08

Bureau of Investigation agent Greg Montague grunted as he rolled over and picked up his cell. "Yeah.."

"Montague - it's Dunkirk. We've got a call from LAPD to handle a murder."

Greg wiped sleep from his eyes. "What? Are they overloaded?"

"This one hits too close to home. Their chief - or should I say former chief - is a prime suspect and so is Matt Houston. He's worked as an advisor to them for years."

"Who the hell got killed?" The agent now got out of the bed and began fumbling for socks.

"Tamara Placer." On the other end of the line Supervisory Agent Tobias Dunkirk was tying his shoes. "And I need you to work with Cantú on this." He heard silence on the other end of the call for a few beats.

"Sir, given her outspoken views on Mr. Houston is that really a good idea?" The white shirt was tucked in and the belt buckled into place as he spoke.

"At the moment she's all I have available. Look - if she steps out of line call me. I've already

spoken with her about her attitude toward other agents. One more write up in her file and she's going to be placed on suspension. Consider this a test for her."

"Yes sir. I'll get right on it." He took down the address of the scene and after hanging up, cursed all the way to the front door of his apartment. Agent Brenda Cantú had been transferred into the office from San Diego about eighteen months before and had been nothing but trouble ever since. After talking to another agent in the southern city, Greg had found out that Cantú was on her fourth assignment since joining the Bureau of Investigation about two and a half years earlier. She was harsh of her fellow agents - both men and women - and didn't seem to be able to keep her personal life separate from her professional life. Opinions were fine as long as they were kept personal and didn't influence the way a case was handled.

He arrived at the apartment of Tamara Placer a little before four. Once the first cops on the scene had found the door ajar and went to clear it, they found the reporter on the floor. Once it was discovered that she was dead - they had cordoned off the area and called the new acting Chief of Police who had immediately called for state intervention.

Slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves as he exited the sedan, Montague was cleared into the scene by an LAPD officer who didn't seem upset in the least. From what I've heard most of the police force would have gladly killed her. It didn't take him long to find the body: sprawled in the center of the living room were the remains of the reporter. Greg shook his head. Whoever had killed her had done their very best to make sure that she was indeed dead. He knelt down over the body and counted what appeared to be at least six shots. Three were center mass, one was in the abdomen, one under the chin, and one was right between the eyes that now stared dully up at the ceiling. The entire top of her skull was missing and he noticed that parts of it were scattered on the floor, the front of the sofa, on the coffee table, as well as clinging to a lamp shade on one of the end tables. He let out a sigh and turned as he heard footsteps behind him.

"So which one got her? Whitaker or Houston?" Brenda Cantú stood angrily over the body.

"Drop the opinions, Agent."

"Typical."

With all the control he could muster, Greg stood back up and looked around the room as two of the bureau's crime scene specialists entered the apartment.

"Jesus H. Christ…" The first - Javier Dimas - shook his head. "Nothing like overkill." He set about photographing the scene as Montague stepped out of the way and began exploring the apartment, noticing that tech Sylvia Yeager had started by dusting for prints at the front door.

Going down the hallway he looked into first the bath and then a bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place and he went further down the hallway and stopped: in front of him was another door with a padlock on it. "What the hell?" He reached up high on the door and tapped so as not to disturb any prints that might be found. There was no reply and he knelt down in front of it and could make out what looked like moving lights inside the room that were shining under the door. Standing back up he paused for a minute before going back into the living room. "Dimas, have you got bolt cutters in the van?"

"Yeah." He stood back up. "What's up?"

"There's a room with a padlock on it down at the end of the hall."

Yeager looked up in surprise. "Do you think someone is in there?"

"I knocked - no answer. Looks like there's a TV or something on in there."

"I'm done with the door here. I'll go dust that real quick." She and Dimas moved down the hallway and began processing the door as Montague went outside and retrieved the bolt cutters from the back of the vehicle. When he came back the other two were waiting with pistols drawn and Cantú stood with arms crossed in the hallway.

Montague tapped on the door once again. "Bureau of Investigation. Is anyone in there?" Still there was no reply and he cut the lock, dropping it into an evidence bag before swinging the hasp out of the way. Turning the knob, he drew his own pistol and eased the door open stopping for a fraction of a second as the wall full of monitors on the far side of the room came into view. Carefully with Yeager and Dimas, he entered and cleared the room while shock clearly showed on all three of their faces. Once they had determined that no one was present the trio holstered their weapons and looked around. There were monitors on two of the walls, all showing video of Matt Houston while the other two walls were filled with photos of the man that the reporter had been hounding for the last few years. In the center of the room was a desk and computer.

Yeager looked dumbstruck. "Javier, get pictures of this. I'm going back for my kit."

Montague stepped back into the hall to be out of the way as Dimas began taking first pictures and then video of the room. Although he didn't say anything, the look he gave Cantú said a lot and he thought to himself, Who's the crazy one now, Cantú?

Groaning as his phone rang, Houston fumbled for it without bothering to look at the caller ID. He answered it as he looked at the time. It was almost eight in the morning. CJ had left him sleeping peacefully. "Houston."

"Are you at home?" The cop's tone was quiet and extremely serious and Matt came out of the stupor of sleep quickly.

"Yeah. You woke me up."

"What time did you get home?"

"About midnight. Why?" He looked up as CJ came through the door of the bedroom with a worried look on her face.

"Tamara Placer is dead. Given your history you're being looked at as a suspect."

"Come on, Hoyt! You know I wouldn't waste my time on the bitch."

"Yes, I do know that. And it isn't me that you need to worry about. The Bureau of Investigation is on it's way there now. And don't let anyone know that I called you."

It was as Michael said this that Matt looked at the number that he was calling from: the phone that the PI had given him when they worked the clown murders a while back. "Okay. Thanks. Talk to you later." He disconnected the call as CJ sat down on the side of the bed.

"I guess he told you about Placer."

"Yeah. Said the BI was sending folks out here." He noticed that she looked particularly worried. "Babe, you know I didn't kill her. Hell, I was working right up until 11:15 last night and was on the phone with you until I got here." She nodded but still looked concerned. "What are you so worried about?"

"I, uh…" There was a long pause as she bit her bottom lip.

"What?"

"I did something really stupid. Actually a few stupid things." Her eyes darted up to his face.

"You didn't kill her."

"No. But I did mess with her."

"How?"

"Well…" She considered her words and then most uncharacteristically, they came out in a rushed jumble. "I had all of her utilities shut down, including her phone. Then I had her bank account blocked so she couldn't get into it for three days, and I wiped out her press credentials the night before last. And then yesterday I cancelled her car insurance." She looked up as a surprised expression completely took away the sleepy one that he had previously been wearing.

"You…" He stopped in shock. "You did all that?"

"Uh huh."

"Because she messed with me?" The answer was a nod and he pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her head down to his chest. The next sound she heard was the vibration in his chest as he began laughing.

"Houston, now is not the time to be laughing." Pulling away from him she gave a disapproving look.

"Did you cover your tracks good?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure as hell gonna laugh. You done good, Babe. I'm proud of you. And thank you for taking up for me." He leaned over on his elbow and pulled her in for another kiss before heading to the shower. When he was pulling out clothes a few minutes later CJ came to the bedroom door to let him know that the BI agents were there. A couple of minutes later he entered the home office where CJ was sitting with two strangers. Both stood as he entered.

"Mr. Houston, I'm Special Agent Greg Montague and this is Special Agent Brenda Cantú. We need to ask you some questions."

After shaking with both he took a seat behind his desk where a steaming mug of coffee waited for him. "Sure. Do y'all want some coffee or something?"

"No, thank you. Mrs. Houston already offered." Montague removed a notebook from his suit jacket and began. "Can you account for your whereabouts last evening?"

"Uh huh." Matt took a quick sip of the brew. "I was working on the El Toreador motel fire investigation for the Fire Marshal."

"And where were you specifically between the hours of 8:00PM and 2:00AM?"

"Well, I was on my way to pick up the owner/manager of the motel for questioning about eight. We had to deal with a little standoff situation and then I took him back to the precinct for questioning. It was almost ten when a public defender showed up to act as counsel for him and we were in an interrogation room until about 11:15 and then I came home. Got here about midnight and went to bed."

Agent Cantú now spoke. "Can anyone verify that you were at the suspect's home?"

"Uh huh. Three LAPD detectives were with me: Michael Hoyt, Lee Jennings, and Gabriella Giovanni. I rode over to the address with Giovanni."

"And do you have any proof of your whereabouts when you say you were on the way home?" She gave him a skeptical look.

"I guess you could check my cell phone records. I was on the phone with my wife."

"The entire time you were driving home?" Cantú's disbelief was evident in the tone of her voice and CJ's eyes narrowed as she watched the agent.

"Yes ma'am. I was tired. My day started around two in the morning with a phone call from Don MacLemore - the Fire Marshal. Other than catching a little catnap while I was riding to the suspect's house with Giovanni I was working all day long. She kept me on the phone to make sure I wouldn't doze off."

"We'll be checking those records."

"Good." His tone with her - although completely civil - made it perfectly clear that he wasn't about to take any crap from her.

Montague spoke again. "Sir, would you be willing to take a polygraph test?"

"When and where?" Houston drank down more of the coffee.

"Back at our offices. As soon as we can get there."

"Fine. Let's go." He drank down more of the coffee and then stood.

"I'll be coming with him." CJ stood up.

"Mrs. Houston, that really isn't necessary."

"I'm his lawyer, Agent Montague - I consider it necessary."

Agent Cantú gave a big sigh. "Figures."

Montague turned on her. "Cantú, Mr. Houston has the right to have his lawyer present just like anyone else."

"Sure." She followed them out as CJ led the way.

"Has Sheila got the kids?" Matt put a hand on her waist as they went through the den into the kitchen.

"Yes. They took some carrots down to the horses. I'll let her know what's going on." She removed her phone and sent the nanny a text. Montague opened the back of the black sedan for the couple who slid inside and noticed that they were immediately holding hands.

The ride into downtown Los Angeles was quiet, but their arrival at the field office was not: over a dozen reporters were lined up as they entered the building. Neither Matt nor CJ responded to any of their questions.

After he was given his Miranda rights, Matt was hooked up to the machine and a few questions were asked to set the standard for his replies, including one question where he was asked to lie. After getting the machine ready, the examiner began.

"Mr. Houston, have you spoken to Tamara Placer in the last ninety days?"

"No."

"Have you seen Tamara Placer in person in the last ninety days?"

"No."

"Did you see Tamara Placer anytime in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"Have you had contact with Tamara Placer through telephone, email, or text messages in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"Have you ever been at Tamara Placer's home?"

"No."

"Did you kill Tamara Placer?"

"No."

After a short delay the examiner nodded, disconnected him from the machine, and told him that he could step outside. Matt went back out where CJ was seated and plopped down in the chair next to her, taking her hand in his. They watched as Montague went into the room and Agent Cantú stared at them hatefully. Matt's stomach growled loudly and CJ began to silently laugh.

"Didn't get supper last night."

"I'll make you something when we get back home." She leaned her head over on his shoulder.

In a couple of minutes Montague exited the room with the examiner. "Mr. Houston, thanks for your cooperation. We may have some more questions for you later. I'll give you a ride back home." He pulled the keys from his pocket as Cantú blew out a disgusted breath and rose from her seat. Montague turned to her and spoke in a clearly agitated tone. "You are to report to Dunkirk upstairs." With that he ushered the couple back out of the office and once more past the reporters. Neither of the Houston's replied to the questions, but just smiled as they entered the sedan for the ride back to the ranch.

Once out of the parking lot, Montague glanced up at the pair in the rear view mirror. "I want to apologize for Agent Cantú's behavior. There was no need for her to be rude to you like that."

Matt shrugged. "Not your fault. Maybe she got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

John Whitaker awoke with a start. The glare from the bright sunshine reflecting off the water nearly blinded him and he jumped as someone pounded on the front door. Stumbling out of the lounge chair he nearly fell into the pool as he maneuvered himself toward the back door. Whoever was pounding on the door was going to get it. He made it into the foyer and jerked the door open. "What the hell do you want?"

"Agents Brevinski and Tulane - Bureau of Investigation." Credentials were flashed at him. "Mr. Whitaker, we need to ask you some questions."

"Look, I don't know who you think you are but I am Chief Whitaker of the LAPD. You will address me as such."

"Sir, according to the mayor you are no longer chief. If you will…" He motioned to the car parked in the circular driveway.

"What?" The haze of the vodka began to lift and it all suddenly came back to him: the interview with Placer the afternoon before and the huge fight on live television. Maybe she had reported him to the BI because of his threats.

"We need to ask you some questions, sir. This way, please." The agent took him by the arm, noticing that he seemed slow on the uptake.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Mr. Whitaker, you can call your attorney if you like on the way to the office. Also, I need to advise you of your rights." The short agent began reciting the Miranda warning. When finished he asked, "Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

"I...of course I do, you idiot."

"Then please come with us." He urged the former chief out to the car.

"Wait a minute. I need my phone." Turning back into the house Whitaker stopped in his tracks as he saw the smashed cell phone on the floor and the memory of its destruction came flooding back to him. "Never mind." He turned and slammed the door shut and went with the two agents.

The ride to their headquarters passed quietly for the most part. He had used one agent's cell phone to call Curtis Abbington: he couldn't remember his lawyer's number and Curtis was the only one that he had memorized. As the effects of alcohol began to lift a little more it dawned on him that Curtis hadn't been surprised in the least by the phone call. There were a slew of reporters outside the building and he at once began smoothing down his hair, straightening his shirt and tucking it in before climbing out of the back of the sedan with a large smile on his face as he waved at the crowd.

Once inside the interrogation room, Whitaker stared blankly at the wall as he waited for his lawyer and thought about the situation. What did Placer really think that they would do to him for threatening her? People made threats every day. She had threatened plenty of people herself. He had witnessed it many times.

He began to relax a little bit and was entertaining himself with the thought of how pissed she would be when nothing happened over her claims. When Hugh Webber was escorted into the room he gave the attorney a smile and stood to shake his hand. The lawyer didn't look pleased in the least and demanded some time with his client. The two agents left the room and Webber wasted no time in taking a seat. His voice was snakelike as he hissed at John. "Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Oh come on, Hugh. You know nothing will come of this. She's just doing it for publicity."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"You know how she is - it's just another way to boost ratings and get more attention. This whole thing will blow over and she'll go back to hounding Houston as usual." He watched as the lawyer's jaw dropped.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"What? That she's an attention whore? Yeah, I know."

"John…" The lawyer leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a point where it was just audible. "Tamara Placer is dead: she was murdered last night."

Whitaker's mouth worked soundlessly as his complexion went chalk white just before he passed out and landed heavily on the floor.