Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

After shaking, Morgan said, “He’s right over there,” gesturing toward the glass-walled office at his lieutenant with the same tip of his head from earlier. “Name’s Casey.”

They all went in the office—Vance and the other marshals—and I had seen the DEA guy lose his fucking mind once the door closed. Casey and Vance looked bored as Koegle screamed on.

Now, back in the present, there was still yelling going on but both the only one raising his voice was Vance. I also noted that all his ire was directed at the DEA supervisor.

“It’s not bad, you know,” I said, turning from the scene inside the office back to Morgan.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Having a supervisory deputy for a friend,” I told him. “Vance is a good guy, and now he owes you.”

“Owes me?”

“For saving my life.”

“Well, you helped me and Brandt.”

“How’s he doing, anyway?”

“He’s good. If I ever get out of here, I’ll go see him on my way home.”

“To your Miki.”

“Yeah, to my Miki.”

“Who’ll kill you if he finds out you almost died today, right?”

“Ye have no idea. He’d have my balls, he would.”

The accent was a surprise, but I was guessing it came out when the man was agitated or when he was emotional, which he was at the moment. “Maybe he won’t find out.”

“He had a session today, so hopefully not.”

“Session?”

“Recording.”

“Oh, he’s a what—a musician?”

Morgan nodded.

“Is he famous around here?”

“And other places as well.”

“Oh yeah? Think I’ve heard of him?”

“Maybe.” Morgan’s grin was sly. “Miki St. John.”

I knew that name. “He fronts a rock band, yeah?”

Morgan gave me the full wattage of his smile, clearly pleased.

I winced. “I’m more a blues guy, Ian’s the rocker.”

“Ian?”

We hadn’t discussed much beyond the case during our short time together, which was why I was just learning about his rock star and he was only now hearing Ian’s name. “My”—the label was still a weird thing—“partner,” I went with. It wasn’t completely correct, but it wasn’t wrong, either. “You’d like him; he’s a lot like you. I’m sure you guys’d get into all kinds of trouble together.”

“What you call trouble I call good police work.”

“I have no doubt,” I patronized.

I heard a commotion in the hall then, and I saw Connor coming in, several of his men in tow. He sauntered over to us—I would move like that, too, if I were him—and explained that all the DEA agents were downstairs, waiting to be processed.

“They’re all gonna walk,” I told them.

Connor nodded. “But when is the question.”

“I see the evil runs fast in this family.”

Morgan grinned widely. “If you were staying, I’d take you to see my mum so you could see the truth of that.”

“You made the news,” Connor informed Morgan with a twinkle in his eye.

“Fuck,” Morgan whined before turning to me. “I think you better put me in protective custody.”

“Why? Your guy’s a rock star. How scary could he be?”

Connor’s cackle was a little bit unnerving.

IT TOOK hours to sort everything out, collect all the evidence, book Sandell, get Hein from his office where we’d left him and then book him as well. It was going to take time to figure out who was dirty and who was clean among the DEA agents, so everyone got processed before they were put on administrative leave. I was pretty sure Brandt was going to get a promotion when he got out of the hospital, as he would be one of the only good guys left standing.

Since Morgan had been running the undercover op with Casey’s full backing, in the end, all that was left for the SFPD to do was have the marshals’ office take Sandell and Hein into federal custody. They also told the DEA to kiss their ass and basically stomped all over Koegle. I was worried Morgan had made an enemy of him, but he’d also made a friend in Vance, so I figured it would balance out. He didn’t seem worried.

That night he drove me to the airport where we parted ways, and I got a hug as I tried to extract a promise for him to visit Chicago.

He winced. “It’s cold there, yeah? I mean, we get cold here, but you guys, that’s glacial.”

I shook my head and he chuckled, and I was inside before he pulled away.

On the way to the terminal, I stopped at one of the last open stores to grab water for the plane and spotted the cover of Rolling Stone.

“No shit,” I said, staring at Miki St. John with the rest of the band before grabbing it off the rack. Kane Morgan was a lucky man, as were whomever, men or women, the rest of the boys belonged to. They were almost blindingly gorgeous all clustered together.

“Is this it?” the clerk asked.

“I know this guy’s boyfriend,” I told her.

She gave me a patronizing nod before ringing me up.