attempt on his life, I’m not so sure he’d turn on his-”
“It was more than a mere attempt on his life,” Payne said slowly. “Someone tried to kill him and his whole family by burning down his house. Only he wasn’t home at the time.”
Renee frowned. “There was a house fire on Grace on Sunday. A woman and two children died. The arson investigator’s initial report said that it was a wiring problem.”
“Oleg doesn’t think so.”
“Hoagland conducted that investigation,” Renee said. “I read his report. He didn’t have any evidence of arson.”
“He had his gut,” Payne said. “He called me yesterday. He said something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t find anything to substantiate his feeling.”
“Then it is what the evidence says it is,” Renee said.
Payne shrugged. “Oleg knows what happened. He has no doubt.”
Renee shook her head in wonder. “So the ones who died in the fire, that was…?”
“His wife?” Payne asked dramatically. “His son and daughter? Yes, it was. And that was enough to make him decide to switch sides.”
Renee’s mind raced. An informant of this magnitude could fill in a lot of gaps, including how big a player Markov really was. He might even make it possible to break the back of the entire operation. “This is huge,” she whispered.
“It is,” Payne agreed. “And you can’t tell anyone about it.”
For once, Renee found herself in perfect agreement. “The FBI involvement? Or the informant?”
Payne looked at the chief again and shrugged. “Our assistance is probably not confidential. But the informant absolutely is on a need-to-know basis.”
Renee nodded her understanding. “What do you need from me?”
“Intelligence support,” Payne said. “We’re a small office here in River City. Most of our assets are in Seattle, which has its own organized crime problem, and not of the Russian variety. I’m asking your chief for support on a few issues, including using you as an analyst when necessary.”
“All right.”
“You’ll be given temporary clearance into our system,” Payne explained. “And I’d like you to take notes during Tretiak’s debriefings.”
Renee resisted the urge to whoop. This could be the difference maker that uprooted the Russian foothold in River City. It would be a worthwhile assignment, even if she did have to put up with Special Agent Maurice Payne.
“Not quite the CIA,” the chief said, a trace of humor in his gruff voice, “but getting close.”
Renee nodded to him. Maybe he wasn’t quite an orc, after all.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” Payne said.
Renee nodded, rose, and left the office with a smile on her face.
0911 hours
B.J. Carson lifted her glass and drained the last of the beer. The amber liquid slid down easily, the way having been well lubricated by the previous two. She set the glass down on the table carefully, but couldn’t keep it from clunking loudly on the Formica surface. The sound echoed in the near-empty Happy Time Tavern.
“Oops,” she said, and giggled.
Anthony Battaglia chuckled at her from across the table. He emptied his own glass to match her. Then he clunked his own glass on the table.
“Oops,” he said back.
Both officers laughed. Battaglia reached for the pitcher on the table and divvied up the remainder of the Coors Light between them.
Carson reached for her glass, now about a third full. Or, she wondered, was it two-thirds empty? The thought made her giggle again.
“Now what’s funny?” Battaglia asked.
“Nothing,” Carson replied. “It’s stupid.”
“But you laughed.”
“Yeah, but it was stupid.”
“Try me,” Battaglia urged.
“It’s stupid. Really.”
“I’ve got a stupid sense of humor. I’m Italian.”
Carson sighed. “All right.”
“Good.” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
She held up her glass. “I just noticed that this was about one-third full. Then the thought popped in my mind, is it one-third full or is it two-thirds empty?”
Battaglia lowered his brows and stared at her.
“It thought it was funny,” Carson said, and shrugged.
“No, you were right,” Battaglia deadpanned. “It was stupid.”
“Shut up!” she said, laughing and throwing a balled-up napkin at him.
The wadded napkin struck Battaglia in the forehead and dropped directly into his beer glass.
Carson let out a squealing laugh. She covered her mouth, but her laughter continued.
Battaglia let out an exaggerated sigh. He reached for several other napkins and made a small pile. Then he reached inside his glass with two fingers and fished out the soggy napkin. He held it up for Carson to see before plopping it onto the bed of dry napkins he’d created. Then he peered at the remaining beer in his glass. “Well, now my beer is either one-quarter full or three-quarters empty.”
Another squealing laugh escaped from behind Carson’s hand.
Battaglia waggled an index finger at her. “Well, now I know one of your dark secrets, B.J.”
She shook her head but couldn’t speak through the giggles.
“That squeaky laugh…” He shook his head. “Well, I just don’t know.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Carson’s giggles slowly faded. When she had them under control, she took a sip of beer. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Battaglia said.
“Why didn’t we go to Duke’s?”
“Huh?”
“Duke’s,” she said. “Isn’t that the main hangout bar for patrol?”
Battaglia shrugged. “Sure. I mean, some guys go there.”
Carson didn’t reply. During her stint at the academy and since being in the training car, she’d hardly heard of officers going anywhere else. It was supposed to be the one place where the cops could cut loose without everyone eyeballing them. All the celebrations-promotions, retirements, probation parties-happened at Duke’s.
So why did Battaglia bring her here instead? The Happy Time was a nice little neighborhood bar, right along Division Street, just above the crest of the hill that rose from the river valley below. When she’d parked her car shortly after their shift ended, she’d been treated to a nice view of the city core below. So it wasn’t that this was a bad choice, but it wasn’t Duke’s. Which brought her back to, Why?
Battaglia was staring down at the beer in front of him. Carson opened her mouth to repeat the question when he spoke.
“Why do you think I asked you to beers at all?” he asked. He looked up and met her eyes. “Why, B.J.?”
Carson felt a nervous pang in her chest when she met his eyes. The attraction there was palpable and even when her mind raced to factor in the number of drinks they’d downed, she knew she couldn’t write it off to beer lust. She swallowed.
Battaglia’s penetrating gaze didn’t leave her.
Carson wet her lips, then cursed herself for the obviously flirtatious gesture. She hoped it was the drink talking.
“Uh, you’re the chair of the platoon’s welcoming committee?”
Battaglia shook his head. “No,” he said softly.
Carson shrugged. “I don’t know then. Why did you ask me to beers?”
“That call last night,” he said. “The traffic stop. With the Russians.”
“Oh.” Carson hadn’t wanted to think about it again just yet.
“I figured it might’ve shaken you up a little bit,” Battaglia continued. “Thought you might want to talk about it, is all.”
Carson took another sip of beer. “What’s to talk about?”
“Whatever you want,” Battaglia said. “Tactics, feelings, whatever.”
Carson grinned nervously. “Well, Dr. Battaglia, how much does it cost to lie on your couch and spew out all my secret feelings?”