trunk. In two of the pictures the trunk lid was down. In two of them it was up. The two guys were looking down at something inside the trunk. No way of telling what it was. One of the guys was a Hispanic gangbanger. The other was an older man in a suit. I didn't know him.
Duffy must have been watching my face.
"Not the man you saw?" she said.
"I didn't say I saw anybody."
"The Hispanic guy is a major dealer," Eliot said. "Actually he's the major dealer for most of Los Angeles County. Not provable, of course, but we know all about him. His profits must run to millions of dollars a week. He lives like an emperor. But he came all the way to Portland, Maine, to meet with this other guy." I touched one of the photographs. "This is Portland, Maine?" Duffy nodded. "A parking garage, downtown. About nine weeks ago. I took the pictures myself."
"So who's this other guy?"
"We're not exactly sure. We traced the Cadillac's plate, obviously. It's registered to a corporation called Bizarre Bazaar. Main office is in Portland, Maine. Far as we can tell it started out way back as some kind of hippy-dippy import-export trader with the Middle East. Now it specializes in importing Oriental rugs. Far as we can tell the owner is a guy called Zachary Beck. We're assuming that's him in the photographs."
"Which makes him huge," Eliot said. "If this guy from LA is prepared to fly all the way back east to meet with him, he's got to be a couple of rungs up the ladder. And anybody a couple of rungs above this LA guy is in the stratosphere, believe me. So Zachary Beck's a top boy, and he's fooling with us. Rug importer, drug importer. He's making jokes."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I never saw him before."
"Don't be sorry," Duffy said. She hitched forward on the chair. "It's better for us if he isn't the guy you saw. We already know about him. It's better for us if you saw one of his associates. We can try to get to him that way."
"You can't get to him head-on?" There was a short silence. Seemed to me there was some embarrassment in it.
"We've got problems," Eliot said.
"Sounds like you've got probable cause against the LA player. And you've got photographs that put him side by side with this Beck guy."
"The photographs are tainted," Duffy said. "I made a mistake." More silence.
"The garage was private property," she said. "It's under an office building. I didn't have a warrant. Fourth Amendment makes the pictures inadmissible."
"Can't you lie? Say you were outside the garage?"
"Physical layout makes that impossible. Defense counsel would figure it in a minute and the case would collapse."
"We need to know who you saw," Eliot said.
I didn't answer.
"We really need to know," Duffy said. She said it in the kind of soft voice that makes men want to jump tall buildings. But there was no artifice there. No pretense. She wasn't aware of how good she was sounding. She really needed to know.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I need to put this right."
"Everybody makes mistakes."
"We sent an agent after Beck," she said. "Undercover. A woman. She disappeared." Silence.
"When?" I asked.
"Seven weeks ago."
"You looked for her?"
"We don't know where to look. We don't know where Beck goes. We don't even know where he lives. He has no registered property. His house must be owned by some phantom corporation. It's a needle in a haystack."
"Haven't you tailed him?"
"We've tried. He has bodyguards and drivers. They're too good."
"For the DEA?"
"For us. We're on our own. The Justice Department disowned the operation when I screwed up."
"Even though there's an agent missing?"
"They don't know there's an agent missing. We put her in after they closed us down.
She's off the books." I stared at her.
"This whole thing is off the books," she said.
"So how are you working it?"
"I'm a team leader. Nobody's looking over my shoulder day to day. I'm pretending I'm working on something else. But I'm not. I'm working on this."
"So nobody knows this woman is
Duffy must have been watching my face.
"Not the man you saw?" she said.
"I didn't say I saw anybody."
"The Hispanic guy is a major dealer," Eliot said. "Actually he's the major dealer for most of Los Angeles County. Not provable, of course, but we know all about him. His profits must run to millions of dollars a week. He lives like an emperor. But he came all the way to Portland, Maine, to meet with this other guy." I touched one of the photographs. "This is Portland, Maine?" Duffy nodded. "A parking garage, downtown. About nine weeks ago. I took the pictures myself."
"So who's this other guy?"
"We're not exactly sure. We traced the Cadillac's plate, obviously. It's registered to a corporation called Bizarre Bazaar. Main office is in Portland, Maine. Far as we can tell it started out way back as some kind of hippy-dippy import-export trader with the Middle East. Now it specializes in importing Oriental rugs. Far as we can tell the owner is a guy called Zachary Beck. We're assuming that's him in the photographs."
"Which makes him huge," Eliot said. "If this guy from LA is prepared to fly all the way back east to meet with him, he's got to be a couple of rungs up the ladder. And anybody a couple of rungs above this LA guy is in the stratosphere, believe me. So Zachary Beck's a top boy, and he's fooling with us. Rug importer, drug importer. He's making jokes."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I never saw him before."
"Don't be sorry," Duffy said. She hitched forward on the chair. "It's better for us if he isn't the guy you saw. We already know about him. It's better for us if you saw one of his associates. We can try to get to him that way."
"You can't get to him head-on?" There was a short silence. Seemed to me there was some embarrassment in it.
"We've got problems," Eliot said.
"Sounds like you've got probable cause against the LA player. And you've got photographs that put him side by side with this Beck guy."
"The photographs are tainted," Duffy said. "I made a mistake." More silence.
"The garage was private property," she said. "It's under an office building. I didn't have a warrant. Fourth Amendment makes the pictures inadmissible."
"Can't you lie? Say you were outside the garage?"
"Physical layout makes that impossible. Defense counsel would figure it in a minute and the case would collapse."
"We need to know who you saw," Eliot said.
I didn't answer.
"We really need to know," Duffy said. She said it in the kind of soft voice that makes men want to jump tall buildings. But there was no artifice there. No pretense. She wasn't aware of how good she was sounding. She really needed to know.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I need to put this right."
"Everybody makes mistakes."
"We sent an agent after Beck," she said. "Undercover. A woman. She disappeared." Silence.
"When?" I asked.
"Seven weeks ago."
"You looked for her?"
"We don't know where to look. We don't know where Beck goes. We don't even know where he lives. He has no registered property. His house must be owned by some phantom corporation. It's a needle in a haystack."
"Haven't you tailed him?"
"We've tried. He has bodyguards and drivers. They're too good."
"For the DEA?"
"For us. We're on our own. The Justice Department disowned the operation when I screwed up."
"Even though there's an agent missing?"
"They don't know there's an agent missing. We put her in after they closed us down.
She's off the books." I stared at her.
"This whole thing is off the books," she said.
"So how are you working it?"
"I'm a team leader. Nobody's looking over my shoulder day to day. I'm pretending I'm working on something else. But I'm not. I'm working on this."
"So nobody knows this woman is
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