“I’m on my way now, Jerry. You should have checked him out.”

“That fuckin’ Feeb. Those arrogant pricks always pull underhanded shit like this.”

“If you had done your due diligence, we would have known what we were dealing with. We could have stopped the Bolivian.”

Button cleared his throat, anxious to change the subject.

“I hooked up with the New Orleans agents. Did Cole tell you?”

“Yes. They don’t have a picture?”

“No, but they’re pretty sure he’s an American named Gregg Daniel Vincent. He’s not a Bolivian.”

“What do they know?”

“Not much, and most of it they can’t confirm. Made his bones guarding dope farms in Honduras from government raids. Made his rep killing snitches and cops the Bolivians want out of the way. Tortures them to death. The Bolivians have this whole rap about him escaping from some kinda nuthouse for psychopaths, but that’s probably bullshit. They use him to scare people.”

Pike didn’t care about any of that, and wasn’t impressed.

“Is there a description?”

“They know he’s a white guy, but that’s it. They don’t have a description or a photograph.”

Pike pulled to the curb by the flagpole outside Pacific Station. He put the Jeep in park, but did not turn off the engine.

“I’m here, Button. By the flag out front. Come get Straw’s stuff.”

Button sounded sick.

“You really have it?”

“Come get it. I’m leaving it on the curb.”

Pike closed his phone, got out with the envelope and the camera, and left them on the sidewalk. Less than one minute later, he was driving away when his phone rang. He thought it was Button, calling him back, but it wasn’t.

“Pike? Is this Joe Pike?”

Pike recognized the voice.

“This is Bill Rainey. You know me as Wilson Smith.”

Chapter 41

Detective-Sergeant Jerry Button Los Angeles Police Department Paci fic Station

Button’s hands were shaking when he returned to his desk with the camera and the files. He tried to make them stop, but had to wedge them under his hams. He glanced at Futardo, who was typing in her cubicle across the room by the door. The new guy always got the desk by the door. Button had the prime desk in the rear, right outside the LT’s office. The distance between the two desks was a lot longer than it looked.

Button felt angry, humiliated, and scared. Straw—the arrogant Feeb prick—had pulled a typical, underhanded FBI move by lying about his case. Like all Quantico pricks, he thought city police were incompetent losers, to be used, abused, and kept in the dark.

And Button had proved him right.

Hello, Jerry Button, you are now the Pacific Station Jackass of the Year.