Tucker swore again, then, “Look, I’ve gotta ask. What’s upwith you and Bowie?”
Shit. “You’ve got a double hit on your hands, but it’s our tiff y’all are talking about over there?”
“So it’s true? You two are on the outs?”
“It’ll blow over.”
“Will it?” He paused, then asked, “Are you sober?”
“I wasn’t last Saturday night.”
“So they’re saying.”
“John got his shorts in a wad over it.”
“And then some, I heard.”
Jesus, the grapevine was thorough. “And then some,” Mitch admitted. “But we’re chill now.”
“You swear?”
“We’re chill.”
“All right then. I’ll update you if something worth sharing turns up.”
“Thanks, Jim.” He was about to click off when the other man halted him.
“One more thing,” the agent said.
“Still here.”
Tucker took a breath, blew it out. “You didn’t ask for advice or coaching. But I gotta say this. It’s no secret that the past couple of years have been hell for you. Under the circumstances, understandable.
“So cut yourself some slack, all right? The last thing you need is to bring down more shit on yourself. After I told you about Roland Malone, you said Bowie was lukewarm on him. So don’t get under Bowie’s skin over this possible-but-not-proven Bayou Coeur tie-in. You’re an outstanding cop. It would be a damn shame if you fucked up your future by going off on a wild hare. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tucker sighed. “Yeah, right.” He clicked off.
Jim Tucker wouldn’t have told him everything he was privy to about the double murder or what the DEA had or didn’t have on Roland Malone. Remaining tight-lipped was a rigid rule of federal agencies.
But Mitch hadn’t told Tucker everything he was privy to, either.
Ellie had left at six o’clock after showing out Dylan’s last patient.
Dylan had stayed to review the handwritten notes she’d taken on a legal pad during today’s sessions, as well as those from yesterday, and had spent the last three hours transcribing them into each patient’s computer file.
Because her mind had continued to drift, the work had taken longer than usual. She was ready for home, a glass of wine, and a soaking bath. But she had one more patient file to review. The one she’d intentionally saved for last. Mitch Haskell’s.
She opened the leather portfolio and lifted out the yellow legal tablet. She wasn’t surprised to see how very little there was on it to transcribe, so she pushed away from the desk in her inner office and, taking the notepad with her, went into the other room where she could contemplate more comfortably.
She hadn’t taken many notes during her session with Mitch because most of what he’d said hadn’t been noteworthy. She’d recognized his derisiveness as a shield against any serious subject she might broach, but it had left her with very little to workwith. She hadn’t jotted down any key words she could later use in an effort to unlock something important that he was withholding.
The only time he’d revealed anything significant was when he hadn’t said anything at all. It had been when she’d asked him if last week’s drinking binge had to do with the anniversary date of his wife’s death. He’d divulged more by saying nothing than—
