Free Man in the Middle by Brian Haig Page A

subordinate I sometimes pretend to be, allowed my boss to make the opening move.
    Phyllis had returned to the seat behind her desk, which I knew to be her standard practice whenever she needs a physical barrier from an asshole. She looked at me. “Mr. Waterbury is the director of the Office of Special Investigations.”
    I nodded at Mr. Waterbury, who was studying me.
    Phyllis continued, “He’s not completely convinced that a joint investigation is the best way to proceed.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “He believes this matter falls squarely under his jurisdiction. As he pointed out to me—rightly—the CIA has no business investigating a domestic death, be it suicide or homicide.”
    “A very persuasive point,” I noted diplomatically as I stifled a yawn.
    I took a moment and studied Mr. Mark Waterbury even as he continued to study me. From his upright, wooden posture, trim figure, neat attire, and severe expression, I was sure he was former military.
    But of a certain type. Some are drawn to military service as a patriotic calling, others by a yearning for glory, others in an effort to reform a life going wrong, and others to put a dent in their college tuition. I do it because I happen to look really good in a uniform. A select few, however, are enthralled by the lifestyle—the rarefied military sense of order, discipline, and a rigidly hierarchical universe where everything has its place, and everybody has their place. Hollywood caricatures are often based upon these stereotypes, and while by no means are they a majority of people in uniform, they are out there, and they do stand out. They tend not to be clever or resourceful, but they do keep you on your toes.
    This, of course, was a lot to read from a brief glance. It was in his eyes, though—a pair of compressed little anal slits with tiny ball bearings for irises.
    In fact, Waterbury’s first words to me were, “You had no business being at Daniels’s apartment.”
    “Nonsense.”
    “Is it? This agency is barred by law from involvement in domestic matters.”
    “A man was reported dead and I went to look. Simple prurient curiosity. Where in the federal statutes does it say CIA employees can’t look?” I smiled at Mr. Waterbury.
    We exchanged looks that were fairly uncomplicated, essentially telling each other to fuck off. This was not one of my better Dale Carnegie moments, but why waste time acting civil and friendly when you already know where it’s going to end up?
    He pointed at the briefcase on my lap and, with a nasty smile, said, “Yes . . . well, you walked out of a possible homicide investigation with material evidence, Drummond. That, in fact, is a serious violation of the federal statutes.”
    I love it when idiots try to play lawyer with me. I live for moments like this. I held up Daniels’s briefcase. “
Evidence?
Did you say this case contains evidence?”
    “I . . . what?”
    “Evidence, Mr. Waterbury. You claimed this case contains evidence.”
    “I did not say—”
    “I’m sure you did.” I looked at Phyllis, who appeared amused, and asked her, “Isn’t that what he said?”
    “It’s definitely what he implied.”
    I turned back to Waterbury, whose face was reddening. “By inference, you have relevant, prior knowledge about what’s inside this case.” He stared back without comment, and I continued, “By implication, something inside this case is pertinent to Cliff Daniels’s death. That’s news to me. Wow! I need to turn this case over to the proper authority.”
    “Don’t play games with me, Drummond. You’ll hand that case over to me.”
    “Not likely.”
    Mark Waterbury apparently was not accustomed to having his orders questioned and was experiencing some trouble maintaining his equanimity. In fact, his face reddened, he clenched his fingers, and a snort erupted through his nostrils.
    I continued, “You’re a political appointee, not a law enforcement official. And since you raised the issue of