Free Whiplash River by Lou Berney Page B

could feel himself being tugged back under. “Okay,” he said.
    Â 
    THE SHITSTORM THAT EVELYN GOT from Cory and the DEA guys wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. As shitstorms went, and Evelyn was something of an expert, it wasn’t bad at all. They parked her in a cramped little office in San Pedro, let her stew for a couple of hours, then yelled for a few more hours after that.
    Evelyn remained respectful but defiant. As in, Yes, fellas, I appreciate why you’re pissed off, and take it from me, I know what it’s like to work your ass off on an investigation only to have it go sideways on you, but tell me, what was I supposed to do?
    They told her. They had lots of suggestions, most of them vivid and profane.
    When they finally calmed down, Evelyn pointed out that their investigation of Belizean drug kingpin Walter “Baby Jesus” Jenkins had not, in fact, gone sideways. Evelyn’s actions on the beach when the restaurant exploded were the reason it hadn’t.
    When they finally calmed down again after that, Evelyn explained that if she hadn’t chased off Peppermint Patty, she would have shot and killed the shithead.
    â€œThe fuck do we care some shithead got himself shot?” a DEA guy yelled, the one with the tight black T-shirt and ginormous biceps.
    â€œThe fuck does that have to do with our investigation?” the other DEA guy yelled, the one with the even tighter black T-shirt and even more ginormous biceps.
    DEA guys, Evelyn thought. Maybe if they spent a little less time on the bench press and a little more time using the muscles in their muscle heads.
    But Cory got Evelyn’s point. “If Bouchon got killed on the beach,” he said, “we can’t sell the innocent little propane leak.”
    â€œSo the fuck what?” both DEA guys yelled.
    â€œTry banging your heads together,” Evelyn said. “See if that helps you figure it out.”
    Cory scowled at Evelyn. As if to say, And you wonder why people in other agencies think everyone in the Bureau is arrogant and condescending?
    Fair enough.
    â€œThe media would have been all over a murder on the beach,” Cory explained to the DEA guys.
    â€œThe federal police would have come flying in like bats out of hell,” Evelyn said. “And Baby Jesus would have closed up shop until everything cooled out again.”
    Was that not, by the way, the weirdest nickname in the world? Baby Jesus?
    The DEA guys continued to fuss and fume, but in the end, they didn’t call Mike in L.A. and rat Evelyn out. They might be typical musclehead DEA jerks, bitter enviers of the FBI, but they were no rats. And they knew Evelyn was right, even if they wouldn’t admit it. They’d lucked out with the propane thing, thanks to her. They left her with a warning so long and involved and so filled with ominous threats that Evelyn stopped listening halfway through.
    â€œGot it, fellas,” she said. Whatever. On her way out, Cory stopped her. He started to say something, but then didn’t bother.
    Evelyn walked over to the town hospital, which was really just a clinic. She flashed her creds and told the night nurse that she was there to see the injured man who had been brought in earlier.
    â€œMr. Cleary?” the nurse said.
    Quentin Cleary. The name on the shithead’s fake passport.
    â€œThat’s my boy,” Evelyn said.
    The nurse told her he was sleeping. Evelyn peeked into his room. He was sleeping. The formidable black hostess was sitting in a chair next to his bed, dozing too. Evelyn went back to the front desk. The nurse assured her that the patient was going nowhere until the doctor saw him again in the morning. Evelyn checked her watch and figured she’d better grab some sleep herself, while she could. She told the nurse she’d be back at seven.
    She got to her hotel around four in the morning. She looked even worse than she had the first night. Bits of blackened