“I will. We only met yesterday. They had me with some burned-out train wreck after Lonny died. He finally retired—actually, he’d checked out a year ago, but I convinced him to make it official before he got us both killed.”
They ascended the wooden steps and pulled the trailer door open. It was well outfitted, with built-in workstations and LCD screens lining the periphery. She had seen one of these mobile command centers before, on a larger scale, in New York City.
Several people were there, including a man in his early forties dressed in tactical pants—her favorite 5.11s, by the look of them—with a two-day beard and a rumpled button-down concealed carry shirt … the professional’s way to pack a weapon without anyone noticing while keeping it instantly accessible. “Lemme guess. Vail. Right?”
“What was your first clue? The red hair? Or the breasts?”
His eyes gave her the once over. “FBI badge on your belt.”
Good save, buddy. “The badge does attract attention.”
“Just like you people.”
“How’s that?”
Hurdle nodded at Curtis. “Who’s your friend?”
“Erik Curtis. Fairfax County Police.”
“Uh-huh. Figured you’d show up.”
“Well,” Curtis said with a half-smile, “you are in my parking lot. Good to know we’re not gonna have any problems working together.”
“Before we talk about working together, I was told you were on the task force several years ago.”
“Whoever told you that seems to be a reliable source.” Curtis grinned again.
“Yeah, he is. We’ll have OPR do a backgrounder on you PDQ,” he said, referring to the Service’s Office of Professional Responsibility. “Make sure there’ve been no warrants issued and no bad shit smeared on you since you left the task force. Everything checks out, you’re back in the saddle. That’s the official line. Unofficially, look in my eyes.”
Curtis did as instructed.
“Anything I need to know about? Anything that would come up in the background check that’d make it impossible for you to serve on CARFTF?” he asked, ignoring the silent “F” and pronouncing it “cartif,” for Capital Area Regional Fugitive Task Force.
“Nothing.”
Hurdle studied his face a moment. “You’re onboard as of now, on my authority. You’ll be deputized as soon as the paperwork comes through. If we do our jobs efficiently, and the FBI doesn’t get in the way, we’ll have this Marcks dude wearing handcuffs before the ink’s dry on your application.”
Vail lifted her brow. “You sound very confident.” And more than a little condescending.
Hurdle walked toward them and leaned against the adjacent work table. “Damn straight. I’ve been tracking down these assholes for eighteen years. I know what I’m doin’. You people are here because it’s the right thing to do. Cooperation with state and local. And FBI, in cases like this, because—well, because some clueless idiot bureaucrat, who knows shit about what we do, decided we have to work with you people. I get it—but that don’t mean I gotta like it. Or that it makes sense.”
“You didn’t really think the intimidation act would work with me, did you?”
“’Course not. I try it all the time with the Fibbies, never works. Can’t blame me for trying.” He cracked a smile—which looked genuine.
“Bottom line,” Vail said, “is—”
“Bottom line is that we’re gonna catch Roscoe Lee Marcks. And you guys will claim all the credit for a job well done. Ask any marshal on any task force in the country, he or she will tell you the same thing. That’s it in a nutshell.”
Perhaps that nutshell is more than a little cracked.
“I can do this shit in my sleep, Vail.”
“I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’d rather you keep your eyes open on this one.”
“The question is not if we’ll get him,” Hurdle said, ignoring her. “It’s when. How long’s it gonna take us? Don’t know. But we will get our man. Assuming you don’t fuck up.”
“Me?”
“You. I work dozens of these cases a year. In eighteen years, that’s a lotta violent fugitives. And I gotta say, the FBI always does its best.” He paused and looked into Vail’s eyes. “To grab the limelight. And yeah, screw things up. You guys don’t play well in the sandbox. You don’t share your leads. But you sure do look good on camera.”
A number of responses populated Vail’s thoughts—and none of them were polite or politically correct. Instead, she said, “Guess I’ll have to do my best. To prove you wrong.”
“Don’t get my hopes up.”
“You got any problem with the county police?” Curtis asked.
“Not generally, no. You guys are serviceable. Know your place.”
Vail and Curtis shared a look of disbelief.
“Okay,” Hurdle said, turning his back on them and walking toward the front of the room. “Let’s get started. Rest of the task force will be rolling in within the hour. You know how this works?”