The Pain Scale by Tyler Dilts Read Free Book Online

“and I’m Special Agent Goodman.” We were all in the lieutenant’s office: Ruiz, the two feds, Jen, and me. There weren’t enough chairs, so we stood in a loose circle around the desk. We exchanged handshakes.
    “The bureau’s here at the request of the congressman,” Ruiz said.
    “That’s right,” Goodman said. He was the older of the two—mid-forties, maybe—with a bit of gray at the temples. But aside from the age difference, the two agents might have been brothers—both had solid frames, an inch or so over six feet, strong jaws, medium-brown hair, brown eyes, and a general all-around white-breadiness. But then again, all feds look alike to me. “Congressman Benton’s asking that you keep us in the loop in terms of your investigation.”
    “Must be nice to have connections,” I said. Ruiz and Jen both shot me disapproving looks, but Goodman’s demeanor was all warmth and reassurance.
    “I know how it must sound, Detective,” he said. “But I want you to know we have no intention of interfering here or stepping on any toes. We just want you to provide as much information as is prudent. You can understand the congressman’s position, can’t you? He’s not used to feeling powerless, and this situation has him tied in knots. He needs to feel like he’s involved in some way, and that’s why we’re reaching out and asking for your help.”
    I wasn’t used to that kind of candor from representatives of federal law enforcement agencies, and I almost regretted my snide comment.
    Goodman was slick. I didn’t know what to say, but Ruiz didn’t wait. “Of course we’ll be happy to give you anything we can,” he said, matching Goodman in feigned sincerity. “Danny, Jen, why don’t you take the agents to the conference room and fill them in on the details?”
    “Sure thing,” Jen said.
    I seemed to be the only one lacking the requisite cordiality. One more thing to work on.

    Half an hour later, we’d run down every significant detail of the case. Since we were also handing over copies of all of our reports, we didn’t give them anything they couldn’t have read for themselves. The satisfaction of holding out on sharing our own hunches and suspicions was limited by the fact that we didn’t really have any to keep to ourselves. Well, none aside from my virtual certainty that Bradley Benton III was a colossal dick. And I wasn’t ready to share that with one of Daddy’s lapdogs. Not yet, anyway.
    “That’s everything we have with any apparent aesthetic value.”
    “Aesthetic value?” Special Agent Goodman asked.
    “Long story,” Jen said.
    “Thank you.” He extended his hand. “We appreciate your help.”
    “You’re welcome,” Jen said, shaking his hand.
    “Special Agent Young,” I said. He gave me a quizzical nod, which I returned.
    After they left, I asked Jen, “Why do you suppose they call all FBI agents ‘special’?”

    “Julian Campos, please.”
    “Just a moment, Detective.”
    “Detective Beckett?”
    “That’s me, Julian.”
    “How many times is this today?”
    “More than a few, less than a lot.”
    “I think we might define our terms differently.”
    “Maybe so.”
    “What can I do for you?”
    “I assume Mr. Benton the younger is still incapable of speech?”
    “Just as he was an hour and a half ago.”
    “Figured as much. But I have a question for him.”
    “I can attempt to pass it on. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything.”
    “Of course.”
    “What’s your question?”
    “We need to know what was in the safe.”
    “Ah.”
    “Yeah. ‘Ah.’ Can you run that by your client between the sedatives?”
    “Detective, I’m not certain I appreciate your tone.”
    “I’m fairly sure you don’t. I’ll see what I can do about that.”
    “Do. And I’ll ask Bradley your question and get back to you.”
    “Or you can just tell me when I call back in an hour.”

    It was after five when Jen and I sat at our desks and reviewed the case. We talked