Kiss Her Goodbye

40

Donovan and Waxman were coming out of Luther’s bedroom when Darcy Payne approached, a sour look on her face. She nodded toward the open front door. “We’ve got company.”

A government-issue sedan sat outside, a quartet of suits emerging from it. In the lead were Alan Doyle, Donovan’s immediate superior, and Joe Robledo, head of the local Field Division. Robledo rarely left his desk, and his presence here was nothing but bad news.

“Oh, Jesus,” Donovan said, thinking of Jessie.

“Easy, Jack,” Waxman said. “It’s not what you think. I called them.”

Donovan turned. “You?”

“We’ve been keeping the lines open ever since you went off the bridge. They insisted.”

It was a standard enough request, but bypassing Donovan was a blatant breach of protocol. Donovan was the task force leader.

Waxman raised his hands in defense. “You didn’t have time for their bullshit, remember?”

Not then and not now, Donovan thought. But for Waxman to go behind his back like this was disconcerting at best. How much had he told them?

Donovan felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, and the heat was rising.

Sensing his discomfort, Waxman nodded toward the approaching quartet. The two in the rear were unknowns, probably from Washington. “They just want to talk,” Waxman said. “Get a reading on the situation.”

“Sure,” Donovan told him. “That’s why they came all the way out here. To talk.”

Robledo was the spokesman, and like many agents at his level of command, he was an officious, smarmy prick. “First, Jack, let me say how sorry we are about this whole situation.”

It was clear to Donovan that they already thought Jessie was a lost cause. They’d never admit this, of course, not even to each other, but it was in their eyes, and in the tone of their voices. The twenty-four hour mark had officially passed, and everyone knew what that meant.

Donovan resented them for it.

No, scratch that.

He wanted to hurt them.

They stood in Marilyn Polanski’s kitchen, the five of them, away from the civilians and Donovan’s team. The two unknowns had been introduced as Crow and Panitch-both, as Donovan had suspected, from D.C. They looked like twins, with their close-cropped haircuts and charcoal gray suits. Pursuant to departmental mandate, they oozed superiority.

“And I assure you,” Robledo went on, “we aren’t here to muck up this investigation.”

Muck? Donovan thought. Who the hell says muck? “Then why are you here?”

Doyle took his turn. “We’ve given you a lot of leeway, Jack. Let you run with the ball even when there was a clear conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of interest?” Donovan said, his voice rising. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

Now Crow chimed in. “With all due respect, Agent Donovan, there’s no need to be argumentative.”

Donovan turned. “How’s this for argumentative?” he said. “Fuck you.”

Then he lost control.

Grabbing Crow by the lapels, he jerked him forward. Crow’s eyes got big and the others were on top of Donovan in a flash, hands locking on to his arms, dragging him toward a chair, Robledo shouting, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” as Donovan struggled to break free.

They sat him down, hard, the chair groaning beneath him, and somewhere in that moment he found his balance and immediately stopped struggling.

“All right, all right!” he said. “I’m okay.”

They released him, breathing hard, suits rumpled, ties askew.

Crow carefully straightened his jacket, then cleared his throat. “Feeling better now?”

Donovan looked up at him. “Why don’t you ask Sidney? He seems to have a pretty good handle on my state of mind.”

Quick glances around the room.

“I think you’ve already answered any questions we might have,” Crow said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Now Panitch spoke up, delivering what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “The bureau has specific standards and procedures, Agent Donovan, and you’ve violated a number of them. First, you assault a suspect, then a police officer, then you drive so recklessly you almost get yourself killed-”

Not almost, Donovan thought.

“-and now you attack a superior officer. We understand that you’re under a lot of stress. Anyone in your position would be-which is why we’re willing to overlook a few transgressions. But policy clearly dictates that we do what we should have done hours ago and remove you from this case.”

“In short,” Crow said, delivering the final, unnecessary blow, “you’re relieved of your command until further notice.”

The four men braced themselves for Donovan’s reaction, but he surprised them by not reacting at all. He just sat there, numb.

So there it was.

He’d known this was coming. Had known it even before he saw them getting out of their car. Before Waxman had taken it upon himself to call them.

And none of it mattered.

Did they really think that relieving him of his command would make a difference? He was a father first, a federal agent second-a sentiment he might not have agreed with a couple of months ago. Now, there was no doubt about it, and shunting him aside would not keep him from doing what had to be done.

“I know this is tough,” Doyle said, putting a hand on Donovan’s shoulder, face full of brotherly concern. “Nobody likes to do this to a fellow agent. But you’ve got to have faith in us. We have people coming in from all over the country to help us find your daughter. You’re not alone by any stretch of-”

“Shut up, Alan,” Donovan said. “Do us all a favor and just shut the fuck up.”

He was on the sidewalk and halfway to the car when Waxman caught up to him. “Jack, wait.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Sidney.”

“You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Donovan said, picking up speed. “Congratulations on your new command.”

“Come on, Jack, that isn’t fair and you know it.”

Donovan stopped, turned. “Fuck fair, Sidney. Who gives a damn about fair?” He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “My daughter’s missing and all these chowderheads care about are a couple of bullshit procedural violations.”

“They’re just following protocol.”

“You think that makes it go down any smoother? I don’t exactly get off on being looked at like I’m some kind of freak.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m sure you all got a nice big laugh over Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.”

“Jesus Christ,” Waxman said. “You think I’m that big of a fool? Tell ’em something like that and they’ll be sizing us both up for straitjackets.”

Donovan glared at him, then continued toward the car.

Waxman moved after him. “Jack, come on.”

Donovan reached the driver’s door, threw it open, and climbed in. Waxman caught it before he could close it. “What do you want from me? You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry.”

Donovan looked up at him. “Screw the apologies.”

“What, then?”

“It’s simple. Either you bend a few of their precious rules and work with me, or you waste another twenty-four hours getting jerked off by a bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t find their asses in a bathtub with two flashlights and a pair of goggles.” He started the engine. “The choice is yours.”

Waxman sighed. Donovan knew he was considering the effect this might have on his career, but he wasn’t sure what the problem was. This was about Jessie. Either you do the right thing or you don’t.

He was about to give up on him when Waxman sighed again and said, “I suppose you have some plan of action in mind?”

Donovan killed the engine. “Don’t I always?”