Brute Force

Chapter 15

Former CIA Clandestine Services Officer Joey Benavides hoisted a doughy leg out of the passenger side of his partner’s government-issued Jeep Patriot and unfolded himself onto the quiet residential sidewalk. The little car seemed to squeak with relief as the pressure was taken off the suspension.

Joey B’s partner, former IRS agent Roy Gant, wore a gray blazer that was at least one size too small and caused his fleshy arms to ride up a little farther away from his body than they should have. Agents of the Internal Defense Task Force weren’t known for strict adherence to dress codes, but Gant was one of the few who were slovenly enough to make even Benavides look acceptable. He didn’t even bother to tuck in his shirttail.

A girl on a bicycle, one of the legions of snot-nose kids Benavides saw terrorizing the neighborhoods this time of year, cruised by on the sidewalk.

“I hate summer,” Gant grumbled, glaring at the little girl as she sped down the street.

“Okay, we’re looking for the Thib-o-day-ox residence,” Benavides said, spitting into the gutter as he hitched his slacks over a sagging belly.

“Rhymes with dough,” his partner corrected. “Thib-o-daux.”

“Whatever.”

Joey B stuffed the errant tail of his white shirt back where it was supposed to be. Task Force agents weren’t required to wear ties — which was a good thing, because Benavides hadn’t been able to button the top button on any of his dress shirts in six months. Leaning back into the Jeep, he shrugged on a wrinkled sport coat to cover his sidearm and nodded his jowly head toward the house halfway down the block so his equally corpulent partner would know where they were going.

Younger than Gant by at least fifteen years, Benavides took the lead as they walked to the house. Gant, who didn’t appear to care, plodded along behind with his head down, a hand in one pocket.

“The boss is gonna have my ass if we don’t find something on Garcia,” Gant muttered as they cut across a freshly mowed yard.

The grass was littered with mutilated pieces of green toy soldiers and Hot Wheels cars as if the toys had been mowed over. Plastic guns and wooden swords hung from the handlebars of two bicycles parked in a barren flower bed beside the front porch. “I’m seriously thinking he might take me out back and shoot me.”

“Mr. Walter is a son of a bitch,” Benavides said. “But I doubt he’d shoot you, even if you did let a traitor slip away on your watch.”

Gant stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He did that sometimes, just stopped moving in the middle of a sentence for no apparent reason. Benavides hated working with him. “Have you heard from Craig Thorson lately?”

“No. Why?”

“Exactly.” Gant nodded as if it should all be so clear. “Thorson let some numbers slip to a Senate staffer about the IDTF budget. Nothing big, but Walter didn’t approve it beforehand so he got pissed — and Thorson hasn’t been answering calls or e-mails for two weeks.”

In reality, Benavides had no doubt the top supervisory agent within the Vice President’s newly formed Task Force would have no problem shooting a colleague in the back of the head. Hell, the sadistic whack job probably had a couple of people chained up in his basement. It was just not something Benavides wanted to talk about. If he agreed with Gant, the other agent might twist his words around and call him a traitor — earning him a bullet in the brain from Walter.

Benavides thought about it a second too long and gave a shivering shrug. “Come on. Let’s go see what this bitch knows.” He read the name he’d written in pen on the palm of his hand, pronouncing it correctly this time. “Camille Thibodaux. The boss says her husband did some work with Garcia. He’s supposed to be a gunny in the Marine Corps, but he happens to be deployed so we can take our time if his wife decides to get pissy with us. If she knows something about Veronica Garcia, we’ll get it out of her.”

Benavides was grinning at the prospect by the time he stepped up on the porch and rang the bell.

A curvaceous woman with dark hair and brooding brown eyes flung open the door — as if she’d been lurking there, waiting. Barefoot, she wore a pair of loose basketball shorts and a red USMC T-shirt. He let his eyes play up and down over the swells of the shirt, then back to the fresh red polish on the woman’s toenails. A snotty toddler clung to the leg of her shorts, pushing them up and giving the agents a tantalizing peek at his mama’s muscular thigh. In between ogling her legs and her toes, Benavides had the fleeting thought that this woman kept her right hand out of sight. She might actually have a weapon hidden back there. Marine wives were a tricky bunch.

Both agents held up their credential cases. It could be pretty gratifying to see people wilt with fear at the IDTF badge.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Gant said, raising his hand as if it was even possible to calm the fury in this woman’s eyes.

“I know I’m not,” Camille Thibodaux said. “Because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Be that as it may.” Gant shrugged. “We need to talk to you about a person of interest named Veronica Garcia. Sometimes goes by Ronnie. She a friend of yours?”

“Never heard of her,” Camille Thibodaux said.

“I see,” Benavides sighed. “You know, people like Ronnie Garcia tend to have a short shelf life. And you know what they say about one bad apple. I think it’d be a shame if her problems spilled over into your problems.…”

“I don’t really give a damn about what you think.” Her baby began to squall and she took a moment to reach down and pat him on the head. “It’s okay, sugar. These men just made Mama use a Bible word.” The door swung open a hair farther, allowing Benavides to get his foot inside.

“Here’s how this is going to—” He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at a large family photo that hung on the wall beside a framed black-and-white photo of some Marines from another war. Along with an ungodly number of kids, the studio portrait showed Camille holding the arm of a mountainous USMC gunnery sergeant. The crew cut and black eye patch filled Benavides with immediate dread. This was one of two men who’d bashed out his teeth and blackmailed him into cooperating to help with the escape of the traitor and former director of the CIA, Virginia Ross. He’d never given Benavides his name.

“Thibodaux…” Joey B mused under his breath. So that was his name. It made sense. He fought the growing urge to crow. This Marine Corps shithead had spoken his bullying threats with a Cajun accent. And now he’d gone and gotten himself deployed with no one to look after his sexy little wifey.

“So,” Benavides said, smiling sweetly. He removed his foot from the doorway. “You’ve never heard of Ms. Garcia?”

“I have not,” Camille Thibodaux said, her lips clenched in an obvious lie.

“Okay then.” Benavides shrugged, looking at a baffled Gant. “Someone must have gotten their wires crossed back at HQ. We’ll just be on our way.”

Mrs. Thibodaux slammed the door, leaving the two men standing on her porch.

“What the hell was that all about?” Gant asked.

“This bitch knows something,” Benavides said as they walked back to the Jeep. “But she isn’t going to crack with the direct approach. Trust me on this one, bud. I want to try something with more of a personal touch.”