Conspiracy

95

Chief Ball watched the federal agent back out of the driveway and onto the road.

These people were worse than cockroaches. Blind, but per sis tent.

He was all right for now. This changed his plans for the morning, though. He had to move Rauci’s car tonight — right now, if possible.

Drive it over to Rhinecliff and leave it near the train station. That part was easy. Getting back without a car wouldn’t be.

He could go down to Poughkeepsie, take a train to the city, then another over to Harlem Valley.

Too much. And he had too much to do anyway.

His wife was waiting upstairs, just as he knew she would be.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice halfway between whining and pleading.

“I’m working on something with the federales,” he said, opening his bureau drawer.

“Is that where you were all night?” Ball sighed. There were times when her voice drove him completely up the wall. Yelling at her would shut her up, but in the long run it was counterproductive. He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Not even to your wife?”

“It has to do with a Secret Service agent.”

“Not the suicide.”

“Yes. The suicide. It’s complicated, Elizabeth. Please don’t go blabbing.” He took two pairs of socks from the drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to be doing a little legwork over the next few days. I won’t be around. I’ll check in from time to time.”

“Leg work? With female marshals?”

“I don’t go for those Asian chicks, especially when they’re teenagers,” he said. He turned around and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “But thank you for thinking she’d be attracted to me. Now get some rest, all right? And don’t go blabbing, all right? This is an important case we’re dealing with. The wrong word in the wrong place, and some murderer goes free.”

“Murder?”

“Forget I said that, and keep your mouth shut. Please.”