Page 105 of Don't Say a Word

Mike Hitchner, Hitch to his friends, walked up to the food truck, ordered, then sat across from Cal at a covered picnic table. Cal had already eaten his street tacos—he loved this place, ate here all the time. It was convenient to both DEA headquarters and Phoenix PD where he spent far too much time working on joint task forces. They were necessary, but frustrating. Cal liked to be in the field. He needed todosomething, even if doing something was watching a drug house for three days straight.

He and Hitch had been friends and colleagues for nearly a decade, ever since Cal transferred to Phoenix DEA from Texas. It was either transfer or quit, and Cal wasn’t a quitter. Here, he had thrived and—mostly—managed to push the bullshit that happened in Texas into the past where it belonged.

So when Hitch called and said he needed a one-on-one, Cal put everything aside and met him for an early lunch.

“You look beat,” Cal said.

“Typical bullshit. Closed this fucking miserable case late last night working with CAC on a child endangerment case. Parents had drugs everywhere, addicts going in and out, and two little kidssitting in the middle of it. But parents are in jail and kids are with a relative who seems to be solid.”

Cal tipped an imaginary beer toward Hitch. “Cheers.”

“But that’s not why I wanted to meet.”

Hitch’s number was called and he went up to grab his basket, then returned to the table. “So,” he said after eating one of the street tacos in two bites, “I had a call this morning. A former cop I used to work with reached out about the Bradford case. He’s a PI now and wanted a sit-down, his partner and me, to talk about the Bradford case. I shut him down because I think they’re fishing and it has nothing to do with the supplier we’ve been looking for. But if they start stirring the shit, we may never get a handle on this guy.”

“A PI? Is the name Angelhart?”

Hitch stopped mid-bite. “He call you too?”

“No.” Cal’s name wasn’t on any of the documents related to the Bradford bust. All credit went to Phoenix PD with an “assist” from the DEA.

“His partner—Margo?”

Hitch nodded. “Margo is Jack’s sister.”

“She paid a visit to Bradford yesterday.”

“Maybe I should have talked to him.”

“Not yet. Let me see what I can learn through my sources, then we can make the call. What do you know about the Angelharts?”

“Their mother used to be the county attorney, then went into private practice. Jack was a cop until three years ago. He worked VICE when he first got his gold shield, did a stint in CAC, then Violent Crimes. Good reputation. His grandfather is a retired judge.”

“What did they want from you?” Cal asked.

“They’re looking into an overdose death of a kid who went to Sun Valley, pulled the Bradford file, wanted to talk to me about the case, pick my brain, he said. I told him it was closed, and he mentioned Bradford’s supplier.”

“Does he have anything?”

“No. Fishing, like I said. I told him that end of the investigation was all DEA. Didn’t mention your name, but it’s been cold for three years.”

Which was frustrating for both of them.

Hitch continued, “I told him if he had anything actionable to call me.”

Cal was thinking. This might be an opportunity in disguise.

“Should I have passed him to you?” Hitch asked.

“No, I want to dig into their firm, see how they operate. Was the sister, this Margo, a cop too? I did a basic run on her and didn’t see it.”

“She wasn’t a cop, but I don’t know much about her.”

Cal knew a little, and he would find out more.

“Gut feeling. Do you think they might have a line on the supplier we’ve been hunting for the last three years?”

Hitch finished his last taco and took time before he spoke. “I can tell you that Jack Angelhart was a good cop and has a solid rep. If he gets a whiff of something, he’ll follow it.”