The Client (Page 25)

Getting slapped with a lie was bad enough, but their problems ran much deeper. There could be serious disciplinary proceedings. Reprimands. Transfers. Crap in the record. And at this moment, Trumann also believed that this woman knew all there was to know about the disciplining of wayward FBI agents.

"You wired the kid," Trumann said meekly to no one in particular.

"Why not? No crime. You’re the FBI, remember. You boys run more wire than ATT." What a smartass! But then, she was a lawyer, wasn’t she? McThune leaned forward, cracked his knuckles, and decided to offer some resistance. "Look, Ms. Love, we-" "It’s Reggie." "Okay, okay. Reggie, uh, look, we’re sorry. We, uh, got a little carried away, and, well, we apologize." "A little carried away? I could have your jobs for this." They were not about to argue with her. She was probably right, and even if there was room for debate, they simply -were not up to it.

"Are you taping this?" Trumann asked.

"No." "Okay, we were out of line. We’re sorry." He could not look at her.

Reggie slowly placed the tape in her coat pocket. "Look at me, fellas." They slowly lifted their eyes to hers, but it was painful. "You’ve already proven to me that you’ll lie, and that you’ll lie quickly. Why should I trust you?" Trumann suddenly slapped the table, hissed, and made a noisy show of standing and pacing to the end of the table. He threw up his hands. "This is incredible.

We came here with just a few questions for the kid, just doing our jobs, and now we’re fighting with you. The kid didn’t tell us he had a lawyer. If he’d told us, then we would have backed off. Why’d you do this? Why’d you deliberately pick this fight? It’s senseless." "What do you want from the kid?" "The truth. He’s lying about what he saw yesterday. We know he’s lying. We know he talked to Jerome Clifford before Clifford killed himself. We know the kid was in the car. Maybe I don’t blame him for lying. He’s just a kid. He’s scared. But dammit, we need to know what he saw and heard." "What do you suspect he saw and heard?" The nightmare of explaining this to Foltrigg suddenly hit Trumann, and he leaned against the wall. This is exactly why he hated lawyers-Foltrigg, Reggie, the next one he met. They made life so complicated.

"Has he told you everything?" McThune asked.

"Our conversations are extremely private." "I know that. But do you realize who Clifford was, and Muldanno and Boyd Boyette? Do you know the story?" "I read the paper this morning. I’ve kept up with the case in New Orleans. You boys need the body, don’t you?" "You could say that," Trumann said from the end of the table. "But at this moment we really need to talk to your client." "I’ll think about it." "When might you reach a decision?" "I don’t know. Are you boys busy this afternoon?" "Why?" "I need to talk to my client some more. Let’s say we’ll meet in my office at 3 P. M." She took her briefcase and placed the recorder in it. It was obvious this meeting was over. "I’ll keep the tape to myself. It’ll just be our little secret, okay?" McThune nodded his agreement, but knew there was more.

"If I need something from you boys, like the truth or a straight answer, I expect to get it. If I catch you lying again, I’ll use the tape." "That’s blackmail," said Trumann.

"That’s exactly what it is. Indict me." She stood and grabbed the doorknob. "See you boys at three." McThune followed her. "Uh, listen, Reggie, there’s this guy who’ll probably want to be at the meeting. His name is Roy Foltrigg, and he’s-" "Mr. Foltrigg is in town?" "Yes. He arrived last night, and he’ll insist on attending this meeting at your office." "Well, well. I’m honored. Please invite him."

Chapter 10

1 HE FRONT-PAGE STORY IN THE MEMPHIS PRESS ABOUT Clifford’s death was written top to bottom by Slick Moeller, a veteran police reporter who had been covering crime and cops in Memphis for thirty years. His real name was Alfred, but no one knew it. His mother called him Slick, but not even she could remember the nickname’s origins. Three •wives and a hundred girlfriends had called him Slick. He did not dress exceptionally well, did not finish high school, did not have money, was blessed with average looks and build, drove a Mustang, could not keep a woman, and so no one knew why he was called Slick.

Crime was his life. He knew the drug dealers and pimps. He drank beer at the topless bars and gossiped with the bouncers. He kept charts on the who’s who of motorcycle gangs that supplied the city with drugs and strippers. He could move deftly through the toughest projects of Memphis without a scratch. He knew the rank and file of the street gangs. He had busted no less than a dozen stolen car rings by tipping the police. He knew the ex-cons, especially the ones who returned to crime. He could spot a fencing operation simply by watching the pawnshops. His cluttered downtown apartment was most unremarkable except for an entire wall of emergency scanners and police radios. His Mustang had more junk than a police cruiser, except for a radar gun, and he didn’t want one.

Slick Moeller lived and moved in the dark shadows of Memphis. He was often on the crime scene before the cops. He moved freely about the morgues and hospitals and black funeral parlors. He had nurtured thousands of contacts and sources, and they talked to Slick because he could be trusted. If it was off the record, then it was off the record. Background was background. An informant would never be compromised. Tips were guarded zealously. Slick was a man of his word, and even the street gang leaders knew it.

He was also on a first-name basis with virtually every cop in the city, many of whom referred to him with great admiration as the Mole. Mole Moeller did this. Mole Moeller said that. Since Slick had become his real name, the added nickname did not bother him. Nothing bothered Slick much. He drank coffee with cops in a hundred all-night diners around town. He watched them play softball, knew when their wives filed for divorce, knew when they got themselves reprimanded. He was at Central Headquarters at least twenty hours a day, it seemed, and it was not uncommon for cops to stop him and ask what was going on. Who got shot? Where was the holdup? Was the driver drunk? How many were killed? Slick told them as much as he could. He helped them whenever possible. His name was often mentioned in classes at the Memphis Police Academy.

And so it was no surprise to anyone that Slick spent the entire morning fishing around Central. He’d made his calls to New Orleans and knew the basics. He knew Roy Foltrigg and the New Orleans FBI were in town, and that everything had been turned over to them. This intrigued him. It was not just a simple suicide; there were too many blank faces and "no comments." There was a note of some sort, and all questions about it were met with sudden denials. He could read the faces of some of these cops, been doing it for years. He knew about the boys and that the younger one was in bad shape. There were some fingerprints, some cigarette butts.

He left the elevator on the ninth floor and walked away from the nurses’ station. He knew the number of Ricky’s room, but this was the psychiatric ward and he was not about to go barging in with his questions. He didn’t want to scare anyone, especially an eight-year-old kid who was in shock. He stuck two quarters in the soft drink machine and sipped on a diet Coke as if he’d been there all night walking the floors. An orderly in a light blue jacket pushed a cart of cleaning supplies to the elevator. He was a male, about twenty-five, long hair, and certainly bored with his menial job.

Slick stepped to the elevators, and when the door opened he followed the orderly onto it. The name Fred was sewn into the jacket above the pocket. They were alone.