Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,26

“Mr. Conroy?”

Two men in suits had entered the courtyard from the front. They looked like government types. One was tall, with thinning, sandy-blond hair. The smaller one was well on the way to male pattern baldness and didn’t look happy about it. He didn’t look happy about anything.

“Do I know you?” Steve said, not standing up.

The tall one took the lead. He was about forty and whipped out a leatherette case, flipped it open. Showed a credential.

“My name’s Issler, and this is Weingarten. Mind if we talk?”

“What did you just flash?” Steve said.

“We’re investigators for the US Attorneys Office,”

“FBI?”

“Special Task Force. Can we—”

“You guys come to my house?”

“Apartment, isn’t it?” Issler said.

“What’s this about?” It had to be about Johnny, but this was too soon.

“Maybe we could go inside,” Issler said.

“Maybe not,” Steve said.

Issler looked at Weingarten, who looked even unhappier now.

Issler said, “Look, we don’t want to conduct business out here, do we?”

“Tell me why I’m listening to you,” Steve said. “Then I’ll tell you whether we’ll keep talking.”

“It’s about Johnny LaSalle, sir. I believe you saw him today.”

“Whoa. You were surveilling me?”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Conroy, not out here.”

“What kind of procedure is this?”

“Please, sir—”

“I have an office.” Steve got to his feet. “You want to see me, call my receptionist and make an appointment.”

“You don’t have a receptionist,” Weingarten said.

“I want to know why you were surveilling me. I want to know why you seem to know about my office. And what’s your interest in Johnny LaSalle?”

“Are you his attorney?” Issler said.

“Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything else.”

“This is really not very efficient for us. Can we please step into your apartment?”

“Me and William Pitt say no.”

“Excuse me?”

“William Pitt. They don’t teach you guys about William Pitt at Quantico?”

The agents said nothing.

“William Pitt,” Steve said, “stood up on the floor of parliament and said, ‘The poorest man may, in his cottage, bid defiance to all the forces of the Crown.’ ”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Weingarten said.

“It’s the basis of the Fourth Amendment,” Steve said. “And it means unless you have a warrant, I don’t have to let you in. I don’t have to talk to you. And our little interview is over.”

“Shame,” Issler said. “We wanted to help you.”

“Sure you did.”

“We’ll be back,” Weingarten said.

“Better have a judge’s approval,” Steve said.

Issler nodded. “We will.”

They turned their backsides to Steve. Just like Nick, he thought. But these cats had sharp teeth. Johnny LaSalle was involved in something federal and the US Attorneys Office didn’t waste any time putting a tail on him.

There was something Johnny LaSalle had not shared with his brother, but his brother was going to find out.

17

As he drove to Rite-Aid, Steve wondered if the two agents were following him. He even wondered if they were watching him buy Afrin, paying for it, driving back. A hot sense of paranoia settled over him, like a flu.

He’d only been involved with feds once before and hated every part of the experience. Especially their sense of entitlement, their unspoken expectation that all should bow before their mighty authority. But they still put their pants on one leg at a time, unless Quantico was teaching them new tricks.

So having a couple of agents show up at his sanctum sanctorum was not his idea of a great way to finish the night.

Mrs. Stanky was waiting for him at her open door, arms folding over her oxygen tubes. “What took you?” she said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stanky. I had something come up.”

“You mean those men? Who were they?”

“Oh, just some gentlemen with questions.”

“Questions? What kind of questions?”

“Mrs. Stanky, let’s get you sitting down.” Steve had done this several times before. The excitable old woman, a former grade-school teacher, needed to keep her blood pressure down.

He took her arm and guided her into the apartment, which smelled of hard-boiled eggs and walnuts. She resisted only slightly.

“I have a right to know what’s been going on outside my door,” she insisted. “Were they police?”

“No, not police. Now why don’t—”

“FBI?”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

“What did they have questions about?”

“Feeding stray cats. I guess you were right to make a federal case out of it.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“Not the first time,” Steve said. He got her settled on the brown sofa with red throw pillows, then opened the Afrin spray for her, putting the bottle on the coffee table.

“There,” Steve said. “You need anything else?”

“How come you have the FBI after you? What have you been doing?”

Resigned