I need to look deeper.
A knock sounded on my door. I closed my laptop and pocketed my personal phone before saying, “Come in.”
Gibson left my door open as he plopped into the old canvas covered chair on the opposite side of my desk.
“Weatherford was a dead end, so I’m thinking we focus on the current case.” It scared me how easily he could slip into a lie.
“Agreed, the link to the Singers was tenuous at best.”
People assumed lying and subterfuge came naturally to CIA officers, but it didn’t.
For some, like Gibson, lying was a cakewalk. For others, like me, it made our skin crawl.
I wasn’t the guy running clandestine ops; that was Gibson.
I was the guy doing the research, deep diving into every dark corner and making connections others didn’t see. When I went undercover, I drank coffee and manipulated people into sharing their secrets with a friendly American.
Lying on reports, stealing evidence, and baiting traps were all things I could do. Had done. It just wasn’t my strong suit, and I hated doing it.
And I’ve never had to use my skills to catch a criminal on my home turf.
“Let’s brainstorm over pizza and beer at the mom and pop joint everyone’s been recommending.”
The mom and pop joint in question was a local hangout for the personnel in the Dallas office. It’d be easy for a fellow officer to follow us without standing out.
Time to go fishing.
The Bunker Tap and Grill was exactly what I’d expected. The American flag had a place of honor behind the bar, and flags from the military branches decorated the walls. Scattered in the spaces between the flags and pictures of men and women in uniform were banners with patches from local law enforcement agencies.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked. It felt a little too obvious to be a CIA hangout.
“Yup.”
“Sit wherever you’d like,” a tall woman in her late thirties shouted from the bar.
We chose a seat in the middle of the dining room and waited for our server to bring us menus.
“Tonight is four dollar domestic tap night,” she said as she handed us our menus. “You guys need a minute?”
“We do, thanks,” I answered.
“Sausage, pepper, and onion sound good?” G asked.
“Good enough.” Once again, I found myself missing Roni’s home-cooked meals.
If I had a chance, I’d schedule dinner with my family before leaving the area again.
After ordering a large pizza and two pints of domestic beer, I said, “Too bad the Singer connection in Weatherford was a bust.”
Without context, that information meant nothing.
“It happens.” G shrugged it off. “We follow dead ends all the time.”
“You’d think with modern technology there’d be fewer,” I pondered.
“You’d think.”
Our server dropped off our beers.
