Detective-Sergeant Jerry Button Los Angeles Police Department Paci fic Station

Button’s hands were shaking when he returned to his desk with the camera and the files. He tried to make them stop, but had to wedge them under his hams. He glanced at Futardo, who was typing in her cubicle across the room by the door. The new guy always got the desk by the door. Button had the prime desk in the rear, right outside the LT’s office. The distance between the two desks was a lot longer than it looked.

Button felt angry, humiliated, and scared. Straw—the arrogant Feeb prick—had pulled a typical, underhanded FBI move by lying about his case. Like all Quantico pricks, he thought city police were incompetent losers, to be used, abused, and kept in the dark.

And Button had proved him right.

Hello, Jerry Button, you are now the Pacific Station Jackass of the Year.

Button flipped through the DEA documents, then watched a few minutes of the camera’s video to make sure Pike hadn’t been fucking with him. But Pike, of course, had never fucked around and wasn’t fucking around now.

Button felt even more sick when he put down the camera. He picked up his phone to call Straw, then reconsidered. He was definitely going to confront the sonofabitch, that was for sure, but he wanted to have all the facts straight before he did. Button intended to file an official complaint.

Button called Dale Springer in the FBI’s New Orleans office. Springer was the agent Button had spoken with about the Rainey case less than an hour ago.

“Special Agent Springer.”

Button even hated how these condescending pricks answered their phones.

“Jerry Button in L.A. again. I stepped into something out here I need to ask about.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Button noticed Futardo looking at him, which made his stomach clench. He would have to tell her about his fuckup as soon as he got off the phone.

“You know an agent named Jack Straw?”

“Sure. Jack’s a good friend.”

“Uh-huh. Well, who’s his supervisor down there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to speak with his supervisor. Your Mr. Straw misrepresented himself to the Los Angeles Police Department and is acting like an underhanded prick. I’d like to get this straightened out.”

Springer cleared his throat.

“Hang on, Sergeant. I’ll get him for you.”

A few seconds later, a different male voice came on the line.

“This is Jack Straw. Who is this, please?”

Button felt a stillness settle into his belly.

“Jerry Button with the Los Angeles Police Department. Your name is Jack Straw?”

“That’s right. Have we met?”

“You’re working the William Rainey case?”

“I’m one of the original case agents, Detective. Can I ask what this is about?”

“Ah, listen, is there another Jack Straw on the case?”

The New Orleans Jack Straw laughed.

“Not the last time I looked. What’s going on, Detective?”

“We have a gentleman here identifying himself as an agent named Jack Straw from your office. He has FBI credentials.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

Button leaned back in his chair and checked his hands. Steady as parked cars. He looked at Futardo. She was back on her computer, typing away. She was a good kid. He got up and walked over. She jumped to her feet when she saw him coming, but he motioned her down, and pulled up a nearby chair.

“Sit down, Nancy.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Her eyes were dark as black forest chocolate, but wide as demitasse saucers. She probably thought he was going to chew her out, which he did, often, but now he wanted to teach her.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I fucked up bad. That FBI asshole who came here, Straw? He had the credentials, he knew what to say, but he’s a fake. The real Jack Straw is sucking crawfish heads down in New Orleans right now. I should have checked the guy out, but I didn’t. That was a stupid, bush-league mistake, and it may have put a woman’s life in danger.”

Futardo stared at him as if one or both of them might have a stroke.

“You will never make this mistake, Nancy. For the rest of your career and beyond, you will question everything anyone tells you and you will always check out what they say. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Promise me.”

“Jesus, Jerry, what are we going to do?”

Button didn’t answer. He returned to his desk, and got the real Jack Straw back on the line. Button explained the situation and provided a detailed description of the fake Jack Straw to the best of his ability. When the real Jack Straw started telling Button how he wanted Button to handle the imposter, Button hung up. He took one deep breath, let it out, then dialed the number he had for the fake Jack Straw.

“Jack Straw.”

“Jerry Button here. We caught a break, man. We’re rolling to bag Rainey in five. You wanna go?”

“You found him?”

“A motor cop spotted the Prius. I am rolling in five, brother. You want to go or not?”

“All right. Sure. Where do I meet you?”

“Where are you?”

“Santa Monica.”

“Okay, that’s close. I’ll pick you up on my way.”

Button gave a location, then stowed his phone. He checked his pistol, then clipped it to his belt. Not many dicks still carried the old .38 Snubbies, but Button saw no reason to change. It was small, light, and he had never fired it against another human being.

Button slipped on his jacket and headed out. He saw Futardo grab her purse and jump up to intercept him

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna bag the fucker, Nancy. That’s my job.”

“I want to come. Can I? Please?”

Like a kid. All anxious and eager, and maybe a little afraid.

Button considered letting her come, but finally shook his head.

“Finish your reports.”

He left to bag the fake Jack Straw, and did not see when she followed.

Button wondered what the guy was up to, pretending to be a federal agent, but figured it probably had something to do with Rainey’s money.

Button turned into the lot and pulled up by Straw with the passenger door on the far side of the car.

Straw started around to the passenger side, but Button stopped him.

“Hang on a sec. I gotta give you a vest before we split. It’s in the trunk.”

Straw hesitated as Button climbed out.

“I don’t need a vest.”

“LAPD rules, man. I know it’s stupid.”

Button held up his hands to measure Straw’s shoulders, and grinned as if he was making a joke.

“It’s one size fits all, but it oughta do. I hope it doesn’t have too many bullet holes in it.”

The business with measuring Straw’s shoulders let Button get close. He grabbed Straw’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him against the car.

“Stay there. Stay on the car.”

Button cuffed his right wrist, then hooked up the left. When the fake Straw was secure, Button stepped back and checked him for a weapon.

“Stay on the car, fucker. You’re under arrest. Do not turn around.”

“What is this, Button? What are you doing?”

“Jack Straw, my ass. I know you’re not Jack fuckin’ Straw. I just spoke to the sonofabitch.”

Detective Jerry Button glimpsed movement between two nearby cars, but did not see the man in time even when a blowing horn drew his attention. It sounded like a long, anguished wail.

Something hard punched him twice, so hard he staggered, which was when Kenny shot him again. Button fell to a knee, fumbling for the Snubbie as a tan Crown Victoria banged through oncoming traffic, spraying firefly sparks as it jumped the curb into the parking lot. Button saw Futardo, those black chocolate eyes all big in her head, coming to save him.

Button said, “No, honey—”

Kenny shot her through the windshield, then quickly walked to her window and shot her again.

Button had the Snubbie by then, but the fake Jack Straw was shouting.

“Button! Get Button!”

Button got off one round, then Kenny shot him again, hit him so hard it felt like being speared with a javelin, and the Snubbie fell free.

Straw said, “Get his key. Get me out of these things.”

Kenny snatched up his gun and rolled Button onto his back as he searched for the keys.

The sun was so goddamned bright and right in his eyes, but they were over him, Kenny uncuffing Straw.

Button said, “Pieces of shit.”

Straw glanced down, letting Button see the fear in his eyes.

“They know, man. We’re done.”

“Don’t panic. We’re close.”

“We gotta go. We’re fucked.”

“No, we’re not—”

Kenny pointed the gun straight down, blocking the sun, and Button stared into the tight black sphincter of its barrel.

“Fuck you.”

Then a gun went off, and Button thought he was dead, but Kenny staggered sideways and fell. His falling gun hit Button on the nose.

Button saw Futardo, face dripping red, leaning out her window as she struggled to fire again.

The fake Jack Straw calmly picked up Kenny’s weapon, and shot her twice more through the glass.

Button tried to grab the man’s legs, but his arms wouldn’t move. He tried to shout for help, but all he managed was a bubbly grunt.

Then the fake Straw looked down at him again, aimed his weapon, and fired.