Chapter Eleven

 

DAVIS

 

I don't know who thinks I'm supposed to be awake at 6 in the morning when they call me, but I answer anyways. And given that the number's got a D.C. area code, I make it sound like I'm wide goddamn awake.

3 hours is plenty when it's your boss on the line, and they have control of the purse strings.

"Davis," I answer, my voice neutral, even awake-sounding as I can make it.

"I didn't wake you, did I? I'm sorry, the time difference—"

"No, sir."

He doesn't care one damn bit about whether or not he woke me, so it doesn't do me any good to be upset about it. Certainly doesn't do me any good to tell him I'm upset, that's not getting anything done at all.

"How's everything going with the Beauchamp investigation? Made any arrests?"

"Ah… yes, sir. We did, we arrested Ryan Beauchamp, but we had to cut him loose. We're putting our work into turning him, for…"

I don't need to see the look on his face, not that I could from all this distance. Without speaking, without making a sound, the tone of the conversation shifts and I let myself go.

My eyes want to droop shut, even as I wait tensely for what he's calling me about. I let them close a little bit, and my eyelids just about manage to touch by the time he responds.

"Turn? Did we tell you to turn him, Agent Davis?"

"Sir, I thought—"

"You thought, what? That you would give yourself full authority on this matter?"

"Sir," I begin, but I stop myself before I say anything more.

"Do you have anything on Beauchamp, yes or no?"

"We have circumstantial evidence placing one of his guys at a trade, guns for drugs, and we have an informant that puts those instructions in his mouth. He didn't say those exact words, of course—but we've got the conversation on tape."

"Then you need to get him back to Washington, Agent Davis. If we've got evidence, we need to secure it here."

"I don't think that's wise, sir."

"You don't think it's wise?" His voice is sneering so his face doesn't have to. "I will tell you what's wise, Agent. You don't tell me, if you ever want to see 'Special' Agent. You do as I tell you, and that's that. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

"Sir, I just—"

"No. I don't want to hear it. You get on the phone with your informant, you send him to Washington, to be debriefed by us. Then you go round up Beauchamp. Is. That. Understood?"

"I hear you, sir." It's about the best I can do right now to tell him that I'm not doing it.

"Don't give me that shit, Davis. Do you understand my instructions, as they have been given to you—yes, or no?"

I take a deep breath in through my nose. This was my shot at getting past that fucking toad-looking man. I can't just keep going, keep looking at the ground just before my feet.

Eventually, someone has to look up, and they have to realize that there's more to the situation than the next little small fry. Eventually you have to grow the hell up.

"Yes, sir."

"And then get your ass back to D.C., along with the prisoner. We'll debrief you there, but if he's dealing with international drugs, we try him in Federal court."

"I really think—"

He cuts me off again, for the twentieth time. At this point I should just keep my mouth shut. He's not listening, and I'd get to sleep so much faster.

"You're still not listening to me, Davis. You're still not listening. Bring him in, bring yourself in, both of you, to Washington D.C. No thinking. No, just one more thing. Get here."

"Yes, sir."

He hangs up the phone and I lay my head back down. This could have all been a bad dream. When I wake up in the morning, I'll forget, because when you wake—you forget.

I've had plenty of dreams that felt real in the moment,  but when I woke up, they couldn't hurt me any more. They were gone. Just like this will, I assure myself.

I lay my head back down on the pillow, slipping into an uneasy sleep. Tossing and turning doesn't make for restful sleep, but it's the best I can do.

I force myself to keep going back to sleep until finally my alarm wakes me up. I wasn't exactly asleep at the time, but my eyes were closed. So when I sat up, rubbed the tiredness from my eyes, and stripped down to get into the shower, it counted as getting up.

The hot water felt good on my skin. I could feel it washing away the Arizona dust, the grime of dealing with filth all damn day. But it did nothing for my memory.

Donaldsen had called me, hours ago. My task force, what little of it I had, was gone. Out of my hands, out of Arizona. Back to D.C. where all of my assets can be chopped up into nice little bits.

My only asset goes with them, when they leave. Beauchamp is to be arrested and tried for illicit gun sales and for trafficking. They'll get a big success, or so they think.

Typical Donaldsen, can't see the forest for the trees. Can't see the big redwood, because it's blocked by a little sapling. He's going to fuck this up for everyone.

I take a deep breath. I can stop it, though. There's not much I can do, but I can do something. I consider the chances that Donaldsen didn't call anyone else.

The two factors weighing against each other in my head, as the hot water streams down my body, are that on one hand, Donaldsen has no respect for anyone, least of all me.

On the other hand, he has no patience for menial tasks. Things like making a round of phone calls in order to make sure his orders are followed are beneath him.

It could be that he hired someone else to do it. There are plenty of ass-kissers who just joined up with the bureau. They could use the help with their careers.

I was like that once, and I'm not going to make that mistake again. Investigator Martin Donaldsen was a poor boss, and a poor teacher. But he was good for one thing, and that was showing me how much of a mistake I'd made being a mewling kitten all those years.

After all, it did nothing to endear me to the man, and it never helped me with anything. Being a machine-cut bitch all the time? That worked good.

I turn off the shower, my dark skin starting to wrinkle and prune and shining a little where I'd rubbed it too hard thinking about Donaldsen and how much I'd like to put my fist through his face.

That wouldn't be good enough, though. Nothing ever would be, not enough to make up for what he'd done.

I could try not to report my orders, but it's a matter of time. I have to pack up and go home, leave the big fish for someone else. Someone who was going places. Someone who wasn't me, evidently.

The idea occurs to me a moment later, an idea that I immediately dislike and can't stop thinking once it's hit me.

There is one other solution. One way that I can keep my pieces in play. A way that doesn't rely on Donaldsen's god damned money.

I pull out my phone and punch in Danny's number. Spider wants to be pulled, then pull him. Send him back to Washington, just like Donaldsen ordered.

I'll go in and get Beauchamp, and by the time I've got him, we might just about have another catch to bring back with us.