The Letter Of The Law

CHAPTER 16

Two days after Dean Wentworth made the call to the Atlanta offices of the FBI, James Unger landed in Austin. Bolinger was waiting for him outside airport security. Bolinger had described himself over the phone as a short, middle-aged guy with a gray crew cut, then added that he also had a fairly athletic build. He stood there in his tweed jacket, scanning the passengers as they flowed past. When a dumpy-looking man with steel-rimmed glasses and longish hair approached him, Bolinger was sure it was for directions to the john. He was wrong.

"I'm Agent Unger," the man mumbled. "You must be Detective Bolinger."

Bolinger could see now that Unger's greasy dark hair was shot through with long gray strands. He was about thirty pounds overweight. At five feet ten, that was just enough to look bad without having anyone call him fat. His suit was a charcoal pinstripe, and he wore a black-and-gold herringbone tie. But as nice as the suit material was, it couldn't make up for the poor fit. Unger wore the sour look of a man who'd been mostly disappointed by life, and while he was only thirty-nine, he looked to be in his mid-forties.

"Thanks for coming," Bolinger said, shaking his hand and trying not to sound disappointed. "Luggage is this way."

"Thanks for picking me up like this," Unger said, but the words were without enthusiasm. He presumed his trip to Austin was nothing more than an opportunity to visit with an old college roommate who now owned a small car dealership. He hadn't been sent out on an important assignment in over ten years.

Unger's career had somehow drifted into a stagnant pool along the normal stream of advancement in the bureau. By his age, an agent expected at the very least to be in a nominal supervisory role. But Unger had never had that chance. He fancied a good part of his career's stagnation was due to his not kissing anyone's ass. But while that may have been true in part, the main reason he'd been passed over was that he had really never done anything to distinguish himself. And he knew he'd been labeled early on as a guy who really couldn't get the job done if it was a hot case. So it was only natural for him to presume that Bolinger's supposed serial killer case was shabby at best.

"I just thought I'd try to get this thing off on the right foot," Bolinger explained. "Dean Wentworth told me the bureau has an extra car for you at the office, so I knew someone had to come get you, that or take a cab. I really appreciate your coming out and opening this case."

"Doesn't sound like there's much of a case to open," he said sullenly. Bolinger looked at the agent with concern. Despite his appearance and his morose attitude, Bolinger tried to take comfort from the fact that Unger's cobalt eyes were alive with intelligence.

After the agent's big leather valise and his golf clubs were tucked snugly in the trunk of Bolinger's cruiser, they set off toward the city.

Unger turned the air-conditioning vents his way. "I've got an old college roommate who lives here," he said complacently. "He owns a Dodge dealership. He's getting us on at the West Lake Hills Country Club. You ever played there?"

"No," Bolinger said. "Can't say I have. Hey, Jim, you mind if I smoke? I'll open the window."

Unger glared at him indignantly and said, "Listen, Bob, I might as well get this out right up front. I can't stand smoke. It makes me sick, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do it."

"Okay, no problem," Bolinger said, trying not to sound defensive. He stuffed the pack back into his coat pocket. "That's why I asked."

"And I might as well tell you right now that I don't like the name Jim," Unger continued. "My name is James. That's the name my mom gave me and she didn't like people calling me Jim or Jimmy, so I can't stand it myself."

Bolinger felt his face burning with an unusual blend of embarrassment and annoyance. He was about ready to turn the car around and ship this guy right back to Atlanta. But he needed an FBI agent to work with. Alone, he had no jurisdiction whatsoever to go poking around the country chasing down possible leads on a possible serial killer.

Which was what Bolinger thought Lipton was. The more he had thought about the Marcia Sales case, the more he was convinced that she was killed by someone who'd done that kind of thing before. No one, not even a guy as smart as Lipton, could go out and knock someone off that neatly, disemboweling the girl while at the same time not leaving any kind of clues on the scene. You couldn't do that the first time out. A crime scene like that was the result of years of practice. It also made sense that Lipton had never killed someone so close to home before.

The murder in Atlanta, for example, was something relatively safe. Lipton had had very limited contact with that girl, then two months later had returned to commit the crime. Looking back now, it made sense, but for the cops investigating her death, there would have been no logical connection to Lipton. Bolinger felt confident that as he worked his way backward through Lipton's travel schedule, he would find more bodies. But to do that he needed James Unger.

In an attempt to light some kind of fire under the agent, Bolinger spent the rest of his afternoon in the federal building going through the entire case with Unger. There were moments when he thought there was something in the agent's eyes that indicated at least a minimal level of interest. But that was only until he realized that Unger was spending more time looking longingly at the pre-crime photos of Marcia Sales than he was paying attention to what Bolinger was saying.

"Wasn't the lawyer in this case that woman I've seen on CNN? Wasn't it Casey Jordan?" Unger asked with a yawn along about four o'clock.

"Yeah, she represented Lipton," Bolinger told him.

"I remember seeing her on CNN a while ago during that state senator's trial. Remember? The guy who they said killed his mistress? Does she look as good in person as she does on TV?" Unger asked with a leering grin. "I wouldn't mind running into her while I'm in on this case. Is there any reason we might have to run into her?"

Bolinger looked away from the agent in an attempt to hide his disgust. "Maybe you'll run into her out on the golf course," he said. "She lives out at West Lake Hills."

Unger fingered the picture of Marcia Sales once more before saying, "Yeah, that makes sense. I guess that's where a bigshot attorney would live. She's kind of big time, huh?"

Unger spoke with the transparent bitterness that the disappointed typically show when referring to someone rich or famous.

"I guess as far as lawyers go, she is. Well," Bolinger said, gathering up his papers, "I've given you enough stuff for one day. I'm sure you're going to want to get to your hotel and get ready for tonight."

"What's tonight?"

"You said the car dealer was taking you to Sixth Street, right?"

"Yeah. Oh yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea," Unger said, standing and seeing Bolinger to the door. "I've got to check in with Dean, too. Um… so tomorrow I kind of want to get a feel for this West Lake Hills course. How about we get things going around two in the afternoon?"

"So soon?" Bolinger said with a straight face. "Why not take the day to settle in and we can meet on Wednesday morning?"

"Oh, you sure you don't mind?" Unger actually smiled, glad to see that this guy got it.

"No. I'll get to work on this stuff," Bolinger said, patting his files. "What I would like you to do, though, is give my captain a call and tell him you'd like to have my help for the next week or so."

"Why?" Unger asked dubiously.

"You're the FBI," Bolinger said. "You'd be helping me out if you just call him and say you're working on a case that involves the Lipton, I mean, the Marcia Sales murder. If he gets a call from you, he'll let me work on this with you for a few days. That way I can get going on this and take some of the workload off your hands."

"I appreciate that, Bob," the agent said, unable to help feeling slightly suspicious. "I really do. That sounds great. I'll give him a call right now."

By the time Bolinger got back to the station, John Clark, the captain, was asking to see him. The detectives' squad room was in turmoil, but Bolinger was so tuned into getting clearance to work with the FBI that he paid no attention to all the hubbub. He marched straight through it all and into his boss's office. The captain was on the phone but held up one finger and got off after a few curt words to someone whose name Bolinger recognized as a local TV anchor.

"You want to help this guy from the FBI, Bob?" the captain asked skeptically. His face was hard and his bullet-shaped head was bald except for a few steely strands that traversed his flushed dome from ear to ear.

"Yeah," Bolinger said, then lied. "I told Dean Wentworth I'd help him out. He's got this one by himself. Dean's busy as all hell with that string of bank robberies."

The captain nodded grimly. "Well, you can give them some help, but not right away. I want you to get up to the campus and take a look at that kid who was killed. I want you to handle it."

"What kid?" Bolinger said, the energy in the squad room suddenly making sense.

"You didn't hear the call?" the captain asked. "It was the kid who testified in the Lipton case, the dead girl's old boyfriend. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

"I've been out all afternoon," Bolinger said hesitantly.

"Well, I'm on my way there," the captain said, rising from his chair and removing his hat from the coat rack behind his desk. "You might as well go over with me. You know the father, right? The father of the girl."

"Yeah," Bolinger said.

"I guess this kid made him look pretty bad at the trial?"

"He did."

"Well, you'll want to have a talk with him, I'm sure."

"Yes," Bolinger said. He was having a hard time believing what he'd just heard. If it was what it appeared to be, then it certainly shot his theory all to hell.

"Yes, I'll want to talk to him right away," he murmured.