Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Read Free Book Online Page A

have guests on base all the time—those West Germans, for example—but they don’t wear BDU s from the PX , Lieutenant. These boys are special.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “Meaning they’re from some Latin American banana republic, and they’re not here to learn how to service their country’s newly purchased helicopters. They’re learning how to throw Marxist rebels out of them.”
    I gazed down at the man leaning against the Buick. From this distance it was hard to tell, but he seemed to be conscious of my presence. He flicked his cigar away and said something to the approaching Magnum, who paused to glance in my direction. Magnum smiled, then ditched the sodden newspaper and got behind the wheel of the Buick. Before joining him, the generalissimo of tomorrow aimed a mock salute at my office window.
    “All right, then,” I said. “So what does that make Magnum?”
    “What else?” Crewes said. “ CIA .”

CHAPTER 4
    In front of the shaving mirror , over weak coffee of my own making, weaving through early morning traffic on my way downtown, I keep trying to convince myself that a summons from Special Agent Bea Kuykendahl might be a good thing. Maybe my case is already in the air, arcing toward the end zone, and all I have to do is make the catch. Bascombe’s already waiting for me in the garage, and I imagine he’s going through a similar thought process in his mind.
    “I’ll drive,” he says, motioning me toward the passenger door of his car.
    “This might turn out to be positive, you know.”
    Bascombe’s long arms and six-foot-four frame hunch behind the wheel. His knees barely fit under the console. He sighs. “Anything can happen.”
    The reality is, I’ve never put a request into the system and gotten a phone call from the FBI . That’s not how it works.
    What I’m anticipating is something like this: a bunch of Feds in dark suits lined up on one side of a conference table, a lot of bureaucratic doublespeak passing for interagency cooperation leading up to an assertion of jurisdiction. Bridger’s hunch about the Mexican mafia comes back to me, along with what Lorenz said about al-Qaeda cells.
    “This is a homicide,” I say. “The body’s on our patch. If they have something to offer, fine, but that’s where I’m drawing the line.”
    “Hey, if we could unload this on ’em, I’d be more than happy to. It’s not like we’re making any progress. Unfortunately.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    To reach the field office, we have to take I-10 to the Loop, then drive up the Northwest Freeway to 1 Justice Park Drive. As we approach, there’s a run-down looking donut shop on W. 43rd, so I suggest stopping off to pick up a box for our FBI colleagues. The lieutenant just shakes his head. “You’re always trying to win friends and influence people, aren’t you?”
    Bascombe uncoils himself and we check through security, joining a crowd of arriving government workers at the elevators. My stomach rumbles—donuts don’t sound half bad at the moment—but thanks to a random assortment of over-the-counter painkillers I found in the medicine cabinet this morning, my bum leg feels pleasantly numb. The doors slide open and we shoulder our way in. Just as the elevator closes, a voice calls from outside.
    “Lieutenant Bascombe, is that you?”
    “Hold the door,” he says.
    We push our way back out, ignoring grunts of frustration from our fellow passengers. Outside, a serious-looking blonde, maybe five-foot-two without her heels, in jeans and a fatigue jacket, extends a hand to the lieutenant. Her rolled-up sleeve reveals a man’s diver watch, worn backward with the face inside the wrist. FBI credentials dangle around her neck.
    “I’m Bea Kuykendahl,” she says.
    The lieutenant introduces himself, then turns to me.
    “I’m familiar with your work,” she tells me. “I did a little digging when your name cropped up.”
    “Okay.”
    She pats my arm. “Don’t worry, it was mostly