Page 45 of The Fourth Option
“We probably should,” she responded in resigned affirmation.
“And, while we’re talking about them, I’ve seen a few cruisers with the acronym COPE on them. Do you know what that is?”
She tapped the table with one nail, thinking.
“I’ve heard of it. It’s some special unit within the police focused on drugs, I think. Not really sure. Probably a political tool, something to look good. Down here, symbolism matters. Hang on, I’ll look it up.”
After a few seconds on her phone browser, she nodded. “It stands for Community Outreach through Police Engagement. The law down here doesn’t have the best reputation, so they invent things like this as window dressing.”
“Maybe even as cover,” Walker added.
“It’s possible.”
“When John and I were in Afghanistan, we knew a DEA guy who would pass through the CIA station for intel updates. Ramirez… Sanchez… Vasquez. Something like that. I remember that he was from New Orleans. You don’t happen to remember anyone like that, do you?”
Her eyes assumed a distant look. After a few seconds, she offered a close-mouthed smile. “I bet he meant Javier Gonzalez. John invited him to a Fourth of July barbecue we hosted a few years ago.”
Walker snapped his fingers. “Yes. That’s it. Speedy Gonzalez. Gonzo. John saved him a couple hundred bucks when he was about to buy a fake 1860s Enfield rifle as a souvenir. The real ones went quick at the beginning of the war, but there was a market, so a ton of fakes flooded it. DEA is federal. It would be good to talk with a familiar face, someone who knew John and what he did overseas. Might be a good source of intel on local PD. You don’t have contact for him, do you?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. There is a federal building. Maybe start there?” After tapping her phone screen, she flipped it to show the Google Maps reference. Walker scrawled the address down on a napkin.
Just as he finished, Leigh Ann’s pager buzzed on the table, jumpingonce, then again. She looked at it and frowned. “Sorry, Chris. Drive-by. Multiple GSWs incoming.”
Walker stood with her.
“Can I help?”
“This is my job. Come back by the hospital when you are finished in town. I’ll be close to the end of my shift by then.”
Her pager buzzed again. She looked down and, without another word, ran from the room.
Paladin was happy to see Walker when he got back to the van, which he’d parked in the shade of a garage with a window cracked and the K9 cooling fan engaged. The dog thumped his tail while the former SEAL fired up the old beast.
He studied his paper map carefully, thinking through the route, before exiting the hospital area. He drove beneath the skybridge that connected the main building to the new Tulane-Genyra Cancer Research Center. The skybridge was still emblazoned with a green and gold poster from the grand opening.Where hope meets healing.
The drive took him into the heart of city traffic before spitting him out onto a freeway with a view of the Superdome. He was soon on a tall bridge crossing the Mississippi, its brown water snaking its way south, dotted with barges.
All federal buildings looked bland, Walker thought on arrival. But after the stunning architecture of the Garden District and the dazzling sensory assault in the French Quarter, this building looked particularly boring, four stories of beige concrete with a square sign out front.
In the lobby, he saw metal detectors and a guard in the dark blue uniform of the Federal Protective Service. Anticipating that, Walker had left his pistol in the van. He made it through security and studied the directory on the wall. There were entries for the United States Attorney’s Office, the Health and Human Services Department, and the Department of Homeland Security.
Though there was no entry for the DEA, Walker approached the front desk.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for an old buddy who works at the DEA,” he said. “Is there a way to leave him a message?”
“Name?”
“Javier Gonzalez.”
The man scanned Walker’s bearded face, dirty ball cap, untucked button-down shirt, and jeans streaked with road dust. “You can submit a general meeting request through the DOJ.”
He handed Walker a clipboard.
Walker studied the form. The questions were innocuous but probing: Social Security number, full name, date of birth, legal residence, phone number, reason for the inquiry.
While reading, he heard the metal detector beep behind him. He noticed the cameras in the corners of the room. The memories the form conjured were not pleasant: the board of inquiry, the threat of prosecution, the warning never to speak of his last mission in Afghanistan.
He wondered what his Social Security number might trigger in some nameless, faceless database in Washington. Then again, it said right there on the form that lying about the information or omitting it would be treated as a felony. Walker’s head throbbed.Fuck.
