As the work day ends and customers start to enter the bar, I decide to head out. I need to get my thoughts together . . . prepare myself to think clearly for tomorrow. I thought I had accomplished that while I was in Australia but this week I let my sharpened mind wander. I say my goodbyes and exit the bar.
When I come to the door, I stick my earbuds in, step out into the rain, and think about the case. Two of the heads of the Mexican drug cartel I’d investigated were arrested last October but there were always believed to be five people running the operation. Well, really, ever since Caleb presented the information to me I thought one guy was at the helm and the other four followed his lead—but I could never prove it. The fifth guy was actually the cleanest. Of course I uncovered a lot about the operation because Caleb gave me a lead that no other reporters had.
And what I uncovered was an enormous setup of drug runners selling methamphetamines, cocaine, heroin, and more. I always feel uneasy when I think back to what my initial investigation led me to—drops, people, routes, banking info, and other data I never even had a chance to dissect. Facts I had stupidly kept track of even after killing the story. Details responsible for the assault on Dahl. Information I gladly handed over to Caleb before I left for Australia. Fuck . . . why am I still involved in this thing? What am I missing?
***
The next morning I glance at my watch, a cheap Timex I bought off a street vendor in Times Square while I lived in New York City. Eight forty-five a.m. I make a mental note to go through the boxes in my mother’s attic when I go back to Laguna to see if my Nixon is in one of them. I was wearing it the day I “died” but I wasn’t allowed to keep it. All of my personal belongings were given to my mother. Serena bought me that watch for my twenty-first birthday because she knew I’d appreciate the tide watch dial.
A black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls up to the curb and the door opens. Without a word from the man in a suit, white dress shirt, and tie, I hop in. We ride in silence to the white high-rise building on 11000 Wilshire Blvd. He pulls the car over, hops out again, and opens my door, motioning for me to get out. As soon as my feet hit the pavement another dude dressed just like the driver approaches me.
“Mr. Covington, follow me, please.”
After sailing quickly through security, we approach the glass enclosed reception window and my companion offers a single nod. The receptionist hands me a visitor’s badge and I wrap the cord around my neck. My nerves are buzzing as we pass the round gold seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the framed picture of the president, and the various most-wanted posters that I feel I’ve passed a few too many times in my life.
“Special Agent Bass is waiting for you inside,” the man tells me.