Wearing their standard dark suits and dark sunshades, Napier and Nitchman arrived at the office at eleven to find Hoppy brewing coffee and in great spirits. They settled around his desk and waited for the coffee. Millie was in there – fighting like hell to save her husband, Hoppy said, and she felt quite confident she had already convinced Mrs. Gladys Card and Rikki Coleman. She had shared the Robilio memo with them, and they had been shocked at the man's deceit.
He poured coffee as Napier and Nitchman dutifully took notes. Another guest quietly entered the building through the front door, which had been left unlocked by Hoppy. He eased along the hall behind the open reception area, stepping lightly on the worn carpet until he came to a wooden door with HOPPY DUPREE painted on it. He listened for a moment, then knocked loudly.
Inside, Napier jumped and Nitchman set down his coffee, and Hoppy stared at them as if startled. “Who is it?” he growled loudly. The door opened suddenly, and Special Agent Alan Madden stepped in, said loudly, “FBI!” while walking to the edge of Hoppy's desk and glaring at all three. Hoppy kicked his chair back and stood as if he might have to get frisked.
Napier would've fainted had he been standing. Nitchman's mouth dropped open. Both turned pale as their hearts stopped.
“Agent Alan Madden, FBI,” he said as he opened his badge for all to inspect. “Are you Mr. Dupree?” he demanded.
“Yes. But the FBI is already here,” Hoppy said, looking at Madden, then at the other two, then back at Madden.
“Where?” he asked, scowling down at Napier and Nitchman.
“These two guys,” Hoppy said, acting brilliantly. It was his finest moment. “This is Agent Ralph Napier, and this is Agent Dean Nitchman. You guys don't know each other?”
“I can explain,” Napier started, nodding confidently as if he could in fact make everything satisfactory.
“FBI?” Madden said. “Show me some identification,” he demanded, shoving forward an empty palm.
They hesitated, and Hoppy pounced on them. “Go ahead. Show him your badges. Same ones you showed me.”
“Identification please,” Madden insisted, his anger growing by the second.
Napier started to stand, but Madden returned him to his seat by pressing down on his shoulder. “I can explain,” Nitchman said, his voice an octave higher than normal.
“Go ahead,” Madden said.
“Well, you see, we're not really FBI agents, but instead-“
“What!” Hoppy screamed from across the desk. He was wild-eyed and ready to throw something. “You lying sonofabitch! You've been telling me for the last ten days that you're FBI agents!”
“Is that true?” Madden demanded.
“Not, not really,” Nitchman said.
“What!” Hoppy screamed again.
“Cool it!” Madden snapped at him.
“Now continue,” he said to Nitchman.
Nitchman didn't want to continue. He wanted to bolt through the door, kiss Biloxi good-bye, and never be seen again. “We're private investigators, and, well-“
“We work for a firm in B.C.,” Napier chimed in helpfully. He was about to add something else when Hoppy lunged for a desk drawer, yanked it open, and removed two business cards-one for Ralph Napier, one for Dean Nitchman, both labeled as FBI agents, both from the Southeast Regional Unit in Atlanta. Madden studied both cards, saw the local numbers scrawled on the back.
“What's going on here?” Hoppy demanded.
“Who's Nitchman?” Madden asked. There was no answer.
“He's Nitchman,” Hoppy yelled, pointing at Nitchman.
“Not me,” Nitchman said.
“What!” Hoppy screamed.
Madden took two steps toward Hoppy and pointed at his chair. “I want you to sit down and shut up, okay? Not another word until I ask for it.” Hoppy fell into his seat, his eyes glaring fiercely at Nitchman.
“Are you Ralph Napier?” Madden asked.
“Nope,” Napier said, looking down, away from Hoppy.
“Sonofabitches,” Hoppy mumbled. “Then who are you?” Madden asked. He waited, but there was no response.
“They gave me those cards, okay?” Hoppy said, not about to keep quiet. “I'll go to the grand jury and swear on a stack of Bibles that they gave me those cards. They've held themselves out as FBI agents, and I want them prosecuted.”
“Who are you?” Madden asked the one previously known as Nitchman. No response. Madden then removed a service revolver, an action that greatly impressed Hoppy, and made the two stand and spread their legs and lean forward on the desk. A quick frisk of each revealed nothing but pocket change, some keys, and a few dollars. No wallets. No fake FBI badges. No identification whatsoever. They were too well trained to make that mistake.
He handcuffed them and led them from the office to the front of the building, where another FBI agent was sipping coffee from a paper cup and waiting. Together, they loaded Napier and Nitchman into the back of a real FBI car. Madden said goodbye to Hoppy, promised to call him later, and drove away with the two stooges in the backseat, sitting on their hands. The other FBI agent followed in the fake FBI car Napier always drove.
Hoppy waved farewell.
Madden drove along Highway 90, in the direction of Mobile. Napier, the quicker wit of the two, concocted a fairly reasonable story, which Nitchman added to slightly. They explained to Madden that their firm had been hired by some vague and unnamed casino interests to investigate various parcels of real estate along the Coast. This is where they'd run into Hoppy, who was quite corrupt and had tried to shake 'em down for cash. One thing led to another, and their boss made them pose as FBI agents. No harm had been done, really.
Madden listened with hardly a word. They would later tell Fitch that he seemed not to have a clue about Hoppy's wife Millie and her current civic responsibilities. He was a young agent, obviously amused with his catch and not certain what to do with them.
For his part, Madden deemed it a minor offense, unworthy of prosecution, certainly not worth any more effort on his part. His caseload was staggering anyway. The last thing he needed was to waste time pursuing convictions for two small-time liars. When they crossed into Alabama, he delivered a stern lecture on the penalties for impersonating a federal officer. They were truly sorry. It would never happen again.
He stopped at a rest station, uncuffed them, gave them their car, and told them to stay out of Mississippi. They thanked him profusely, promised never to return, and sped away.
FITCH BROKE A LAMP with his fist when he got the call from Napier. Blood dripped from a knuckle as he seethed and cursed and listened to the story, as told from a noisy truck stop somewhere in Alabama. He sent Pang to collect the two.
Three hours after they were first handcuffed, Napier and Nitchman were seated in a room next to Fitch's office in the rear of the old dime store. Cristano was present.
“Start at the beginning,” Fitch said. “I want to hear every word.” He punched a button and a recorder started. They painstakingly collaborated on the narrative until they'd recollected virtually all of it.
Fitch dismissed them and sent them back to Washington.
Alone, he dimmed the lights in his office and sulked in the darkness. Hoppy would tell Millie tonight. Millie would be lost as a defense juror; in fact, she'd probably swing so far to the other side she'd want billions in damages for the poor widow Wood.
Marlee could salvage this disaster. Only Marlee.
Thirty-six
It was the strangest thing, Phoebe said not long into the surprise call from Beverly, because the day before yesterday some guy had called her too, claimed he was Jeff Kerr looking for Claire. She knew immediately the guy was faking, but she strung him along anyway to see what he wanted. She hadn't talked to Claire in four years.