Mean Woman Blues

blind-loyal as well. If this one was, they had to deprogram her, bombard her with tapes and newspaper articles, evidence of his crimes. Or maybe it didn’t matter; maybe Jacomine had already left the country.
    And then Karen had said the magic words, “Rosemarie Owens.” Skip could see by Pennell’s face that they surprised him, made him realize his boss was new in town, might not know who she was, Jacomine’s history with her. He left the room.
    The next few minutes were as excruciating as any Skip had ever spent— imprisoned in a room with a witness she was forbidden to speak to, a potentially excellent witness, and almost worse, not knowing if Hargett had thought to cover Owens’s house. The impotence was unbearable.
    Things went rapidly downhill from there. The witness got tough. And then it turned out that not only had Hargett failed to pick up on the Owens connection, he apparently hadn’t realized that pretty little Mrs. Wright came from a family with juice, a family that was going to be outraged at her treatment.
    Her lawyer— whose name was Scott Frentz— came barreling in like Wyatt Earp, having apparently first called a judge. He wanted her released now, this minute. Skip bit her lip:
No!
She figured Karen for a dupe, but she desperately wanted her in jail to protect her from Jacomine.
    She must have made an involuntary sound. Pennell glared. He wanted her out of there; it was obvious. He said to Frentz, “I don’t care if the whole McLean dynasty comes down here and
pickets
; do you realize who this man is? The most dangerous criminal in the country is who! Number Two on the FBI’s Most Wanted List!”
    “Her family wants her home with them.”
    It wasn’t a negotiation; it was just a way of wasting time. Karen was going to jail all right, that was decided, but only for minutes. Juice had already been applied. Frentz had her bonded out almost before the cell door slammed. Evidently, her uncle the state senator had something going on a federal level. The only thing left to do was keep her under surveillance.
    Skip could have spat. And then Hargett called her into his office. “Agent Pennell feels you were a disruption during the interview.”
    “With all due respect Agent Hargett, I followed my instructions to the letter. The witness did ask to speak to me, and, honestly, I think we’d all have been better served if she’d been permitted to.”
    It wasn’t tactful, but he was throwing her out anyhow; she was sick of tactful. “As we would have if you’d sent someone immediately to Owens’s house.”
    A dangerous flush spread over his face; Skip hoped she’d never have to work with him again. She’d burned her bridges. “We won’t be needing your services any longer, Officer Langdon.”
    She said, “Yes, you will,” rose from her chair, and left.
    He’d need her services, and he was going to get them, whether he wanted to or not. She wasn’t going to be in on any FBI action, but now she could damn well talk to Karen.
    Shellmire was waiting for her outside Hargett’s office. “He threw me off the case.”
    “Shit!”
    There wasn’t time for more before Hargett opened his door and shouted, “Shellmire, get in here!”
    Feeling slightly dazed by the speed at which things were going, Skip left the building— to make Hargett happy— and pulled out her phone on the sidewalk.
    Her only shot was Karen. She figured if Senator McLean had come riding so handsomely to her rescue, he’d probably know where she was going. She phoned his office and asked for him.
    “Who may I say is calling, Ma’am?”
    “My name’s Skip Langdon. I’m a police officer who met his niece this morning.”
    “Just a moment.”
    To her surprise, she was connected almost immediately with the senator. “Officer Langdon. I’ve heard about you. Karen likes you; that ass Hargett hates you.”
    She laughed. “Well, that was quick. Actually I didn’t get a chance to talk to Karen before Hargett threw me out, which he did, five minutes ago. Listen, Senator, she’s been through hell, and there’s a good chance it’s about to get worse. I’m unofficial here, but I think I can honestly say I know the man she married better than anybody else in America; I need to talk to her, and she needs to talk to me. Any chance you can put us in touch?”
    “Up to her,” he said. “You got a cell phone? This is a hell of a thing.
Hell
of a thing.” She pictured a handsome, white-haired man shaking his head; for