Page 53 of Tone Deaf
There has been only one other time that code was used. Over fourteen years ago on the day a witness lost his life and my partner Rick’s and my lives were irrevocably changed.
Rick and I were protecting a witness who’d agreed to testify against a major crime syndicate. The witness, Jacob Cunningham, ended up murdered, Rick was almost killed, and I took a bullet in my shoulder and another one in my left hip—and was accused of divulging the location of the safe house where we’d stashed the witness. The whole case was built on that witness’s testimony, and with him dead, there was nothing. As far as I know, they never found out who leaked the location, but I know for damn sure it wasn’t me.
In the end, I lost more than some small pieces of flesh and a job. I lost my dignity, my livelihood, the people who I thought were my friends, and the life I had built in DC. They stripped me of my rank and then fired me. After four months of having my every move watched, they concluded that I was innocent of all of the accusations and cleared of all charges. I didn’t get my job back, though, and my reputation was mud by that point.
Those were dark days for me. I drank and drank until I didn’t know which way was up or if I was pissing down. It brought me to the lowest point in my life, and it took nearly a full year for Dean to pull my sorry ass out of the epic hole I had shoveled myself into.
Standing here now brings back the old urge to pick up a bottle and drink until my mind becomes nothing but fog and mush. But then I think of Pen—my beautiful Pen. Smart, energetic and honest. And Callum. He’s sweet and gentle, and all too giving. I think of them and I’m able to drive away the urge to drink—the urge to put myself back in that hole again.
“Mr. Rossetti?” A female voice pulls me out of my dour thoughts.
A pretty brunette approaches me. Her dark blue suit is cut to perfection and highlights her full, curvy figure, but the stoney expression on her face tells me all I need to know about her. “I’m Agent Donna Waldon. Please follow me,” she says icily. Shedoesn’t extend a hand, and I’m not surprised by it. I don’t peg her as a U.S. marshal—too stiff in her manner. Bet she’s FBI, because her less-than-friendly demeanor fits that profile to a tee.
Now why would an FBI agent be present in the U.S. Marshal’s office?
“Why was I called here, Agent Waldon? And why is the FBI involved?” I ask, not hiding my irritation.
She abruptly turns, surprise written all over her face before her indifference slams down like a steel door. “Deputy Director Greg Joust will tell you everything you need to know,” she says without answering any of my questions.
Jesus. Her stone-cold manner is no help as I try to gauge how serious a situation I’m walking into. I let out a quiet huff, and follow the woman through a set of double doors, where I walk into a den of vipers.
The moment I step into the outer office area with all its cubicles and desks, conversations taper off as marshals that once used to be my friends have shock written across their faces. Other, less familiar, marshals exhibit disgust or simple disdain in their eyes. No one approaches me. Now why would I expect them to act any differently?
Do they still see guilt across my face?
A door ahead of me opens and out walks Joust. Definitely older, but his sharp, eagle-eye stare hasn’t changed. He still reminds me of a riled-up badger. Mostly bluster, but watch out for his teeth because he has a vicious bite.
“Mr. Rossetti,” he says sternly. Again, no handshake, but I’m not expecting it from him either. This isn’t a friendly visit.
“Joust,” I reply and step past the threshold into his office.
Donna walks in after me, and Joust closes the door. If she’s in on this, then something big is coming down. But what? I’m afraid to ask.
“Have a seat, Rossetti,” Joust says, pointing to the black chair adjacent to his desk.
“No thanks. Now tell me why I’m here,” I demand, my tone less than pleasant.
Joust’s eyes narrow before he takes his own seat. He motions toward Agent Waldon. “Agent Waldon is the chief analyst for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m sure she introduced herself.”
I slice a glance at her before turning my attention back to Joust. “Just barely. Now answer the question. Why am I here?”
“A situation was brought to our attention about five months ago.” Greg shuffles papers around on his desk, then picks up a folder and hands it to me.
“What is it?” I nod toward the folder but don’t reach for it.
“Everything you want to know is in here,” he says and extends his arm out further. “Take it.”
My eyes slice to the female fed, and then to the folder, before I grab it and sit. I open the flap and the first thing I see is a picture of the body of a black man, and then I notice the bullet wound in the center of his forehead. Examining the photo, something snags my memory, but not enough to jog it. “Execution style. Hmm… Who is this?”
Joust’s eyes shift to Donna, who moves into my line of sight. “That’s Mangrove Gilbert, he was one of our planted agents, pretending to be a small-time dealer so he could infiltrate the Trendoya gang and find out who’s been supplying large amounts of fentanyl to them. Manny has been building up evidence to take down the drug supplier through this group. But the last time we heard from him was six weeks ago, when he sent a message that he had a lead. He was due in court next week on an unrelated case, to testify against one of the leaders of an affiliate gang. But as you can see now, Manny’s dead,” she explains.
“His body was found yesterday at a truck stop off of I-70, just outside of Grand Junction, Colorado,” Joust explains further.
That’s not far from Evergreen—we drove through there four days ago.Could it be a coincidence? I fucking hope so.“What does this have to do with me?” I glance at the photos of the dead agent again and something sparks in my mind. It is almost reminiscent of…
Joust shifts in his chair, drawing my attention. He opens his desk drawer and takes out four more folders. “These are similar,” he says as he hands them to me. “They all were killed the same way.”
“Again. What does this have to do with me?” My eyes remain fixed on Joust. The way the man barely moves in his seat, I know he’s hiding something. Even though it’s been years, I’ve been around and worked with this man too many times to forget his tells.