âAm I boring you?â
Chance Bucknerâs hands stilled, and he looked casually sideways at the man in the gray suit who stood before him, hands on where his hips would be if they were detectable.
âYou would be,â he said lazily, âif I was listening.â
Unconcernedly he went back to the informational sheet the speaker had handed out. Almost right, he thought, holding it up for a sighting, then lowering his hand to make a minor adjustment to one of the wings of the paper airplane.
Out of the corner of one eye he saw the livid flush rising above the older manâs collar, and had to smother a grin. He heard a cough but didnât dare look at his partner. He knew that if he locked eyes with him, his laugh would break loose; he and Quisto had a way of communicating without words that got them into trouble nearly as often as it saved them.
âPerhaps you can explain to me, Detective Buckner,â the man said in barely suppressed fury, âjust why you are here?â
In one smooth, fluid movement, Chance levered his lean, muscled body away from the wall heâd been leaning against. He drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height, topping the shorter, older man by at least six inches.
âIâm here,â he said with slow emphasis, âbecause you guys blew it. Iâm here because you guys canât find your butts with a map. Iâm here because you guys couldnât make a case on a guy you had under your thumb for two damned years.â
âYou son of aââ
The man broke off, sputtering. He whirled toward the fourth man who had been sitting at the head of the long table that sat in the center of the conference room, quietly observing.
âIf this is an example of this departmentâs discipline,â he spat out, âthen we havenât got a chance of nailing Mendez!â
âYou had your chance, in Miami.â
The manâs red face snapped around to glare at Chanceâs partner, the source of the comment, a compact, wiry, dark-haired young man with flashing brown eyes who was seated at the other end of the table. Quisto looked back, totally untroubled. The gray-suited man spun back toward the man at the head of the table.
âI was told we would have complete cooperation, Lieutenant!â
A pair of dark eyebrows rose over an inscrutable pair of brown eyes. âI was told,â the lieutenant said mildly, âto listen to what you had to say, and do whatever you asked. I donât recall you asking me to maintain order for you.â
Chance managed to convert his burst of laughter to an apparent fit of coughing, but at a warning glance from Lieutenant Morgan he stifled even that. Quisto wasnât quite so lucky, and drew another furious glare.
âIf you canât control your own menââ
âI have no problem with my men, Mr. Eaton. They know their job, and they do it well. But perhaps we can speed things up by setting down some basics. As a result of your officeâs investigationââ
âWe chased Mendez right out of Miami,â Eaton said smugly.
âYeah,â Chance said caustically. âHe was so scared he barely had time to pack up his whole operation and move it here.â
âListen, pretty boyââ
âGentlemen,â Lieutenant Morgan interrupted, in a tone his men had come to know meant they were pushing the limits of his considerable patience. âLetâs get on with this. As I was saying, as a result of the federal investigation, Paolo Mendez has taken up residence in Marina del Mar. So regardless of how or why, he is now our problem. As isââ he paused and opened the file folder in front of him on the table ââthe establishment he intends to open.â
Eaton looked blank. âEstablishment?â
âHeâs taken out a lease on an empty building on Marina Boulevard. Heâs already remodeling. Word is he intends to open a club of some sort.â
Lieutenant Morgan handed out a sheet of paper to Eaton, whose crimson face did not fade a bit as he read the report.
When he had finished, he cleared his throat and spoke reluctantly. âWell, er, yes. Good information.â
âThank Detective Buckner. He had it within twenty-four hours of Mendezâs arrival, despite the fact that he is using the name Paul de Cortez.â