BAITED BREATH

BAITED BREATH Part 7

CONTENT WARNING: Beware of 1 instance of strong language in this part.

The in-house FBI liaison, Gregg Harts, joined Vonn in his office. He leaned across the desk and engulfed one of Vonn's hands in both of his. An expression of revulsion crossed the detective's face as he scowled at the big man.

"Do you have something against a handshake, Harts? I know you mean to inspire trust and confidence with that gesture, but quit using it on me."

Harts tickled the palm of his hand, and Vonn jerked away so violently he sent his coffee cup clattering to the floor.

"Asswipe," he breathed as he cleaned up the mess.

Gregg sidestepped the wet floor and poured them both a fresh cup at Vonn's coffee bar. Stooping to check his reflection in the mirror, he smoothed a lapel on his suit jacket. He sniffed the coffee and asked when it was made.

"Why don't you drink the cafeteria coffee? It's free too."

"You've tasted it. Besides, I need information." He eased his six-foot, six-inch frame into a chair and rested his ankle on his opposite knee. "Has anyone else dropped dead on you lately? These things go in threes, you know. I've got an idea about number three, but we haven't found the body yet."

"Who are you talking about?" Vonn picked up a pen and fiddled with it.

"Word on the street says Jerusalem Brown has dropped off the face of the earth. No one anywhere knows where he is. Our undercover operatives report that his contacts are screaming for product; drugs, girls, automatic weapons, counterfeit twenties. The supply has dried up, upstream and downstream."

"Damn, Harts. I wish Ballard hadn't died on us. He was working on a theory but hadn't gotten around to sharing it with me."

"Have you checked his home computer?"

Vonn jerked his thumb toward framed diplomas on the wall behind him. "I suppose you think I printed those off the internet. I know my job, Mr. FBI."

"Didn't infer anything of the sort, Vonn. Why are you in such a bad mood?"

Vonn shook his head in disgust. "Ballard's personal computer was cloroxed by a professional. Not so much as a byte of information on it."

Harts laced his fingers around his knee. "What happened with that girl you brought in for questioning? Do you think she had anything to do with Bronwell's death? Or that slob Jacobsen?"

"Ah, Jacobsen. Would you believe Internal Affairs was investigating him? Sumbitch turned out to be the dirtiest cop on the block." Vonn jabbed the pen at his desk blotter. "There won't be any tears at his wake. Autopsy indicated an undiagnosed aneurysm. Coroner said he was a ticking time bomb. I suppose the stress killed him, but it kinda pisses me off that his widow will get his pension."

"I guess you never know. Did you follow up with that girl?"

"What for? She was a random guest at Bronwell's diversity gala. You can look at the CCTV if you want. It's sexy as hell."

Vonn retrieved the file and turned the monitor to face the door. Harts repositioned his chair and watched it twice, studying the bystanders and waitstaff who moved in and out of the camera angle. "Was there any particular reason the woman started dancing at just that time?"

"People I interviewed said nothing the band had been playing was the sort of music you'd belly dance to. That's about as spontaneous as you can get unless you believe there was a conspiracy between the entire band and this dancer. On the other hand, several guests thought she was part of the planned entertainment."