Chapter 22: Too Many Cooks...
*** FLASHBACKS***
California Investigation Bureau, San Francisco
The cool, dusky lady smoothed back hair that was already perfect, reflecting on the call. Damn his tricks! she thought with equal parts affection and irritation. She hated news of Blake's resurrection. I'm trying to staff up this bureau and now have to worry about Blake. The fears were justified. High level law enforcement positions in the most populous, prosperous state were exactly those Blake leaders wanted. Once law enforcement's infected with corruption, what's the antibiotic, the cure? She reached across the pristine, highly polished desk to the intercom. She'd already offered safe house protection to Wayne Rigsby who had refused. Now she had to honor her promise to protect her old nemesis. If only I wouldn't feel guilty if he were knocked off. It wasn't the first time she reflected on the inconvenience of a conscience.
"Chris, get me the number for a Mr. J. J. LaRoche. At the SFPD."
Grand Junction, Iowa
Little gusts fluttered the leaves of her notepad and played with her hair. Fireflies began their show, triggered by the fading light. Lost in thought, she gazed without seeing the expanse of neatly trimmed lawn that lay beyond the generous wrap porch. Her stepson's laughter recalled her to the present as he romped joyously with two bounding mastiffs that each outweighed him fourfold. She roused and keyed in the next computer commands that might eventually reveal the enemies they sought.
Two days ago the flight to Des Moines provided all too much time to think. There was all too much to think about. The plane didn't have blankets enough to counter the icy fear accompanying her as she whisked two children to safety. It was tempting to blame Jane, ever an agent of chaos. She squelched that impulse, knowing the threat was there regardless. The last dozen years shattered any illusion that evil stayed neatly contained somewhere else. She shied from the painful memory of bringing – inviting – Craig O'Laughlin to her childhood slice of paradise. That was almost Biblical, she mused.
When their old colleagues asked for help her husband hated the thought of getting tangled in another malevolent conspiracy. Decency and duty and reason won out. He – and she – would do whatever necessary to help and, by doing so, protect their family. Unless fought, evil spread.
"Gracie! C'mere. Hurry." Her dad the news junkie no doubt noticed some phenom he just had to share. A quick look assured her Ben would be fine if she ducked inside.
She stopped dead at the news photo frozen on-screen.
Rigsby, San Francisco
Two days ago Rigsby watched his family file through security and disappear down the concourse to their gate. They were on the way to Iowa and – he prayed – safety.
He took the burner phone conference call in the airport parking lot, then returned home to a restless night with a gun under his pillow and worries about his family on an endless loop. He had – they ALL had – been through this shit for ten long years with Red John. This was worse. Now he had children to protect and a wife who went through hell after killing her murderous fiancé. He was incandescent with anger that his family was endangered and his home violated by the dregs of the criminal network set up by that psychopath.
The day after they left, Rigsby contacted their clients to delay or cancel scheduled jobs. Out of the blue Hightower called to suggest safe house protection through the new CIB, an offer that had Jane's prints all over it. With his family safe in Iowa, he didn't need to be trapped in a safe house. After kicking around aimlessly another few hours, he knew what he needed to do.
Jane's Apartment, Austin
Lisbon panicked at feeling smothered. She flexed her arms, loosening the stranglehold enough to inhale. Gripped by a nightmare, Jane was gripping her so hard she was breathless.
"Patrick," she gasped, urgently but softly.
She squirmed uncomfortably. Louder, "Patrick!"
Finally she elbowed him in the stomach hard enough to hurt. "Jane! Let go!"
He exhaled with a whoosh, blinked and woke. He released her with a caress of apology. "Teresa, I'm sorry. You okay?"
"Fine." She turned to face him in the pre-dawn twilight. "Tell me."
He flopped to his back and lay quiet till his breathing normalized and his heart stopped pounding. "Jumbled fragments, nothing I can describe."
Gently, "What's going on?"
Now more composed, "Free floating anxiety." He shook his head, wishing it was as simple as waking up. "Blake, the murders. It ... resonates with the past."
Softly, "Hey. Maybe today we'll convince Abbott. This won't go on forever." She settled against his side, draping a leg over his and stroking his face with one hand. He stilled and relaxed. Eventually sleep reclaimed him.
Sleep had less luck with Lisbon. Jane was a different man than the gutted shell she met so long ago. That didn't mean that the scars disappeared, that all demons were vanquished. A gentle man at heart, her friend-colleague-lover was again thrust into intrigue, danger, and murder with high stakes for himself and his friends – hell, for the country. Once again the life he – they – wanted would have to be wrested from a malignant conspiracy determined to kill them. Red John's death was the sole bright spot. Blake was big, and determined, and ruthless. But it lacked the criminal genius of its founder. Working with Jane, she was absolutely certain: They got Red John; they'd get Blake. It promised to be a trying day and she was already tired.
Cho's Apartment, Austin
Kimball Cho tossed his mail on the counter as he entered his apartment. He was both heartened and concerned. They were getting somewhere. The details of Blake's resurgence were becoming clearer. But Blake had noticed, upping the risks for his team, upping odds against success. The FBI was proving to be more political and rigid than the CBI ever was. Though Abbott was coming around to accepting him as an agent, they were still shut out of Blake.
Hell, it's been 80 years since the mob got its foothold during Prohibition and the Great Depression! We keep beating it back but never truly win. Blake had metastasized to corrupt law enforcement in 24 states. If their effectiveness against the mob was any indication, Blake was here to stay. Especially if Abbott was too pig-headed stubborn, too rigid to make use of Patrick Jane, of his team. Frustrating.
After changing clothes he sorted through his mail while continuing to ruminate. Take another crack at Abbott tomorrow. The delicate scrawl of a hand-addressed envelope snagged his attention. After reading the enclosed letter, his hand sank to the table still clutching it as he leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. She would never directly ask for help, her respect for his career bordering on reverence. But he could read between the lines. His mother's health was slowly failing. I'm here instead of San Francisco. How the hell can I do both?
He worried the problem all evening before finally setting it aside to turn in. Tomorrow they'd take another crack at Abbott. The sooner they dealt Blake a killing blow, the sooner he could meet his family obligations, honor the promise he'd made his father on his deathbed.
***PRESENT DAY***
Abbott's Office, Austin FBI, Morning
...Abbott ended the call and slammed his palm down in a rare display of temper. McAllister didn't run a network of thousands without help. Had to have lieutenants. Just one thread might unravel that network. Abbott hoped Davenport and Quiñones, judges both, would be that loose thread. Now both dead. Damn! He shoved away from his desk and left for the scene.
An hour later he had examined the scene and assigned agents to investigate. His questions were many. Who was the driver? Did he die of a heart attack? Was it an accident? ('Accident' my ass!) If not, did Blake do it? What's the connection? And most threatening, how was a hit arranged when Quiñones was only picked up last night?
Abbott was 95% certain it was Blake, but the FBI didn't operate on guesses. At this point he was sure of just two things. The driver died immediately. And he didn't have the tattoo.
Agents working Blake would gather information and chase down leads, try to find a connection. Others were researching the Davenport murder, looking for links to Blake. Next, he would call Director Schultz and report this latest loss, something he dreaded. Then ... then he'd have to devise another plan. First step: Pin down that slippery bastard. Exactly how did he know about Davenport and Quiñones?
Abbott's Office, Austin FBI, After Lunch
Cho, Lisbon and Jane entered and took the three chairs in front of Abbott's desk. He'd unexpectedly summoned them to meet, a gift since they didn't have to ask. They silently waited for Abbott to start.
"You know Quiñones is dead?" They nodded. "And Davenport?" More nods.
Abbott focused on Jane. "You knew they were Blake." Not a question. "How?"
"I have a file. Thumb drive." Cho and Lisbon started at the admission. Cho drew breath to speak then reconsidered. This was Jane's game, one at which he excelled.
Abbott's face darkened. He rumbled dangerously, "You're withholding evidence?"
Jane sat straighter, dropping the nonchalance. "Maybe."
The muscles in Abbott's jaw clenched. Jane idly wondered if he'd crack a molar. "Hand it over. Now."
Jane drew the moment out. "No."
Abbott's ferocious expression made Lisbon regret leaving her piece in her drawer. He mastered himself. "Why shouldn't I charge you – all of you – with felony obstruction of justice?"
"That would be stupid. How does that help solve Blake?" Abbott was struck dumb. Jane leaned forward to make his point. "That file is our one advantage. Davenport and Quiñones are dead because your team's compromised. I won't waste that advantage."
Through gritted teeth, "Not. Your. Call."
Jane leaned back to ease the tension. "We're on the same side, Abbott. Stop this pissing match and focus on the problem." Shocked at Jane's crude language, Lisbon was more shocked when it worked.
Abbott leaned back, tension draining from his burly frame. He shook his head a little and couldn't suppress a glimmer of respect. "You're placing a big bet. Make your case because right now you're looking at prison time."
Like flicking a switch, Jane's now soothing voice encouraged a calm, civilized exchange. "You've managed a massive, two-year effort that rounded up the bottom tier of Blake. Dozens? hundreds? of agents were involved? And some sort of executive committee?" He paused, needing details.
Coldly, "My core team of 12 is supplemented as needed. Hundreds of agents from field offices have been involved. This operation is guided by a task force at the highest levels in Washington – liaised with all branches of Homeland. Blake undermines our entire legal system, threatening civil order and national security. –What do three individuals, new to the Bureau, hope to do compared to this?"
Honeyed voice belying cutting criticism, "End Blake. The usefulness of your approach is over. The task force and legions of agents just multiply the risk of leaks. You caught one mole after Davenport. Quiñones proves there are more, agents not just passing information but conducting a sophisticated hit. Worse, the brass that forced you to retrieve me is likely serving Blake." Slowly, clearly, "You need a small, trusted team that can think and act outside the box."
Disparaging smile on his lips Abbott asked, "And you know this – how?"
Jane looked around, deliberately including Lisbon and Cho, "We worked in a corrupted organization for ten years. And succeeded anyhow. We got McAllister." Abbott's eyes flickered as he mentally substituted 'killed.' "We exposed Blake." He leaned forward again, "Two years with no progress on getting Blake leaders. Isn't it time for a different approach?"
Acidly, "A trustworthy team. You?!"
"Our lives depend on ending Blake. We've all had break-ins as Blake searched for that drive. I was almost murdered. Ardiles died after torture. Because of Davenport and Quiñones, now Blake knows a file exists. Blake will kill anyone with a possible connection because their lives depend on it."
Abbott seemed to deflate a little. "You'll turn over the drive if I try your approach?"
"If the information is limited to people you trust with your life. Those are the stakes."
Abbott inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He looked hard at each. "I'll try it your way. You'll operate in parallel but separate from my other team." He pursued his lips. "I need approval from above."
Alarmed, "One person you trust implicitly?"
Abbott slowly nodded. "I'll limit it to one. Yes. If I get approval today, can you deliver the drive immediately?
Jane nodded. "It's encrypted. So far the only name we got is Quiñones." He flashed a smile, "Figured out Davenport myself."
Cho spoke for the first time, "Who will you use to decrypt it?" Abbott bridled, then decided to go along. He learns fast, thought Lisbon.
"Hastings."
"You trust him ... why?" prodded Cho.
Abbott gave him a cold glance but answered anyway. "He's on Blake because I trust him. Three years ago he was tortured without breaking. That salvaged the case against a drug lord."
Lisbon suggested low key, "We trust our team analyst, Wylie. We'd like him to work on it, too. – I, uh, think he's friends with Hastings."
After a moment, "I'll go with your judgment." In for a penny...
The three stood. Jane smiled brilliantly, genuinely and extended his hand. "Dennis, I look forward to working with you." Surprised, Abbott shook his hand. The others shook as well.
After a moment he growled, "Well. Get on with it."
"Yes, sir," responded Cho and Lisbon. Jane smiled again.
Once in the hall Jane wilted. Alarmed, Lisbon searched his face. "Misgivings?"
"No, wasn't sure how it'd go."
Cho chimed in, "Odds?"
Jane puffed his cheeks and exhaled, "Maybe 75-25. Abbott's practical, wants Blake ended. But he's captive of a massive bureaucracy. Wasn't certain he's flexible enough."
Voice low, Cho followed up, "He'll play it straight with us?"
Jane nodded. "Wouldn't have let it get so far if I wasn't sure. We now have the FBI – or at least Dennis – on our side."
"Jane, you–" Cho broke off as he heard his desk phone ring. "Later," he threw over his shoulder.
They continued to the break room. Jane made tea while Lisbon poured coffee for herself and a cup to bring Cho.
After checking that they were alone, Jane offered randomly, "Need to talk to Cooper next. Did you–"
"Yeah, Wylie found him. Cooper's serving time in the South Dakota state pen of all places."
Jane rubbed his lip, "Makes sense. Isolate him, neutralize him as a player."
Less interested in Cooper than the meeting they just had, "Jane, where is it?"
He leaned against the counter and sipped his tea, not incidentally verifying they couldn't be overheard. "Escape car, where else?"
Weeks ago he had Pete Barsocky get him the older, slightly battered sedan. The gray paint was dull and scuffed enough to be unappealing to car thieves. Bought for cash, the registration was in Rose Turner's name – Pete's niece by marriage – obscuring any link to Jane. He parked it a few blocks from their apartments, equipped with suitcases of clothes, well-hidden cash, Lisbon's spare firearms, and other sundries. He and Lisbon took turns moving it every few days after dark. Lisbon thought it unlikely they'd need it – Jane had promised her, and Cho, not to run – but she deferred to Jane in matters of deception and skirting the law.
Jane took the Citroen – to Lisbon's dismay, he'd found a near identical replacement for the one left at Malibu two years ago, - fetched the drive, and returned an hour after quitting time. Lisbon intercepted him on her way back from the restroom.
"Hey, handsome. How 'bout dinner at that tex-mex place?"
"Soon as I deliver this, see if Abbott got the okay."
"You do that while I get my things. Meet me by the elevator."
Jane walked on toward Abbott's office.
A minute later Lisbon was on her way when Jane passed at a dead run.
"Jane! What the hell?!"
"C'mon." He plunged through the stairwell door and careened down three flights, nearly falling in his haste. Lisbon followed and barely closed the Citroen door before he peeled away.
"What's wrong?!"
"Abbott left early. Meeting Don Fischer from DC," he got out while speeding wildly, tempting fate. "Iron Works Barbeque."
"But what–" she asked, hanging on grimly.
"That's the connection! Kim's father Don is ex-CIA. He's Blake and Abbott's the next target."
Lisbon swore and called Cho but had to leave a message.
Jane screeched to a halt at Iron Works and dashed inside. Lisbon followed in time to hear the hostess say, "That party just left."
"Which way?" Lisbon flashed her badge.
The woman shrank back from Jane's intensity, "Uh, south I think. Black SUV."
They sped south. Lisbon checked the windows of every black SUV they passed while Jane thought about a likely destination.
After a minute, "Abbott's house. Right direction. Wife's away. Private."
"You sure?" as she texted it to Cho.
Grimly, "Best guess." Lisbon dialed 9-1-1 and unholstered her gun.
The Citroen screamed around the turn and hurtled up the very private drive. Jane spied a black SUV and huffed in relief.
The Citroen fishtailed as he jammed on the brakes to avoid the SUV. He stopped just short of the now-visible victims.
Abbott was down, hands cuffed behind. Another man lay close, head gashed, gun nearby. A woman lay a bit farther, back to them, blood trickling down the sloped concrete.
They flung open their doors and ran toward the wounded.
They ducked as bullets pinged around them. Lisbon returned fire.
Jane cowered behind the black SUV, arms protecting his head. He regrouped seconds later. Lisbon fired steadily and Jane chanced dragging the woman to cover. He knelt and pressed hard to stem the gushing abdominal wound, blood and gut contents leaking around his fingers.
"Sonofabitch!" Her gun clicked several times, magazine empty. Lisbon lunged for the gun lying near the unknown man, rolled and made it back to cover. She aimed carefully as the shooter briefly showed himself, then swore ferociously as this gun clicked empty.
"Jane!" She grabbed at his jacket sleeve. "C'mon. Jane!" The blonde man stumbled to his feet, eyes glassy. She shoved him into the passenger seat, slammed the door and sprinted around the other side. The gunman was approaching, taking aim through the windshield.
Thank God! Keys were in the ignition. She jerked into reverse and steered looking backward. Plunging back onto the street, horns blared as traffic swerved around them. Distant sirens didn't change her mind. Abbott, Kim Fischer, and another - Kim's dad? - were wounded, maybe dying. Her prints were on the gun that likely fired those shots. And she had no idea who to trust.
"Fuck!"
She caught her breath and her hammering pulse slowed. Jane slumped against the door, dazed and silent. Covered in blood, she couldn't tell if any was his. A blaring horn reminded her it was almost dark, to turn on headlights. She drove sedately to blend in, cursing again Jane's preference for the distinctive car.
"Jane." She shook his shoulder with her right hand. "Jane." After several seconds he vacantly looked her way. "Are you hurt?"
He blinked, working to understand. "No ... I think."
Lisbon patted his torso, thankful there was no squish of fresh blood. She exhaled in relief when they reached the escape car. Gonna get used after all. Dark now, she hustled Jane into the dull gray car. She heaved a sigh as they left Austin behind. She drove north. Toward South Dakota.