Sin didn’t answer at first, but continued to stare down at her phone. While doing so, she said, “Silence in the face of evil is in itself evil.”
“That’s profound,” Fletcher responded. “So now you’re quoting Dietrich Bonhoeffer. If I remember right, he was executed by the Nazis.”
Sin stopped texting for a moment and gazed out the windshield. “To die in a noble cause doesn’t seem to be such a bad thing. I can think of much worse ways to go.”
Garcia, sitting in the backseat, taking in the conversation leaned forward. “Who you texting?”
Sin realizing that Garcia was trying to break the tension, smiled internally. “The Stoklers’ attorney,” she replied. “I want to meet with the brother and sister at ten this morning.” Sin looked up and stared out the windshield. “I also sent a text to Charlie. I found some information in his files that I still don’t understand. I think we all need to talk.”
“Isn’t he on some sort of walk-a-bout?” Fletcher asked.
“Yeah, but I have an emergency contact.” She continued before either person could ask, “I think the situation can be categorized as an emergency, don’t you?”
Fletcher looked in the rearview mirror at Garcia, and then smirked. “Damn near,” he replied in a heavy Australian accent, “damn near.”
By the time they made it back to the Miami Beach office, it was six thirty and the sun was rising.
Fletcher plopped his butt down in a chair and poured himself a cup of old coffee. He swirled the sludge in his cup but didn’t drink it. “What do you say we file these reports later and get something to eat?”
“Sounds good to me,” Sin said, stretching her arms out to her sides and arching her back. “I could use some grease and good caffeine.”
Thirty minutes later the three of them were sitting in a diner surrounded by senior citizens and ordinary people grabbing a bite before heading to their nine-to-five.
Sin sat back and traced the top of her cup with a finger.
“What ya thinking, Boss Lady?”
“Huh?”
“It’s one of your only tells,” Garcia answered. “When you’re in deep thought you bite your lower lip, or if there happens to be a beer bottle or coffee mug in front of you, you trace the rim.”
“Which you’ve been doing for the past ten minutes,” Fletcher added.
Sin, who had been sitting with one leg curled beneath her, uncoiled herself and slid her mug toward the middle of the table. Her eyes surveyed the restaurant. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to lead a normal life? You know, one where you go to work every day and go home at night not worrying if someone is going to kill you.” She eyed an older couple at the table next to them. “One where you grow old with someone?”
Fletcher, the always boisterous one, was suddenly quiet, as if contemplating her question. He wiped his sandy-blond hair from his eyes and stared down at the table. “I’m forty-two years old,” he sighed, “and I figure this is the life I was supposed to lead.” He picked up a butter knife and twirled it between his fingers, continuing to avoid eye contact. “I had a wife once,” a pleasant, loving smile came to his face. “It was a long time ago.” Sin and Garcia glanced at each other, knowing instantly that neither of them had been privy to this information. “I was twenty-one years old, studying at Oxford. I was in class one day when word circulated that there had been a terrorist bombing at one of the railway stations. A rail my wife took to work every day. I got a bad feeling. You know, one where your chest gets so tight you can’t even exhale.” His smile was gone, replaced by a vacant expression. “I ran out of class, threw up in a taxi on way to the scene, and found out my wife and unborn child were dead.”
He put the knife down and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll meet you both outside.”
Garcia went to stand, but Sin reached out and pulled him back down. “Let him go.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You mind if I ask you something?”
“I’m an open book, Garcia. Be my guest.”
“Your question. Were you asking because your boyfriend went back to Tumbleboat? Are you thinking of doing the same?”
Sin wiped her mouth and let the left corner of her lips curl upward in a lopsided smile. “You were always the intuitive one.”
“Sniper’s curse.”
Sin raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement. “To answer your question, yes and no.” She slapped cash on the table and stood to leave.
“Wait,” Garcia said. “Yes and no? What kind of answer is that?”
“Use your sniper’s curse to figure it out. Let’s move. We have a killer to catch.”
The three of them were sitting in the conference room waiting for the Stoklers to arrive when Sin’s phone vibrated.
“It’s Frank,” she said, picking it up from the table. “Good morning, Director, how can I help you this morning?”
“Cut it, Sin. I’ve been sitting by my phone since two thirty in the morning waiting for you to call. Twenty minutes ago, I get an email from Duggen letting me know what a great success his mission was.”
“So all’s good,” Sin interrupted, “why the attitude?”
“The attitude, Agent O’Malley, comes from a little promise you gave me about not going on a damn killing spree.” Frank’s voice became louder with every word. “My attitude comes from my own naiveté in thinking that I could ever reunite you with any of your unit and have any other result than the one I received!”
Sin eyed Fletcher and Garcia who were listening in. She could tell they were waiting for her to rain a verbal assault on Frank, but instead, she remained calm. Sin waited for Frank to finish stating his perspective; only then, did she speak.
“I’m tired, Frank,” she began. “I haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours, and I
