Either way, that handover would make for some party, and the timing for federal agents to crash it would have to be perfect. Even if they went in at precisely the right time, there were still about a million ways that a raid of that magnitude could go FUBAR.
Mitch understood why Tucker was wound up and closemouthed. He felt for him, but this might be their last opportunity to talk for a while. “I know you’re in a hurry, Jim, but one more thing.”
“I gotta go.”
“One sec. Months back, you told me you had a snitch tucked away. A felon who’d bartered lesser charges in exchange for testifying against Malone if you ever got enough on Malone to indict.”
“Marvin Davis. Given that Malone is dead, he’s no good to us now.”
“He might be. Is he still under lock and key?”
“Guest of the US Marshals service.”
“Give me a phone number.”
“What for?”
“I need to know if this guy ever heard Malone talking about Allen Busby.”
“That jerk-off lawyer on TV?”
“He’s Oz.” He could tell that had knocked Tucker for a loop. His silence now was one of shock. Mitch envisioned him processing this new information at ninety miles a minute. Ultimately, he said, “That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“Where the hell did you come by—”
“From the Dish. It’s a bedtime story I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, you’ve got a raid to organize, and I’ve got a call to make to a US marshal who’s guarding a felonious star witness. Now give me a fucking phone number!” He took a breath. “Please.”
By the time Tucker came back on the phone, Mitch feared he’d decided he needed to be institutionalized and had cut him off. But Tucker rattled off a phone number, which Mitch memorized. “Thanks, Jim.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“If I’m right, you’ll be thanking me later.”
“Bigif.”
“Do some digging on Busby. And tell your agents to leave El Paso alive if they can. If he’s captured, I want a crack at that runty piece of shit.”
“For cutting you?”
“For killing Malone. He robbed me of the pleasure.”
“Hear ya.” Tucker then disconnected.
Two hours ago, Barbara Nix had arrived at work as usual. But the sight that had greeted her was anything but normal. Almosteveryone in the CAP unit had been clustered around Mitch Haskell’s desk.
“What’s going on?” she’d asked Clarence, who’d been standing off to the side, looking fidgety and green around the gills.
“You might not want to look.”
That had only enticed her to see what had everyone’s attention. She’d elbowed her way through those congregated and moved up beside Bowie, who’d shot her a warning glance before she looked down at the desktop.
She’d recoiled, not so much in horror at the severed finger itself as in knowing whose finger it was. Trying to sound like her strident self, she’d asked, “Besides formerly being attached to a right hand, where’d that come from?”
“It was delivered by a courier service based in Houma,” Bowie had told her. “We questioned the lady who drove it over here. She said the package had been left on their doorstep before they opened for business. Since the destination was our PD and it was addressed to Mitch Haskell, she figured it was important and rushed it over.”
“Lucky us.” That from Lear, who had moved up behind Nix and was peering over her shoulder at the gory sight.
