By Tod Goldberg
Covert secret agent Michael Westen has stumbled on himself in compelled seclusion in Miami?and a bit paranoid. Watched via the FBI, bring to a halt from intelligence contacts, and together with his resources frozen, Weston is on ice with a caution: remain there or get ?disappeared.? pushed to determine who burned him and why, he?s biding his time supporting individuals with nowhere else to show. humans like socialite Cricket O?Connor whose personal husband has vanished, with her fortune...
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All of his hard edges have been smoothed over with suntan oil, boat drinks and ocean views. He's technically still on the books with the government, but is mostly just playing out the string, taking the odd investigative job, which has dovetailed into us working together solving other people's problems. Otherwise, his main job is to drink and sit in the sun . . when he's not engaged watching me for the FBI. Watching is maybe a bit of a misnomer: It's more like proctoring, since there's nothing covert about what he's doing (at least not anymore-for the first few weeks, he made a go at being secretive, but then just told me he had to do it or they'd hold up his Navy pension), and his goal isn't so much to forbid me from doing anything as it is to make sure I don't piss off the FBI enough that they have me erased completely.
It's complicated. "I don't like you calling her," I said. "She told me the cutest thing yesterday," she said. The problem with having your business partner being your former and maybe future girlfriend is that it's hard to make any essential mandates about behavior. You risk pissing off someone who may or may not call your mother either way. It's only slightly worse when the same person happens to be a former IRA gunrunner who still has something of an opaque moral center and who doesn't understand personal boundaries.
The last time you handled the job yourself," I said, "what was the final body count? Ten? " "Which I thanked you for," Sam said. "I don't like to kill people, Sam," I said. " "They were all very bad," he said. They were all bad-that was true-but a human life is a human life, and my sense is that I'm not living in a cartoon. Even the worst psychopath is someone's child, brother or sister, husband or wife or parent. If you have to kill someone to save your life, you kill them. But if you kill someone because it's easier than negotiating, you're no better than a dog that bites you just because it doesn't like your smell.