Free The Storm Murders by John Farrow

want the FBI involved. No tit-for-tat. Is that it? You think he’s gone rogue, or he’s doing all this on his own dime?”
    “That’s the new phrase now, isn’t it?” Mathers might miss his partner’s propensity for hunches, but he could still do without the sarcasm. “Gone rogue,” Cinq-Mars repeated. “More infuriating cop lingo to make cops feel like cops. Isn’t it?”
    Mathers flapped his coat again. “I don’t know,” he demurred. “Just a phrase.” He waited a moment, then tried again. “So has he? Gone rogue?”
    The older man’s interests drifted up into the rafters again, but there was nothing up there, Mathers was convinced, not a blessed thing.
    “Possibly,” Cinq-Mars finally indicated. “More likely, he has reasons to not want someone in the Bureau—superiors, peers, underlings, who knows?—to find out what he’s up to. I know what that’s like. Been there myself. You keep your nose clean, Bill, procedure-wise. I never did, as you know, and our agent out there might not either. We represent his way to investigate this case yet keep it under the radar inside the FBI. They probably don’t even know he’s in Canada. He’s not packing a piece, did you notice?”
    Rather than admit that he hadn’t, Mathers said, “Packing a piece. Cop lingo.”
    “Bill, you should’ve noticed. I figure it’s because he didn’t want to announce himself as FBI leaving the U.S., or entering Canada, or re-entering the States. He’s at least semi-incognito, is my bet.”
    Mathers caught on to something then. “So that’s why you asked for the payment bonus. To test your theory. To see if he can pull that off.”
    “He’s been testing me, Bill. I can do the same back, no? Why not?”
    Mathers agreed that he could do that. “ É mile, you told him that you wanted me to help you. I don’t know if you were serious—”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “Unlike you, I’m not retired. Unlike you, I answer to bosses, and unlike the way you used to be, I can’t just go off on my own within the department.”
    “True,” Cinq-Mars conceded, “and I should have asked first. Pardon my manners. But, like me, you’re curious about the case and upset about dead cops. Besides, I’ll need your help, precisely because you’re not retired. First, get the SQ to bring out their dog squad. Their K-9. Most likely they’ll turn up the dead animals but no evidence, but the SQ will feel involved that way, in the loop, and that might keep them onside and allow us to muddle in what is essentially their business. At the very least, the pets will get a decent grave. See, I can only ask for K-9 by going through my connections, and that’ll piss people off inside the SQ. But you can ask, and that’ll make folks happy inside the SQ. See the difference?”
    “Okay.”
    “Next,” Cinq-Mars pressed on, “after I get the information from Dreher on the previous murders, do your own inquiry into them. Use appropriate protocol for police networks. Ring no bells. Show me what local police and local journalists had to say about the killings. If you find out the names and numbers of the specific investigating officers, pass that along. See? I can’t get any of that without you.”
    “Okay. I can do that. What are you going to do?”
    “Talk to my wife, Bill. That’s the biggest hurdle here. Then, if she lets me, I’ll talk to the SQ. If I’m going to be the FBI’s man on the ground, then the SQ should know that and hear it in such a way that they don’t get their collective back up. Just because he doesn’t want relations with them doesn’t mean that I have to adhere to the policy. Besides, I can help them out. I know I can. That way, they might help me. If the Bureau wants to be in the shadows, that’s their choice. Or Dreher’s choice. The rest of us are still free to walk around in the light of day. But, Bill. Don’t tell Dreher that I’m willing to work with the SQ. Let that be our secret.”
    Mathers took a