Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Page B

going to find. There won’t be any guns in the rental office, just like there weren’t any at the house. Whatever Brandon Ford was up to, however it connects to Bea’s Federal operation, it doesn’t have anything to do with assault rifles, and maybe nothing to do with drug dealers, either. There’s something here I’m not seeing. A connection I have yet to make.
    Maybe what I need on this is a fresh set of eyes.

CHAPTER 7
    I shoulder my way through the entrance to Homicide and sense right away something’s going on. The detectives stand clustered in groups of three and four, conferring in hushed tones. The ringing phones go unanswered. Lorenz has already left, so after slinging my gear into my cubicle, I raise my eyebrows at a passing colleague. He raises his back but says nothing. Not good.
    Through the open door I can see Lt. Bascombe poised over his desk, all the weight on his fingers like a runner in the starting blocks. He looks up at me without acknowledging my presence. When I start over, he comes around the desk, intercepting me outside the door. He puts a hand on my chest.
    “What’s up?” I ask.
    He scans back and forth across the room, still looking through me. Like he’s making sure I’m alone. Then he pulls me inside and closes the door.
    “It’s official,” he says. “The captain’s pulling people in one at a time to break the news.”
    “He’s leaving?”
    “That’s the story. But like I told you before, what’s really happening is, he’s getting the push. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
    Remembering my encounter with Hedges the day before, I shake my head. “He seems like a shadow of his former self.”
    “Yeah, well, that’s not entirely his fault.” He sits on the edge of his desk, motioning me into a chair. “I can’t believe they’re rushing him out like this. It’s the politics, March. You end up on the losing side in this department and, I swear, they’ll cut your throat.”
    “Maybe I should go see him.”
    “Don’t be in such a rush,” he says. “It’s depressing. When they do you like this, they don’t just can you. They also write the script. Not only do you have to leave, but you leave on their terms, giving their reasons, or else.”
    “Who’s ‘they’?”
    He looks at me like I’m stupid.
    “Anyway, can I run something past you, boss? I think that FBI agent is spinning us a yarn.”
    “You’re one of those people who tells jokes at funerals, aren’t you?”
    “What do you want me to do? I think she lied to us.”
    Bascombe goes around the desk and slumps into his chair. The cushion hisses as it takes his weight.
    “Go ahead, then.”
    I bring him up-to-date on everything, including Miranda Ford’s description and my after-hours confrontation with Bea. As I talk, his expression goes from bored to mildly interested. By the time I’m done, he’s leaning forward, elbows on the desk.
    “Well, something’s not right,” he says.
    “I know. So what should I do about it?”
    “What can you do? Seems to me the only thing is to ignore what she told us. Pretend that meeting never happened. What does it actually change, after all? You got a hit on your victim, the identification’s made, and he’s a real person with a real history.”
    “Yeah, but Bea’s working some kind of angle—”
    “So what? If you take her story and set it aside, what are you left with? Some forward movement on your case. Whatever the FBI is or is not up to, we do one thing here and that’s clear homicides. So that’s what you do.”
    “You make it sound so easy.”
    “Unless something changes, I don’t see what else you can do.”
    “I was hoping you would make some phone calls and see what you can find out about Bea and her operation.”
    “It was making phones calls that got us into this.” He sighs. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect any miracles, though, because I have my hands full at the moment. For the time being, ignore