“Cheez Doodle. Why are you really talking to me?”
“CADTF has been working a wide-scope investigation that includes northwest AR and parts of three other states for more than two years. We’re about to move. But we have to know our quarry hasn’t been tipped off.”
“You think I’m involved.” Law didn’t make it a question.
“No, sir. If I thought that, you’d be talking to me after I read you your rights.”
Law held that clear-water gaze. “So why are you talking to me?”
“You have a pretty high government clearance. CID gets respect with us. So I’m doing you the courtesy of asking you to back off.”
“What does that look like?”
“Don’t call or try in any fashion to get in touch with Luke Tice, any member of his campaign, or family. And keep off the state and federal criminal online databases.”
Law’s interest pricked up. “What do I get in return?”
“The privilege of knowing that once again you’ve served your country in the capacity of law enforcement.”
“I do that every day.”
Wentworth stared at Law so long he felt the urge to scratch. Finally, he shrugged. “What do you want?”
“You ever come across the name of Jordan Garrison in your investigation?”
Wentworth subjected him to a second, longer stare. “She’s an ex-con.”
“She’s a classic case of the letter of the law being carried out in an unjust way.”
Wentworth’s mouth turned down. “I see.”
“No. You don’t. But that’s not important here.” Law knew instantly that Wentworth knew Jori was—had been involved with Law. For the first time he was glad he’d broken it off with her. He’d expected trouble. But federal trouble was the last thing she needed to become involved with. He was saving her that much.
Law shifted his shoulders, feeling that live-wire edginess that had been with him for a week throw off a few bright sparks. “What’s important is that if you come across any information that would appear to have to any bearing on the reopening of her case, I would like to have it.”
Wentworth shook his head. “I can’t promise anything. This is an ongoing investigation that may take months or longer to process.”
“In other words, I scratch your back and you say thank you and walk away.”
The man grunted. “Sounds about right.”
“Are you after Tice Industries?”
“You know I can’t reveal details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Yeah, yeah. So then I’ll just pretend I’m talking to myself and you can nod if you feel moved to. Is the investigation bigger than a bread box?”
Wentworth shrugged. Law smiled.
“I’m guessing a case that’s taken years to put together involves suppliers as well as dealers, and probably the dirtbags on the job who run interference for these good citizens.”
This time Wentworth just stared.
“That would include Trooper Becker in law enforcement corruption. Very bad news.”
Not even a flicker of an eyelid.
“Our friends at Tice are on the transport and supply side. Get them to talk and a large-scale drug trafficking ring gets mapped, top-to-bottom.”
Wentworth rubbed his eyes. “That’s a nice story, Mr. Battise. You should write a book.”
He reached for the door handle and then turned back. “Saw that video footage of you running down a perp.” He cracked a smile, and it brought life to his pallid complexion. “That’s the best takedown I’ve heard about all year. Proud to know you.”
He was all the way out of Law’s truck before he said. “You might want to keep an eye on the news over the next few days.”
Law watched Wentworth wander across the street and slide into a car so nondescript it stood out like a sore thumb.
He shook his head as he ruffled Sam’s fur. “We played nice. Now we have to sit it out and wait to see what happens. Waiting. The thing I hate most in all the world.”
Sam licked his chin.
“Yeah, I know. You hate egg-white veggie omelets. I guess we can’t have everything the way we want it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jori looked up from reading her notes at a table in the main room of Warriors Wolf Pack. A woman in jeans, a man’s oversized pink golf shirt, and black puffer coat came in leading a dog. She recognized her as Sarah, the wife of Mike Williams, a veteran of the Gulf War, the first war in Iraq in the early ’90s. Mike’s service dog was named Yuki, a shepadoodle who had been placed with them before she came to work here.
The Williamses had become a bit of a legend at WWP. They’d requested three individual home visits since the placement six months earlier. And had been back here once, since Jori joined the staff, for extra training. Kelli had taken them on as her personal crusade.
But to judge by Sarah’s mouth, crimped into a tight line, and the determination in her sneakered stride with Yuki in tow, there was new trouble in the wind.