A Perfect Eye by Stephanie Kane

Author:Stephanie Kane [Kane, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781733671507
Publisher: Cold Hard Press
Published: 2019-08-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

The combo plate was a salute to the Mexican flag. The burrito and enchiladas were striped red and green, and the tacos were slathered with sour cream. Paul draped his suitcoat over the back of his chair, tucked his tie into his crisp white dress shirt, and dug in. Special Agent Slatkin passed him the pozole.

“They soak the hominy in lye, Paul. You can’t get food like this in D.C.”

“Damn right.”

The taqueria was way out on Colfax, deeper into East Bumblefuck than the local FBI fortress itself. For the Feds after 9-11, downtown offices no longer sufficed; the towering fence, colossal floodlights, and pervasive cameras made the new Denver headquarters look like a maximum-security prison. When Slatkin suggested lunch off-site, Paul offered to buy. As temporary license plates started outnumbering permanent tags, neon signs gave way to hand-painted block-lettered ones, and holes in the wall began touting catfish hotlinks, he knew he was being pimped. But dives were his kind of place. He reached for the menudo.

“You like cow’s stomach?” Slatkin said doubtfully.

“When it’s this tender.” The chile was gelatinous from pork neck bones. “What’s in the red sauce, ground coffee?”

Slatkin threw up his hands and surrendered to the menudo. As he slurped, the consternation on his face slowly turned to unalloyed delight.

“Tell me about the Petrosian case,” Paul said. “You were the lead agent, right?”

Slatkin grimaced. “It was supposed to be a slam-dunk seizure under the Trading with the Enemy Act.”

“The case went sideways?”

“Fiasco start to finish. I warned them not to file it.”

Paul ordered Coronas, and Slatkin continued.

“We got a tip Petrosian was planning to smuggle in an antique Chinese vase. When it landed in Denver, he claimed he bought it in Taiwan from a family who said it was modern. We seized the vase and indicted him for a false Customs declaration. Then the fun began.”

“Fun?”

“His lawyers had the U.S. Attorney on the ropes from day one. Customs regs unconstitutionally vague, improper seizure, violation of Fifth Amendment, yada yada. The corker came first day of trial.”

The waiter slammed two cold cans of Corona on the table. As Paul popped the tab and brought his can to his mouth, foam spurted up his nose and down his chin. He pulled the sweaty can back just in time to avoid staining his tie and shirt.

“Our expert was from Harvard,” Slatkin said. “He said the vase was Qing Dynasty.”

Paul’s nose tickled from the beer. When was the last time he drank from a shaken can? It reminded him of the time he stuck a Mentos tablet in his old man’s Coke.

“And?”

“He walks into court and looks at the defense table. ‘Rosie!’ he cries.”

“He knew Petrosian?”

“Harvard classmates. Rosie has a PhD in art history.”

“Shit.”

“Experts pull their opinions from their ass,” Slatkin groused. “Had a fraud case once—”

“What happened next?”

“‘Rosie’s the real expert,’ our guy says. ‘If he says it’s modern, who am I to disagree?’ Case didn’t even reach the jury. The U.S. Attorney blamed us, then bitched about being micromanaged from D.

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