named Willis Lockhart runs the show.”
“They’ve got a clean record,” said Fordyce. “I checked. No allegations of child abuse, no bigamy, no weapons violations, taxes paid up.”
“That’s encouraging,” said Gideon. “So what’s your plan?”
“Go in easy, don’t spook them, show the warrant nice and polite, pick up the wife, leave. We have to bring her for interrogation to the Santa Fe command center, but we’ll have a chance to hear what she has to say on the way there.”
“And if the ranch people don’t cooperate?”
“Call for backup.”
Gideon frowned. “That ranch is deep in the mountains. Backup would take an hour or more.”
“In that case, we leave nice, come back mean. With a SWAT team in tow.”
“Hello, Waco.”
Fordyce sat back in irritation. “I’ve been at this for years, believe me, I know how to do this.”
“Yeah, but I have another idea…”
Fordyce held up his hands in a mock-dramatic gesture. “Please. I’ve had enough of your ‘ideas.’”
“The problem is getting in there. Warrant or no warrant, they probably aren’t going to let us in. And even if they do, how are we going to find the wife? You think they’ll just fetch her for us? That ranch covers thousands of acres, and we’ll have to have their cooperation—”
Fordyce swiped one hand across his neatly clipped head. “All right, all right. So what’s your bright idea?”
“We go in undercover. As…well…” Gideon thought for a moment. What kind of person would they let into the ranch?
Fordyce snorted. “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
Gideon took a sip of his margarita. “No. We’ll go in with a business proposition.”
“Oh yeah?”
“New Mexico just passed a medical marijuana law.” He went on to explain his nascent idea to Fordyce. The FBI agent was silent a long time, staring into his ice cubes, and then raised his head.
“You know, it’s not a bad plan.”
Gideon smirked. “I’m going to enjoy watching you muss up your perfect hair and finally lose that junior executive FBI outfit.”
“I’ll let you do the talking. You already look like a stoner.”
21
THEY HIT THE Salvation Army store early the next morning, the moment it opened. Gideon flipped through the racks, scooping up outfits and handing them to Fordyce, who carried them with ill-concealed grace. Then they swung by a theatrical supply company before returning to Fordyce’s hotel room with their haul. Gideon spread the clothes out on the bed while Fordyce watched with a frown.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked.
“Stand over there.” Gideon spread out a shirt, laid the pants underneath, frowned, switched the shirt for another, then another, then socks, squinting at each combination.
“Jesus,” Fordyce complained, “we’re not going on Broadway here.”
“The difference is that if our little play is a flop, you’ll get a bullet instead of a rotten tomato. Trouble is, you look like you were born a Fed.”
He mixed and matched the outfits again, adding shoes and socks, a baseball cap and a wig, finally assembling something to his liking. “Try these on,” he said.
“Son of a bitch.” Fordyce shed his suit and donned the outfit. He hesitated with the hair. It had been a woman’s wig, with real hair, that Gideon had given a bad haircut to.
“Go ahead,” said Gideon. “Don’t be shy.”
Fordyce put on the wig, adjusted it.
“Now the cap. Put it on backward.”
The cap went on. But that didn’t look right: Fordyce was too old. “Turn it right way around.”
Finally Fordyce stood in front of him, in full costume. Gideon circled him appraisingly. “Too bad you shaved this morning.”
“We’ve got to go.”
“Not yet. I need to see you walk around.”
As Fordyce took a turn around the hotel room, Gideon groaned. “You’ve got to put your heart in it, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know what more I can do. I already look like a jerk.”
“It’s not just about the look. It’s about the mental attitude. You’ve got to act the part. No, not just act it—be it.”
“So who am I supposed to be?”
“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cunning, self-satisfied, don’t-give-a-shit, morally bankrupt prick. Think about that while you walk around the room.”
“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”
“I don’t know, you’ve got to feel it. Put in some attitude. Throw in a little pimp roll. Give us a curl of the lip. Tilt your chin.”
Fordyce, with an irritated sigh, did a second turn.
“Aw, shit,” said Gideon. “Can you lose the poker up the ass?”
Fordyce turned to him. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get there soon, we won’t have time for the imam.”
With another muttered curse, Gideon followed Fordyce down toward the waiting Suburban.