Among Thieves Read Online Free PDF Page A

We haven’t let him touch anything, but I didn’t know whether we could kick him out. He’s got a badge.”
    She nodded and walked toward the man. He saw her coming and closed his phone. As she got nearer, he took off his glasses.
     “Detective?” he said.
    She nodded. “Sanchez. And you are?”
    “Special Agent Hewitt.”
    “Special Agent Hewitt, what are you doing at my crime scene?”
    He stared at her. “Looking,” he said after a moment.
    “For anything in particular?”
    “I’m on a task force that deals with organized crime. I heard there was a murder down here at the Body Shop.”
    “Do you have any specific reason to believe that this case is federal in nature?”
    The agent sucked slowly at his teeth. “Murphy was a well-known gang leader. He was involved in everything from guns to drugs
     to prostitution to extortion. I don’t have any reason to believe that this wasn’t related to his racketeering activities.”
    Sanchez folded her arms. “Let me ask the question a different way, Special Agent Hewitt: are you asserting federal jurisdiction
     here? Because if you are, I’ll have our people out of here in about five minutes and you can take over. Then if something
     goes wrong, it’s your ass in a sling, not mine.”
    It took him a moment to answer. “No, I’m not asserting jurisdiction,” he said.
    “Good,” Sanchez said. “In that case, I’d appreciate it if you’d clear out until my people are done. I’ll get you a report
     as soon as one is ready, but until then, I have control over the crime scene, and I can’t have my people working with someone
     looking over their shoulders.”
    “Detective Sanchez, I’m a special agent with the FBI,” Hewitt began in protest. She cut him off.
    “So was John Connolly, and he’s still got three years left in supermax out at Allenwood for tipping off Whitey Bulger and
     his mob, right? For years, your federal boys ran interference for these guys whenever we tried to put them away, so you’ll
     pardon me if the ‘Special Agent’ mystique doesn’t cut a whole lot of shit with me. I’ll keep you informed as appropriate,
     but I need you out so we can do our job. Either that or you take the lead yourself. Which is it gonna be?”
    Hewitt put his glasses back on. “I’ll expect a full report, complete with pictures, by the end of the day,” he said.
    “You can expect whatever you want,” Sanchez replied. “No skin off my nose.”
    Hewitt stood there for a moment, then walked past them, out toward the front door to the garage.

    “Cocksucker,” McAfee said under his breath as he watched Hewitt walk out of the Body Shop.
    “Maybe he’s just doing his job,” Stone offered.
    “Maybe,” Sanchez said. “I’m not taking any chances, though. We have a job to do, too. And I don’t want the feds fucking up
     one of my cases.” She looked at McAfee. “Let’s get to it. What are we looking at?”
    “You want to look at Bags first?” he asked.
    “Should we?”
    McAfee gave a gesture falling somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “He’s a good warm-up. He’s in better shape than Vinny.”
     He pointed over into a corner behind a tool rack. Sanchez moved in that direction and Stone followed.
    John Smith was known to most as “Johnny Bags.” The nickname came from his early career ferrying loads of cash to local political
     bosses. His body was crumpled in a corner of the garage, tucked behind a rack of utility drawers. In life he’d been a fearsome
     man, six-five with an angry face and a disposition devoid of humanity’s finer traits. In death he looked almost peaceful,
     curled into a fetal position, his head resting on his left hand. Only the angle at which his right arm was twisted—straight
     out from the shoulder, its palm turned upward in an impossible feat of contortion—suggested that the man was anything other
     than resting. A closer look revealed the two holes in his forehead, and stepping over the body, Sanchez