Free The Replacements by David Putnam Page B

THIRTEEN
    FBI, really? My knees wobbled. I was too old and tired for this kind of bullshit. What the hell was Mack doing? Every FBI agent had to have seen my ugly mug on a wanted poster at one time or another. I put on my best game face, smiled, and reached out and shook Wu’s hand proffered through the window. “Nice to meet you,” said Wu.
    â€œLikewise,” I said, and kicked the back of Mack’s leg.
    â€œOuch. Man, what was that for?”
    â€œSorry, didn’t see you there.”
    Wu got out, stretched. “I see you guys have worked together before. So, Leon, you’re just joining this investigation?”
    Mack bent over, rubbed his leg. “No, he’s been off with an injury,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know the type. They get a hangnail and they take two weeks’ sick.”
    Wu looked at me then at Mack, and nodded as if he did know the type.
    â€œHe’s not here for the Karl Drago thing. He’s jumpin’ into the Sandy Williams and Elena Cortez snatch.”
    â€œWell, good luck with that. I heard tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, you guys don’t get any results, we’re comin’ in to take it over.”
    Mack turned, walked away, and said over his shoulder, “You can have it, Wu. Catch ya later.”
    I hurried to catch up. “What the hell’s going on here?”
    Mack chuckled. “We’ve been working this Karl Drago thing, and we hadn’t been set up here for eight hours when some mopeburglarized one of the FBI cars, took a gun and a laptop with high priority info. They had to splinter off two agents on the down low just to chase down the—”
    â€œNo, you know what I’m talking about. Who’s Karl Drago?”
    He stopped at the motel room door marked 126, raised his hand as though poised to knock, and continued on as if he hadn’t heard me. “To chase down the crooks who took their shit. Real embarrassing.” He knocked on the door. “You know the FBI, they won’t get burned again, so now they’re taking turns watching their own cars in the parking lot. Your hard-earned tax dollars at work. Well, not yours, not anymore.” He smiled.
    â€œWho’s Karl Drago?”
    â€œI’m on the Violent Crimes Team, remember? The team was set up on Drago when all this other shit went down, the first kidnapping, then the second. They pulled me off Drago to work the kidnapping. I’m just using this as a home base because the room’s already paid for.”
    â€œWith the FBI in the next room? Are you crazy?”
    The motel room door opened. A woman in denim pants and a long-sleeve blue shirt with a Glock in a black nylon shoulder holster smiled back. A gold FBI badge hung from a chain around her neck. She turned and walked back around a large screen. The screen, aluminum frame with black material, blocked anyone in the parking lot’s view into the motel room. Mack stepped around it. Like the rabbit going down the hole, I followed.
    All the furniture in the room had been moved, stacked, and shoved into one corner. Computer monitors sat on tables set up in a U-configuration. One computer screen, divided into a quad, depicted four different images: a car in a parking lot, a motel room door—not The Valley Suites at street view—the inside of a motel room, and a bed with someone sleeping in it. A large someone with just a sheet covering him. Two other computer screens showed maps with two little red dots, both on Valley Boulevard. As far as I could tell, the location was right down the street from where we stood. This had to be the Karl Drago thing he was talking about.
    A black agent sat in a chair next to the woman who let us in. Both looked bored to death.
    â€œHey, you guys,” said Mack, “this is Leon Johnson, the guy I told you about. Leon, this is Mary St. John, you can call her Mary Beth, and Willard Godfrey. You can call him