Page 9 of Clay White
Still facing the wall and with his scotch glass in hand, Townsend spoke. “I appreciate you sharing this information.”
“And? You’ll send agents?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I believe what you’ve told me, White. You’ve never been a liar or an alarmist, and frankly, you don’t have the imagination to make this shit up.”
I shook off the small dig. “Then why won’t you act?”
“San Francisco police are already on the case.”
“SFPD!” I snorted. “Yeah, that’s fine if the perp speeds or parks with his wheels angled wrong.” Actually, I have a fair amount of respect for local law enforcement agencies. They do a tough job under challenging circumstances, and I’d always relied on them for information while working a case. But they were neither trained nor equipped to deal with nonhuman criminals. That’s what the Bureau’s for.
“It’s their ballgame,” Townsend said.
I hopped to my feet. “But why, dammit?”
He tapped the newspaper article and then turned to face me. “Politics, my boy. The Bureau’s priorities lie elsewhere. And that’s all I’m gonna tell you. Anything else is above your pay grade.” He chuckled at his bad joke.
“Politics. And how many people will die because of it?”
“Everyone dies. Eventually.” He laughed again, although I didn’t know why. He pointed at me with the hand holding his glass. “They die even if they’ve never sinned. They die despite love and medicine and good intentions. It’s the first rule of the world, son. What goes up, must come down. What lives, dies.”
“Your job is to delay that.” I wanted to shout, but I dropped my voice to a gravelly rasp instead.
“It is. And I do. But I can’t save everyone—none of us can—and I am not exempt from outside pressures.”
“Dammit, Townsend! You can’t—”
“Enough. The matter’s settled—the Bureau’s not involved.” He softened his tone. “You’ve done your duty. You can rest easy over this one.”
I growled, turned on my heel, and headed toward the door.
“White!”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“If you get yourself in the middle of this, you’re going to end up dead,” he said.
“Everybody dies.”
“But there’s no reason to hasten the inevitable. Take this.”
Looking over my shoulder, I saw him holding out a small piece of paper. “What is it?”
“The contact info for a former agent. He retired… oh, some years back. Does private-eye stuff. If you’re gonna throw yourself into the mess, he’d be a good man to have at your side. Him and his partner both.”
“I can’t afford a private eye.”
“Talk to him. Maybe he’ll take the case pro bono.” When I hesitated, Townsend moved closer. “Think, White. No need to throw yourself on the sword. At least try for help.”
I didn’t point out that I’d come to his office for exactly that reason. Instead I grabbed the paper, and without saying another word, I left. I didn’t speak to Holmes either. Had there been a trash can along the way, I would have tossed the note. But there wasn’t, and curiosity got the better of me by the time I was in the elevator. Scrawled in black ink was an address in Santa Monica, along with a name: Charles Grimes.
Chapter Four
I took the train down to LA and then rented a car. I hated navigating Los Angeles, I hated crawling down the freeways, I hated breathing the exhaust. All while folded into a tiny death trap the size of a clown car.
