Farnsworth Score
Authors: Rex Burns
A Gabe Wager Novel
Rex Burns
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
To: Chris, Erik, and Andrew
CHAPTER 1
G
ABRIEL
W
AGER SENSED
something in the way Suzy, the secretary for the Organized Crime Division, glanced up as he came in.
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen Sergeant Johnston yet?” Her blue eyes were the only part of her face anyone would notice. Right now they were wide with excitement.
“Is he looking for me?”
“You, Ashcroft, Hansen—anybody!”
“He in here?” Wager started toward the plywood cubicle of the sergeant’s office.
“No, he’s with the inspector right now.”
Wager glanced down the hall and saw that the inspector’s door was closed. “What’s the trouble?”
She peeked out and around the pale green plywood that screened the narcotics section from the other units in the division; throughout the cluttered second floor of the old brick building typewriters rattled with morning briskness; an occasional electronic snap opened the day’s first radio traffic. “You know the Farnsworth case?”
“Was that the one Rietman was assigned to?”
“I think he blew it.”
“Rietman?” That didn’t sound right. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. When Inspector Sonnenberg came in this morning, he was mad! He asked for Detective Rietman’s folder and called Sergeant Johnston in.”
“Really pissed?”
“Mad,” she said firmly.
Rietman. In the year the young detective had been with the Organized Crime Division, he’d done a steady job, and it didn’t sound like him to foul up. But it could happen—it did happen. God knows Wager had dropped his share of cases; it took some of that to train an officer. But it still wasn’t pleasant to think of. “Well, if it’s bad, we’ll hear about it.”
“
You
will.” There were many things Suzy wasn’t told.
Wager sat at his desk and read through last night’s messages before turning to the unfinished reports and the queries from other agencies. He was in the middle of a modus operandi description on a series of drugstore robberies in neighboring Jefferson County when he heard Sergeant Johnston’s voice say, “Yes, sir,” at the inspector’s door. Wager paused. If it was good news, Johnston would come to his desk; if it was bad, he’d phone. The telephone buzzed and Suzy said, “Gabe, for you.”
“Good morning, Ed.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I’m a detective.”
“Oh. Can I see you for a minute?”
“Be right there.” He went the five steps to the unit sergeant’s office; behind his desk with its carefully stacked papers, Johnston sat, balding head sinking slightly in front of the round shoulders.
“Gabe, we’ve been thrown for a loss.” Ed had recently become a Broncos fan and was replacing administrative jargon with football slang. He was the team quarterback; the inspector was the coach; Gabe, Rietman, Ashcroft, and Hansen were the front four. “You know anything about the Farnsworth case?”
“Only rumor, nothing official. The subject’s cocaine, and the Drug Enforcement Administration’s the primary agency.”
“Right—D.E.A. was calling the signals. They borrowed Rietman to act as buyer. How well do you know him?”
“He’s pretty new—we didn’t work together. But I never heard anything against him, either.”
Johnston nodded and gazed at the painted plywood that gave his desk a little privacy but blocked any fresh air that sneaked through the old square windows. Wager preferred his desk out in the open. Actually, he would prefer no desk at all; but half of a detective’s job was keeping records and files, and what couldn’t be kept in memory was stored in the desk—along with the piles of forms that someone kept manufacturing but no one seemed to care about. “Rietman set up the deal and it went down, and they made a clean bust—possession, conspiracy, and sale.”
“And?”
Johnston paused for effect. “And they lost the ball on the one-yard line!”
Wager blinked; it wouldn’t be thrown out of court for a half-assed reason. The D.E.A. people were experienced agents and would have noted the chain of evidence, exact times and locations of contacts, key conversations that revealed the suspect’s intent to sell narcotics. And they had all testified enough not to try any nonsense on the witness stand. “Why?”
“The D.E.A. people say that Rietman messed up on the field test. The Colorado Bureau of Investigation’s lab reported that the stuff was lactose. So no case. D.E.A. thinks that the suspects were setting a phony deal to find out if the buyers were straight, and that Rietman ran a bad test, thought it was presumptive positive, and gave the bust sign. Six months they been trying to lay a deal on Farnsworth. And when they finally get it …” The balding head dipped and wagged again.
“Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“The field test—did Rietman run a bad one?”
“The agents ended up with two and a half pounds of lactose. It ain’t against the law to sell lactose.”
“What’s Rietman say?”
“He swears he did it right. He said he’d take a lie-detector test.”
“That won’t mean a thing if he really thinks he did it right.”
“I know. But D.E.A.’s been all over us about it; the inspector’s already put Rietman back in uniform.”
“That’s pretty heavy for Rietman.”
“Tell that to D.E.A. They think he should of been canned.” Johnston picked up a leaf of paper from one neat pile and placed it on another, neater pile. “The inspector feels that since it was our man, our agency’s responsible.”
“Oh?” Wager smelled it coming, “And now he wants us to sweep up the shit?”
Ed patted the few pale red hairs into place on the center of his freckled scalp. “D.E.A.’s handed us the ball. Let’s see if the inspector’s free.”
He was. Wager trailed after Sergeant Johnston into the tiny office crowded with captain’s chairs and a large clean desk; one wall held a hundred or so green volumes of the Modern Federal Practice Digest. It was the only office on the O.C.D. floor with a door and without a coffee cup; instead of the usual comic signs and posters about pigs and complaint forms, it had organization charts on the wall: “The Chicago Family,” “The Miami Family.” But there was one other desk without cartoons and jokes on the walls: Wager’s. Inspector Sonnenberg licked a dark brown cigar and lit it with one of the fireplace matches sprouting from a water glass on his desk. “Did Sergeant Johnston tell you about the famous Farnsworth fiasco?”
“Yes, sir.”
He rolled the cigar slightly for an even burn; the inspector seemed to get more pleasure from lighting one than from smoking it. “Farnsworth’s still working in Boulder County. He thinks nobody can touch him.’
Wager was silent. Beside him, he heard Sergeant Johnston shift slightly on the unpadded wooden chair.
“I just came from a meeting with the D.E.A. people and the District Attorney. D.E.A.’s laying all sorts of nonsense at our door—they’re using Rietman as an excuse to cover some of their own foul-ups. And they told the D.A. that they’re pulling back from Farnsworth because of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The D.A. wants us to go after him.” One puff. Two. “To save face. If we can get him, we’ll have some leverage where we need it.”
“You’re right, Inspector,” said Johnston. “If we could score on this one … !”
Wager listened and nodded and hoped it wouldn’t be him. It had been a long time since he had gone undercover, but just the memory still wearied him. And that was three—Lord, four—years ago. He was getting too old for that kind of crap; there was too much crap an undercover man had to swallow. He hoped to God it wouldn’t be him.
“Does anybody up in Boulder or Nederland know you?”
It was him. Wager slid the faces, names, aliases he’d dealt with in the past five or six years through his memory. None of them hung up on either town’s name. But the inspector wouldn’t know that; neither would Johnston. He could just say yes and it would be someone else. All it took was a little lie that would never be found out. It would be so easy just to nod yes. “Not that I know of.”
Sonnenberg’s cigar glowed slightly. “Do you want to go under?”
No. The playacting took too much patience, too much energy. It was too hard to pretend any more. He was a cop and he liked it that way. “Do you really need me?”
“I understand that Farnsworth likes to work with Chicanos. He plays at being a revolutionary type. His mistress is a Chicano.”
Chicana—the female form was Chicana. And there was nothing that wore on Wager more than a kid who had all the answers and no sense. “I’ve got a few things that’ll have to be covered.”
“No problem, Gabe,” said Johnston. “We can split your load between Ashcroft and Hansen. Hell, you’ve substituted for them enough times.”
“And I want somebody who can build a good case,” said Sonnenberg.
The inspector was right: he was good. Wager nodded.
“Fine. Sergeant, let’s make up a jacket for him—make him from, ah …”
“Texas. A lot of Hispanos come up from Texas.”
“Good thinking. That’s far enough away to be safe. I’ll have to clear the Boulder County authorities, and you’ll need a new government vehicle, as well as—” Sonnenberg cut himself short with a wave of the cigar, “You know your work.”
Johnston said, “I’ll take care of everything, sir.”
Back at his desk, Wager told Suzy to say he was on assignment and to transfer routine calls to the sergeant. Then he dialed the D.E.A. number, asking for his ex-partner of a couple years past. Wager was grateful that the federal agency had left a local man in the region; usually they transferred their agents to distant stations “for security reasons.” When Billy did go, there wouldn’t be anyone left in D.E.A. he could talk with.
“Gabe? How the hell are you doing?”
“Fine, Billy. How’re the boys—Erik and Chris?”
“Bigger and sassier. When do we get together for that beer?”
“Anytime. Say, I need information on the Farnsworth case.”
“Hey, man, what’s happened to the old O.C.D? That kind of stuff didn’t used to go down. Who is this Rietman guy?”
Wager shrugged. “He claims it tested positive.”
“Too bad the lab said something else. I wasn’t on the case, but I heard it was a bad scene. You picking it up?”
“I’m just trying to get a little information. You know how it is.”
“Ha—yeah. I know you’re a goddamn Chicano clam.”
“That’s my barrio training; I don’t spill to the fuzz.”
“Ha. I’ll see what I can do. You want the surveillance reports, too?”
“Everything.”
“I’ll phone you when I get it together.”
His next call was to the Denver Police Department. Mark Rietman was on the street. Wager waited for the dispatcher to give him the message to call the O.C.D. number.
“This is Gabe, Mark. Can we meet somewhere?”
A brief silence. “I guess it’s about that Farnsworth shit.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell’s your angle?”
His angle was that he was a cop; Wager stifled his quick anger, but the lilt of his accent grew heavier. “The inspector, he wants us to keep on Farnsworth. How about meeting me at the Frontier when you go off duty?”
“Ah, shit on it. Yeah—O.K. I’ll see you there around five.” He hung up.
“Gabe? If you have a minute, Sergeant Johnston wants to see you.”
“Thanks, Suzy.”
“Here’s what I’ve got so far,” the sergeant held out a folder for him to study; the label made use of his middle name: Villanueva, Gabriel. Johnston’s penciled script outlined a history as close as possible to fact—place of birth, Houston, Texas; age, thirty-six; occupation, plasterer; marital status, separated; police record, one conviction in Brownsville, Texas, possession of marijuana. “What do you want for a place of residence?”
Already he felt it starting to close around him like the stiff manila of the folder; already the weariness of constantly remembering, of smiling when he wanted to puke, of betting his life he could make scum think he liked them. “My address.”
Johnston wrote it down. “Anything else?”
He sighed and thought back to other undercover assignments, to other lives and pretenses of lives, dredging up the suspicions and questions, the assurances that had been bought in the past and those that hadn’t been. “Better put me down as a burned-out junkie.”
Johnston raised his eyebrows.
“That way I have an excuse for not shooting up if anybody tries to call me out.”
“Right—good.” He jotted it down.
“I’ll need the right kind of vehicle, too. How about a VW or one of those Toyota pickups?”
“Not unless we have one in seized property. Otherwise it’s got to be American-made. If the department buys anything but American-made, the local car dealers really raise hell.”