Kennedy said, “No. I thought about it plenty.”
Gervase laughed. “Well, I guess you’ll weather that okay. Your record ought to speak for itself.”
Kennedy didn’t respond, perhaps because he was conscious of Jason sitting behind them, SAC Manning’s eyes and ears. Not so much. Jason wasn’t going to let Kennedy throw anyone out a window, but he also didn’t plan on reporting back to Manning with a transcript of everything Kennedy said and did.
The towering trees overhanging the rural road diffused the bright sunlight, creating a hazy, almost surreal effect. Tonalism. It reminded him of Whistler’s nocturne painting, those dreamy, pensive landscapes. In fact, Whistler had been born in Massachusetts.
Through the fretwork of leaves he spotted the distinctive black hump of a familiar hillside outcropping. Memory slithered down his spine.
“Our boy lives a ways out,” Gervase was saying apologetically. “Come to think of it, here we all live a ways out.”
“Isn’t this near Martin Pink’s property?” Jason asked.
Kennedy’s head turned his way. Sunglasses met sunglasses.
“I guess you’ve done your homework,” Gervase said. “Yep. Pink lived over that ridge to your right. Lived there with his crazy old mother and his pothead brother. They’re all gone now. Even the house is falling down. Of course, it always was.”
The car hit a pothole.
“How long has McEnroe lived in the area?” Kennedy asked.
“Four or five years. Unfortunately.”
Same length of time as the Madigans, Jason noted. Which meant…probably zilch. Despite the sincere efforts of Hollywood writers to prove otherwise, there were actually a lot of meaningless coincidences in crime investigation.
Kennedy had turned that appraising stare on Gervase. “Trouble?”
Gervase dipped his head from side to side in a sort of noncommittal way. “We’ve got an ongoing situation regarding a little patch of so-called medicinal marijuana he’s cultivating on his property.”
At the lack of response from either agent, Gervase said, “McEnroe is twenty-two. Rebecca is seventeen. So yes, there is always going to be trouble in that kind of situation.”
They passed a stand of battered mailboxes and turned down another dirt road. The tattered green canopy of trees created the illusion it was much later than it was, that the afternoon was growing darker and chillier as shadows lengthened, reached out. The light had a tired, watery look to it.
Jason became aware Kennedy was watching him in the side mirror. The sunglasses made it hard to be sure, but he could feel that steady regard, even if he couldn’t see it.
He was newly, uncomfortably aware of how he must have come across earlier. Brash. Cocky. Contentious. Partly he had been reacting to Kennedy’s not even pretending to consult with him. Partly…he had been irritated with himself for not having the gumption to refuse Manning’s request. You didn’t earn promotions by refusing favors to head honchos—however ill-thought-out those requests might be. His irritation, impatience with the situation, had been acerbated by Kennedy’s obvious displeasure at being partnered with him. But why wouldn’t Kennedy be displeased at being saddled with what amounted to a handler?
A handler with a fraction of his experience with violent crime.
Jason winced inwardly. He didn’t like thinking he had been playing the role of company stooge. That was not who he was. Though very likely that was what SAC Manning was looking for from him. And it was probably how he appeared to Kennedy.
Well, you only had one chance to make a first impression and…no. So moving forward, he would try not to be such a prick. And maybe Kennedy, who was almost certainly a congenital prick, would stop treating him like the enemy. It would make the job easier for both of them—and allow them to better serve the people they were there to help.
The road jogged to the left, and they pulled through a gate that looked more like a car had busted a wide hole in the sagging fence. The dwelling was a single-story ranch style painted a dusty red. The doors and shutters were an equally faded blue.
The chief parked next to a white pickup truck, and they climbed out.
It was the kind of place where you expected to be greeted by a barking dog, but there was no dog. No sign of any life. Jason felt an uneasy prickle between his shoulder blades.
He rested his hand lightly on the butt of his Glock, and then noticed Kennedy had unsnapped the thumb-break on his holster. So he wasn’t overreacting, wasn’t unduly nervous. His response was appropriate to the situation. He found it harder to be sure these days.
They followed Gervase across the mowed weeds and up the wooden steps to a small platform that served as, well, a small platform. It wasn’t big enough to be a deck, let alone a porch, but it was wide enough to accommodate the three of them. Gervase banged on the peeling wooden screen. Jason and Kennedy waited.
Jason could hear Kennedy’s wristwatch ticking over the pounding of his heart in his ears.
It took several more energetic knocks before a muffled yell from inside the house reached them. At last the front door swung open. A willowy young man leaned against the frame as though he needed the support. His long blond hair was rumpled, his jaw was heavily stubbled, his dark eyes bleary and hollow. He wore a long-sleeve plaid flannel shirt and Joker boxer shorts.
“I already told you she’s not here!” he snarled at Gervase. It was a weary snarl though, as if most of McEnroe’s energy was going into staying upright.
“Okay,” Gervase said evenly. “You already told us. We’d still like to talk to you.”
“Who would?” McEnroe took in Jason and Kennedy. His scowl deepened. “Who are you?” He turned back to Gervase. “No way. You brought the goddamned ATF out here?”
“You’re thinking of the goddamned DEA. We’re the goddamned FBI,” Kennedy said. “And yes. We’d like a word.”
“How about fuck off?” McEnroe tried to slam shut the door, but he was neither fast nor steady. Kennedy’s hand shot out; he grabbed the edge of the door and gave it a sharp shove. McEnroe staggered and tumbled back, landing on his butt. He blinked up at them in bewilderment from the bare floorboards.
“That’s two words,” Kennedy said.
“Get up, Tony,” Gervase growled. “We’re not here about your crop, so don’t make a bigger ass of yourself than you have to.”
McEnroe climbed ungracefully to his feet and, with several looks of mingled reproach and outrage, led the way into the front room.
The house smelled of cigarettes, bacon, and something vaguely antiseptic. Liniment? Pine-sol? Sea Breeze?
McEnroe flung himself on a sagging sofa upholstered in beige corduroy and glared at them.
“I don’t know what the hell you want from me. I don’t know where Becky is.”
“You do remember she’s only seventeen, right?” Gervase said.
“I remember.”
“What did you argue about last night?” Kennedy asked. He remained standing as Gervase took the tan recliner chair across from McEnroe.
McEnroe’s eyes widened. “I don’t—how do you know? We didn’t.”
Jason positioned himself next to the front door. It afforded a cattycorner view of the kitchen, which was in the process of either being remodeled or sold for parts.
You could tell a lot about a person by the art on their walls, but Tony McEnroe did not have art on his walls. No photos either. The place didn’t seem exactly untidy so much as under halfhearted and perpetual construction. There was a layer of dust on the floor sander by the window.
Kennedy asked, “Why did you leave her party early?”
McEnroe dipped his head, running a hand through his long, oily hair. Or maybe his hair wasn’t oily. Maybe he just used a lot of product. And not much soap. “I-I just felt like it. It was boring. Too many stupid, snotty kids clogging up the place.”