The Sentry - By Robert Crais Page 0,83

hooked up with the New Orleans agents. Did Cole tell you?”

“Yes. They don’t have a picture?”

“No, but they’re pretty sure he’s an American named Gregg Daniel Vincent. He’s not a Bolivian.”

“What do they know?”

“Not much, and most of it they can’t confirm. Made his bones guarding dope farms in Honduras from government raids. Made his rep killing snitches and cops the Bolivians want out of the way. Tortures them to death. The Bolivians have this whole rap about him escaping from some kinda nuthouse for psychopaths, but that’s probably bullshit. They use him to scare people.”

Pike didn’t care about any of that, and wasn’t impressed.

“Is there a description?”

“They know he’s a white guy, but that’s it. They don’t have a description or a photograph.”

Pike pulled to the curb by the flagpole outside Pacific Station. He put the Jeep in park, but did not turn off the engine.

“I’m here, Button. By the flag out front. Come get Straw’s stuff.”

Button sounded sick.

“You really have it?”

“Come get it. I’m leaving it on the curb.”

Pike closed his phone, got out with the envelope and the camera, and left them on the sidewalk. Less than one minute later, he was driving away when his phone rang. He thought it was Button, calling him back, but it wasn’t.

“Pike? Is this Joe Pike?”

Pike recognized the voice.

“This is Bill Rainey. You know me as Wilson Smith.”

41

Detective-Sergeant Jerry Button Los Angeles Police Department Paci fic Station

Button’s hands were shaking when he returned to his desk with the camera and the files. He tried to make them stop, but had to wedge them under his hams. He glanced at Futardo, who was typing in her cubicle across the room by the door. The new guy always got the desk by the door. Button had the prime desk in the rear, right outside the LT’s office. The distance between the two desks was a lot longer than it looked.

Button felt angry, humiliated, and scared. Straw—the arrogant Feeb prick—had pulled a typical, underhanded FBI move by lying about his case. Like all Quantico pricks, he thought city police were incompetent losers, to be used, abused, and kept in the dark.

And Button had proved him right.

Hello, Jerry Button, you are now the Pacific Station Jackass of the Year.

Button flipped through the DEA documents, then watched a few minutes of the camera’s video to make sure Pike hadn’t been fucking with him. But Pike, of course, had never fucked around and wasn’t fucking around now.

Button felt even more sick when he put down the camera. He picked up his phone to call Straw, then reconsidered. He was definitely going to confront the sonofabitch, that was for sure, but he wanted to have all the facts straight before he did. Button intended to file an official complaint.

Button called Dale Springer in the FBI’s New Orleans office. Springer was the agent Button had spoken with about the Rainey case less than an hour ago.

“Special Agent Springer.”

Button even hated how these condescending pricks answered their phones.

“Jerry Button in L.A. again. I stepped into something out here I need to ask about.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Button noticed Futardo looking at him, which made his stomach clench. He would have to tell her about his fuckup as soon as he got off the phone.

“You know an agent named Jack Straw?”

“Sure. Jack’s a good friend.”

“Uh-huh. Well, who’s his supervisor down there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to speak with his supervisor. Your Mr. Straw misrepresented himself to the Los Angeles Police Department and is acting like an underhanded prick. I’d like to get this straightened out.”

Springer cleared his throat.

“Hang on, Sergeant. I’ll get him for you.”

A few seconds later, a different male voice came on the line.

“This is Jack Straw. Who is this, please?”

Button felt a stillness settle into his belly.

“Jerry Button with the Los Angeles Police Department. Your name is Jack Straw?”

“That’s right. Have we met?”

“You’re working the William Rainey case?”

“I’m one of the original case agents, Detective. Can I ask what this is about?”

“Ah, listen, is there another Jack Straw on the case?”

The New Orleans Jack Straw laughed.

“Not the last time I looked. What’s going on, Detective?”

“We have a gentleman here identifying himself as an agent named Jack Straw from your office. He has FBI credentials.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

Button leaned back in his chair and checked his hands. Steady as parked cars. He looked at Futardo. She was back on her computer, typing away. She was a good kid. He got up and walked over. She jumped to