“Is that them, Amy?” called a smooth masculine voice from an open door in the wall behind the secretary’s desk.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
The SAC came out of his office as she spoke. Caufield was tall, about six feet, five inches, and handsome in a friendly way. The forty-something agent sported a thick mane of red hair combed straight back that seemed to strain in rebellion against the gel that held it in place. Beneath manicured eyebrows of the same solid red shone electric blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of mischief. A prominent nose, spattered with a collection of freckles, looked as though someone had tossed a handful of dots at him that stuck above his amiable smile. He looked more like a high-school chemistry teacher, the kind prone to wild experiments and having fun blowing stuff up in class, than a senior federal law enforcement officer.
“Come on in, folks,” he said. “Undersecretary Hogan called this morning and gave me a very brief overview of what you told him. He also faxed some paperwork regarding a Mr. Farrah who resides here in Anchortown.”
He led them into his office. The difference in décor was somewhat of a shock, as if they’d just stepped through a time portal and landed in 1982. Unlike his secretary, Caufield’s office was decorated strictly in the US government’s functional style. The desk was solid brown wood, large and clean, but at least thirty years old. Hilde remembered seeing one just like it in the office of her first SAC in the mid-nineties. A large, matching table with eight worn cloth-covered office chairs around it filled one side of the room. A flat-screen television topped with a video teleconferencing camera rested on a stand where it could both see and be seen down the length of the table. The TV and the computer on Caufield’s desk were the only modern looking components to the office.
While Marcus and Mike both seemed oblivious to the décor, Caufield noticed both women appraising the room.
“What do you think of the interior design?” he asked in a playful tone. “I call it retro-federal. I had considered going with the old seventies metal desks, but the climate up here convinced me to stick with eighties wood. Not so cold to the touch, you know.”
“Perhaps you should have opted to let your secretary’s designer do your office as well,” Lonnie said.
He smiled. “We’re in progress with that, actually. The last few SACs all had this notion that a federal officer should live like a Spartan and hadn’t spent a penny on new furniture since before I was even in the bureau. I don’t know why they did that — I think it cheapens the appearance of the position. We need to impress on people’s minds that we know what we’re doing, not that we’re penny pinchers. I’ve only been stationed here a couple of months now and don’t plan to spend the next four years sitting in the same chair my father may have sat in when he was an agent up here. This office will finally get its updated décor later this week. It’s being delivered as we speak. In the meantime, let’s talk business.”
He motioned to four threadbare cloth-bound chairs in front of his desk as he moved around behind it.
“Coffee, anyone?”
“Not me,” Mike said. “Had plenty with breakfast.”
The others nodded agreement.
“So what can I do for you?” Caufield refilled his own cup from a bone-colored plastic carafe that sat on a tray on the hutch behind his desk. Hilde started and they went over the details, beginning with the wedding and ending at the rail-yard confrontation.
“We called for a taxi to take us back to the hotel after the attack at the rail yard,” Hilde said. Mike glanced at her, discreetly signaling her not to mention Kharzai. “We tried to get hold of Tonia this morning, but couldn’t. I left a message on her cell phone, but she hasn’t called back yet.”
“Well, I might be able to shed some light on that last concern,” Caufield said. “Agents Warner and Roberts are inspecting the underground tunnels beneath the Delaney Park Strip and adjacent areas with one of my agents. They are going to be out of cell range as long as they are underground, which is probably going to be most of the day.”
He raised his eyes thoughtfully and looked at Lonnie. “Mrs. Johnson, I think you know one of my guys down there with them. Tony Tomer. He just got transferred here from Fairbanks.”
“Tomer is here?” Marcus asked. “In Anchorage?”
“You know him too?”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“A couple of years ago, Marcus assisted in a case Tomer was on,” Lonnie said.
Caufield scanned his mental Rolodex, his eyebrows arching when he hit the right memory. “The North Korean bio-weapon case. I remember hearing about that during my in-brief. Tomer was the agent assigned to it, along a trooper named…uh…Wyatt. He had a run-in with some Navy Seals, as I recall.”
“I’m Wyatt,” Lonnie said. “It's my maiden name. And Marcus was leading those Seals.”
“I see.” Caufield looked at Marcus. “Then I am going to assume you are the one who, shall we say, put Tomer in his place in that cabin?”
“How did you know about that?” Marcus asked.
“One of the other agents heard the story from a trooper who had been there. Tomer was never anyone’s favorite. The story spread pretty rapidly through the ranks. It made it all the way to Quantico, actually. Tony has a long list of people he's pissed off over the years.”
“Did he calm down any?” Lonnie asked.
“Not really.” A sly grin creased Caufield’s expression. “But he is more selective when it comes to commenting on women’s figures among unknown company.”
“Is he going to be on this case?” Lonnie asked.
“Yes, afraid so. His team is detailed to the presidential party already. Can’t take them off because of a personal issue.” Caufield made a conciliatory gesture. “It should be fine, though. He knows his situation in the social strata around here and has recently shown a desire to make friends rather than act like an ass.”
Mike leaned forward in his chair. “So what do we do next?”
“We’ve got Tomer and the Secret Service in that tunnel already,” Caufield said. “We’ve also got a couple of techs who can check deeper if there is something amiss. In the meantime, I’ll put a tail on Farrah and see where it leads.”
“Lonnie, you said Farrah showed up at the accident on Goldenview Drive,” Mojo said.
“Yeah. Just moments after the accident,” she said. “He came from the south, the neighborhoods instead of the highway.”
Mojo turned to Mike. “You want to go take a tour down that road and see what’s there?”
“I’m game,” Mike said.
“You guys can’t be searching anyone’s property without a warrant,” Caufield said.
“No, of course not,” Mojo shook his head in denial. “We’re just going to see what’s there. If there is anything suspicious, we’ll let you know.”
“I do mean it,” Caufield’s expression turned serious, almost scolding.. “Don’t go snooping around on anyone’s property. We don’t need some technicality that could free them after we make the arrest.”
“Not to worry,” Mike raised a placating hand. “We’re not agents, and we’re not working on anything for the FBI. We’re not going to be breaking any laws, and if there are any questions, you have perfect deniability.”
“Yeah, tell that to the judge,” Caufield replied.
“Will do,” Mike said. “Hilde, you want to come with us or stay here?”
“I’ll stay,” she said. “While you guys are over there, I want to get on the FBI database and do some digging on Farrah and anyone else involved.”