“But if a guy wants twenty rifles,” I say, “and he’s covered in tats and takes a rubber-banded wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for them, that’s gonna raise some red flags, right?”
“You ever heard of racial profiling? That’s against the law.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Sure, common sense dictates that if a gangbanger walks in wanting twenty-five identical assault rifles, something’s up with that. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t have common sense. And honestly, even a gun dealer’s gotta feed his family. You know how it is. Didn’t you say your uncle used to be in the business?”
“My uncle wouldn’t have sold to somebody he got a bad vibe from. He reserved the right not to serve whoever he didn’t like.”
“Those were different times.”
“And anyway, you don’t make a living by arming the cartels.”
He shrugs. “The guns may flow down, but the drugs are flowing up. We may be hurting them a little, but they’re hurting us a lot.”
I hold up my hand. “You’re not helping yourself with that argument. They’re not just killing each other down there. They’re killing cops.”
“I’m not saying it’s right. You wanted to know how it works, so I told you.”
“Let me ask a different question. If I was a gun dealer and I wanted to get in on the action, how would I go about it? The way you’re talking, it sounds like that initiative’s on the cartel’s side. What if I wanted to make a big score?”
“And by ‘you,’ you mean Brandon Ford?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Brandon doesn’t hustle the cheap stuff. If you want a Romanian AK, which sells for four hundred, you don’t call in a specialist.”
“For the sake of argument, though, assume he wanted to sell to the Mexicans.”
“He’d have to know somebody, I guess. They’re not a number you can call to volunteer your services. I assume he could have made a contact. If you’re asking me for a name, I don’t have one. This is pure speculation.”
A name is exactly what I want. If I push too hard, I know he’ll dig in. Before Sam Dearborn will cooperate, he needs a little time to think it over. I decide to give it to him.
“I appreciate your help,” I say. “And if you think of anything else, you’ve got my number. It never hurts to have a cop in your debt.”
“If you say so.”
Back in the car, I unsnap my briefcase and pull the Filofax out. I keep a plastic divider tucked in next to the blank note sheets. Before I forget, I write down everything Dearborn told me. Looking at the process on paper, I’m baffled. The FBI operation must be about guns and the cartels, otherwise what would it have to do with Brandon Ford? What I can’t figure out is why they would need him. The straw purchaser scenario doesn’t fit here. Like Dearborn said, Ford would need some kind of contact with the cartel, someone he could approach with an offer to supply guns. But then I’m back to the original problem: what’s the point of a sting operation targeting a notorious cartel? Is it really so hard to make a case against the drug lords?
I dial Lorenz on the phone.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Nothing here. But I just had a thought. Where are the guns we’re thinking Ford wanted to sell? I didn’t see a gun safe when we went through the house.”
Silence.
“Maybe you should swing by that office he rents. If there are crates of AK-47s lying around, we might want to know.”
“I’m on it,” he says. “You wanna meet me?”
“I trust you, Jerry.”
He sounds gratified as he hangs up. The fact is, I already know what he’s going to find. There won’t be any guns in the rental office, just like there weren’t any at the house. Whatever Brandon Ford was up to, however it connects to Bea’s Federal operation, it doesn’t have anything to do with assault rifles, and maybe nothing to do with drug dealers, either. There’s something here I’m not seeing. A connection I have yet to make.
Maybe what I need on this is a fresh set of eyes.
CHAPTER 7
I shoulder my way through the entrance to Homicide and sense right away something’s going on. The detectives stand clustered in groups of three and four, conferring in hushed tones. The ringing phones go unanswered. Lorenz has already left, so after slinging my gear into my cubicle, I raise my eyebrows at a passing colleague. He raises his back but says nothing. Not good.
Through the open door I can see Lt. Bascombe poised over his desk, all the weight on his fingers like a runner in the starting blocks. He looks up at me without acknowledging my presence. When I start over, he comes around the desk, intercepting me outside the door. He puts a hand on my chest.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He scans back and forth across the room, still looking through me. Like he’s making sure I’m alone. Then he pulls me inside and closes the door.
“It’s official,” he says. “The captain’s pulling people in one at a time to break the news.”
“He’s leaving?”
“That’s the story. But like I told you before, what’s really happening is, he’s getting the push. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
Remembering my encounter with Hedges the day before, I shake my head. “He seems like a shadow of his former self.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not entirely his fault.” He sits on the edge of his desk, motioning me into a chair. “I can’t believe they’re rushing him out like this. It’s the politics, March. You end up on the losing side in this department and, I swear, they’ll cut your throat.”
“Maybe I should go see him.”
“Don’t be in such a rush,” he says. “It’s depressing. When they do you like this, they don’t just can you. They also write the script. Not only do you have to leave, but you leave on their terms, giving their reasons, or else.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid.
“Anyway, can I run something past you, boss? I think that FBI agent is spinning us a yarn.”
“You’re one of those people who tells jokes at funerals, aren’t you?”
“What do you want me to do? I think she lied to us.”
Bascombe goes around the desk and slumps into his chair. The cushion hisses as it takes his weight.
“Go ahead, then.”
I bring him up-to-date on everything, including Miranda Ford’s description and my after-hours confrontation with Bea. As I talk, his expression goes from bored to mildly interested. By the time I’m done, he’s leaning forward, elbows on the desk.
“Well, something’s not right,” he says.
“I know. So what should I do about it?”
“What can you do? Seems to me the only thing is to ignore what she told us. Pretend that meeting never happened. What does it actually change, after all? You got a hit on your victim, the identification’s made, and he’s a real person with a real history.”
“Yeah, but Bea’s working some kind of angle-”
“So what? If you take her story and set it aside, what are you left with? Some forward movement on your case. Whatever the FBI is or is not up to, we do one thing here and that’s clear homicides. So that’s what you do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Unless something changes, I don’t see what else you can do.”
“I was hoping you would make some phone calls and see what you can find out about Bea and her operation.”
“It was making phones calls that got us into this.” He sighs. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect any miracles, though, because I have my hands full at the moment. For the time being, ignore the FBI and just do your job.”
On my way out I pause at the door. “Who’s moving into the captain’s office?”
He raises his palms. “I still don’t know. And that right there should tell you something.”
When my turn comes, I file into the captain’s office, surprised to find his personal belongings-the books and knickknacks, the framed photos and diplomas-already packed into a row of boxes along the credenza. The skin on his head shines through his flinty close-cropped hair, making him seem older to me than he ever has before.