“He made one,” Richie said. “But if this guy was in South Florida a few days ago with Freddie Pecos, we should consider a statewide bulletin. Warning women.”
I wondered whether this was my call or not.
“I’ll take it up with Frank,” I said. “He’s back.”
“Frank Roberts?” Richie’s voice spiked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s project managing us. Sent here by Poulton.”
“Huh,” Richie replied.
I was curious what Richie would think of Frank’s return. The rookie was developing his skills as a profiler, and I wondered whether Frank leaving last year had been a positive or a negative for him, since that was Frank’s specialty.
“Thanks for keeping me updated,” I said.
Richie hung up, and I thought of his statement about South Florida and the gun case. If I knew one thing about working with the youngest member of PAR over the last year, it was that he had great instincts for criminality. If he suspected the cases were connected, they just might be.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the mix of farm- and swampland into the town of Hambis, where I’d spent sixty-three days over this past year. I parked in a vacant lot across from our regular hotel, a place Shooter had dubbed the “DisComfort Inn.” Locked my car.
Walking across the street, I approached a white Ford Econoline van. Frank sat in the driver’s seat, and the door unclicked when I got close.
“Morning,” he said, grabbing his jacket off the passenger seat and laying it over the center console. “Interesting town y’all have been staying in.”
Frank wore black slacks, a lilac shirt, and a black tie. He fired up the engine, and we sat in silence, waiting four minutes until Travis Wells, in jeans and a leather jacket, emerged from a hotel room door on the first floor.
“If you’re staying awhile,” Cassie said to Frank, “there’s a place called Gatorama less than an hour away. Shooter and I went. Gardner passed on the experience.”
I glanced at Cassie in the rear of the vehicle, who wore gray athletic pants and a hoodie. “He’s been briefed?” I asked, motioning at Wells.
“’Til two a.m. last night,” she said. “I hate to say it, but—” She looked to Frank and raised an eyebrow. “Okay guy, right?”
Frank shrugged. “I mean, if brains were ink? He couldn’t dot ani. But—overall—he listened. He knows what he’s gotta do.”
Wells got in his Camaro then, and Frank fired up the van, following him from a far enough distance that no one would suspect anything.
I was comfortable with silence, but it was unusual from Frank, who was typically full of Texas sayings like “She makes a hornet look cuddly” and “He’s overdrawn at the memory bank.” With this in mind, I studied the boss. I was still curious about his arrival back here. The logic did not compute for me just yet.
“Have you checked in with Poulton?” I asked.
Ahead of us, Wells drove into an industrial area, and Frank slowed the van, pulling to the curb two blocks behind our new C.I.
“I have,” Frank said. “He’s not happy.”
As Frank parked, I stepped over his jacket and into the rear of the vehicle.
“You told him about the deal with our new C.I.?” I asked.
“Of course,” Frank replied. “But you know…”
“He doesn’t trust us,” Cassie said. “Thinks we’re gonna lose this guy, too.”
“He doesn’t trustanyone,” Frank said. “Guns near the White House. That could mean his job.”
In the back, I took the seat next to Cassie and put on the second set of headphones. In front of us was a giant bank of listening and recording equipment.
“And the buy-build-shoot kits?” Cassie asked. “He was pretty hot on that. But it’s on the back burner now?”
“Well,” Frank said, “you start talking about guns on the Mall. Everything else just goes… poof.”
