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Charlie rubbed his eyes. “Assuming that I am who you think I am, you know I couldn’t speak with any certainty.” Charlie paused. “You remember those commercials that came out right after 9/11? Those ones that said if people buy weed, they’re supporting the terrorists?”

Perez nodded.

“Well, let’s say there was a sect of al-Qaeda or al-Shabaab or some other group you’ve never heard of operating almost off the grid on plans for another attack on U.S. soil. Then let’s say, through intelligence gathering, you found financial threads to the group that wrapped all around the world, like the butterfly effect. Maybe they didn’t know they were a part of it, but they were. And let’s say as those threads are getting pulled at, you find there is a pretty successful drug operation being used as a money-laundering front by these bad men. Would you say that could be probable cause for OGA to get involved?”

Perez just looked over at Charlie, who seemed to stare at nothing, looking like a cold, blank slate. He had trouble wrapping his mind around the CIA being in his town, but with the involvement of the Other Government Agency branch—agents dedicated to secret operations—Perez was just happy that it was all over.

Charlie went on, “Then imagine that you’re looking into the players. You have guys who get close to the operation and send back intel, pictures, and everything, and in one of those pictures you see someone who looks familiar, only from so long ago that it’s like you’re trying to remember a dream. How messed up is that? A guy not remembering his sister on sight? Then the idea comes in to use that angle, to go and find the operation, to use the sister to get closer to the inner workings. You draw up a back-story and plant it shallow, in case anyone is even somewhat competent at digging, and then you go on your merry way. You run the operation like you know how to run operations, only you find out that the sister is dead.” Charlie paused.

“Did you know Kay was involved? That it was her idea to come to North Dakota?” Perez asked.

Charlie looked up at him, wondering how he knew.

“The Baker. He talks even more than you.”

Charlie looked back down and slowly spun his coffee cup on the counter. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know. The problem with intelligence is that it’s hard to know whose idea anything is, on either side.”

“What about the other two spooks?” Perez asked. When a waitress walked over, he ordered a cup of coffee.

“Good to have friends. It’s not the best idea to go into a new place as conservative about their firearms policies as North Dakota without someone keeping an eye on you. Personally, I thought the Town Car and sunglasses were a bit over the top, but they convinced me otherwise. Why does everyone think trained operatives would walk around like tourists? The average person spends so much time surrounded by fiction that they start to accept it as reality.”

“So that was just more story? You left it to me and Nikki to infer that those guys were chasing you down, maybe so we’d leave you be and let the Agency police its own?”

Charlie put his hand over his cup as the waitress filled Perez’s mug and asked if Charlie wanted more. “Sounds like a good idea in this hypothetical scenario. Should a guy find himself surrounded by guns, backup would be a good way to get out.”

“It got sloppy though. That explosion at Dick and Clarence’s trailer, was that part of the plan? The M.E.’s report said Clarence was dead before the explosion. His chest was caved in.”

Charlie sighed and looked down. His mouth was open, and his jaw moved, but no words came out at first. “You’ve seen what meth does, right, Sergeant? I have, thanks to research, but you’ve seen the mothers and fathers who ignore crying babies because they’re high or wanna get high, right? Three-year-olds in recovery programs?” Charlie balled up a fist, and Perez could hear restraint in his voice. “How can a man see that kind of thing, babies suffering, and still stay on point?”

“I don’t know. You just have to,” Perez said.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, that’s what they said when they pulled me out of the Congo after sixteen men from a rebel patrol were found. They were on their way back from burning down a village full of women and children. Maybe the only reason the Agency didn’t burn me was because I left two who could talk and corroborate my story. Even that—”

“You took a lot of risks,” Perez said. “There’s a lot of evidence left behind.”

“Are you sure about that?” Charlie asked. “I’m guessing the forensics will be pretty inconclusive, assuming you guys have a lab. A lot of bodies, the guns that match the bullets, even the ones in some bodies about thirty miles out of town at a trucker graveyard. Plus explosions tend mess up body positioning. You’ll find a lot of fingerprints, none of which are mine. In the end, all you have is a guy who came into town in a funny hat and IDed his dead sister.”

“That’s still something,” Perez said.

Charlie shrugged. “I knew this wasn’t a zero-residual presence op when I took it. I figure they’ll  send me back to the sandbox anyway. Kay was my last tie to American soil, so who knows what’s next?”

Perez looked away from Charlie and took a sip of the steaming-hot coffee. “We haven’t found Damon’s body yet.”

Charlie didn’t move.

“I take it we won’t, will we?”

“The way I hear it, the size of the explosion is gonna make it hard to piece the body parts together. Then again, if there were a person with intimate knowledge of the trafficking and laundering, I’d guess he’d be a valuable source, even if, through a lapse in judgment, he had his vocal cords collapsed. The guy can still write, I suppose.” Charlie took out his wallet and put some cash on the counter.

“There’s just one more thing I’m wondering about,” Perez asked. “The Baker seems as scared about going to prison as anyone I’ve ever met, so he’s been telling us a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie said.

“He said some huge deal was supposed to be going down the night of the explosion.”

Charlie looked up at Perez, but he didn’t say anything.

“The thing is, we found a whole lot of meth around, and the area was practically toxic for hours after the explosion—so bad that the firefighters first on the scene had to be treated for inhalation problems. There was all that product, which Damon would never keep around, but no money.”

“Weird,” Charlie said.

“Why would someone as cautious as Damon bring all that product in without any money changing hands?” Perez asked.

Charlie adjusted his hat, pulling the brim of it a little further down his brow. He looked at his watch, then reached down at his side, where Perez couldn’t see because of the position of the stools. He slid a duffle bag over. “As long as we’re talking in hypotheticals, if a cop had a sick wife and was offered some found money—unmarked cash that really didn’t belong to anyone and would probably just wind up in some evidence locker for all time—would the cop take it? Especially if that money was enough to cover the cost of a surgery that might save her life.”

Perez looked down at the duffle and back up at Charlie. “If that cop took that money, he wouldn’t be any better than the drug dealers, the men he’s sworn to protect people like his wife from.”

Charlie smiled and grabbed the handles of the duffle bag, then set it up on the counter. “You’re one of the good guys, Sergeant Perez, so I guess it’s a good thing there’s no money in this bag, huh?”

Perez unzipped the bag and found nothing but a white business card in the bottom. He grabbed it and turned it over. “The Kelly Foundation?” Perez asked, holding up the card.

Charlie gave him a simple, placating smile. “A lot of money gets found out there. It goes to all kinds of places, and sometimes it wanders all over and gets lost.”

Perez shook his head and stared at the man he didn’t know, a man he was pretty sure he couldn’t trust and was a danger to himself and others.

Charlie patted him on the shoulder and walked toward the door of the café. “There’s no money in there, but still, I think you’ll like it. Consider it a gift to the only good man I know.”

Before Perez could ask Charlie anything, his phone rang. Charlie didn’t turn as he walked out the door. Perez answered his phone as he watched Charlie walk up to a black sedan with two familiar-looking men standing next to it, smoking. “Hello?” Perez said, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Mark,” Elsa said, sounding full of energy, a tone he hadn’t heard in her voice in a long time. “Did you hear?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“I just found out that some foundation is donating the money for my surgery. Oh my God.. I-I don’t know what to say. I’ve been almost shaking here since they told me.”

“El, what are you talking about? What foundation?” Perez asked, still watching as Charlie lit up a cigarillo.

“I don’t really know. It’s kind of vague, like they’re just doing it for tax deductions or something, and they aren’t making a big deal out of it, but my God, I just…”

Charlie looked back into the diner, holding the little cigar between his lips. He didn’t smile or nod or even indicate that he was actually looking at Perez. He just stood there for a moment before climbing into the back of the car.

“I think,” Elsa said, “it was something like the, uh, Cary Foundation.”

“The Kelly Foundation?” Perez asked.

“That’s it. You know it?”

The car drove away and turned down the road and out of sight in just a few seconds.

“Not really, El. Not really.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jon Grilz lives and works in Minnesota with his family. His only true goals in life are to be the best writer, husband and father he can possibly be
. He works at all three every day.