A Desert Dweller's Field Guide: Taking Down a Criminal Enterprise

By Nic Tompkins

Charlie Eliasson has spent her life tackling one bizarre situation after another, the product of growing up wild in the jungle with a pack of equally wild siblings. Now living back in the U.S., her life is finally somewhat normal. She's nearly finished her Masters degree, has a good job, and spends her days

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arrow T Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986642208

Nic Tompkins

Nic Tompkins is a native Arizonan, born and bred, though in the middle of that were a lot of years living on a ranch in Nebraska. When she wasn't running wild in the desert, she was driving cattle across the Great Plains on an ATV. With countless aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings, she has been immersed in crazy life stories since before she can remember, and sometimes loses track if they were hers or somebody else's. All that wide-open nature and yarn-spinning sparked an imagination that never shuts down, and the only way to deal with that is to do the opposite: let it run and see where it goes. That's how anyone gets anywhere interesting, anyway. As a result of this, books are born and their characters are spontaneously added into conversations with real life people, which causes no end of confusion.Nic also has a lot of real life experience and a whole bunch of higher education, but tends to get lost in books and the great outdoors, so who knows if they actually do her any good.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

An agonizing pain in her side dogged at her as she staggered through the desert brush, the bits of cholla sticking into her legs and breaking off only adding to her general state of misery. The sun was just beginning to beat overhead, dissipating the chill and forcing her out of the numb state she had occupied for the past few hours—bringing new focus to her many injuries. She had only a vague idea of where she was, but it was sufficient. Move away from danger and toward safety—simple enough.

How did I end up in this situation? She thought miserably.

She knew exactly how, but still it seemed beyond comprehension. At this point, though, maybe retreating into the memory was the best way to preserve her slipping sanity.

Eyes glazed, she trudged on.

Six Weeks Earlier

That the museum had hired her at all, especially with her time frame, was nothing short of a miracle in the form of old favors done for old friends. Charlotte Eliasson, known to most as Charlie or Chuck, was grateful for the opportunity since historical conservation could be a difficult field to break into. Even with her thesis advisor cashing in on an old debt owed him by the director of the museum, she was available only from October through December, and she was very much aware that that wasn’t ideal for anyone, especially since her availability even there was limited with time off for holidays. She sighed. As a lowly grad student, it certainly helped to have willing friends with connections in the discipline. Charlie had been working at the museum for only about a month and a half, but that time had been some of the most enjoyable she had ever spent on a job.

She worked mostly by herself processing artwork, and it suited her just fine. The majority of it was indigenous to the area and was older than the last century, but occasionally she handled paintings done by local Tucson artists intent on capturing their home on canvas. Pre-Columbian Southwest and cultures of Mesoamerica were the focus of her studies, and while she didn’t often get to handle artifacts from that era, the experience was valuable nonetheless. She never tired of the thrill she got when she could see and feel history right under her fingertips. If ever there was a place steeped in history, that was it. That morning she had walked into the main building, nestled in the foothills on the east side of the city, looking forward to what the day held.

Settled into her little out-of-the-way workroom, the hours, though busy, passed by uneventfully, and she enjoyed the windows that faced west from her office where she was currently working with local paintings. Sunlight poured in as the day grew late, unusually warm for November but welcome nonetheless. As she was by herself, Charlie had headphones in, listening to Ella Fitzgerald croon as she inventoried their most recent acquisitions and checked them for damage.

She had no illusions as to her low-on-the-totempole position at the museum. She knew she was just there for grunt work—no one would envy the hours she spent hunched over wooden crates carefully inspecting art for imperfections and damage—but still she appreciated the ease of it and the fact that she was able to work with artifacts she loved and had studied for years. She didn’t interact with many people at the museum on any given day besides her boss—the director, Mr. Jackson—and occasionally the head of acquisitions, though she tried to avoid him when she could. He talked far too much for her liking. Not that she had anything against conversation, but it was just something in his manner that threw her off. There were a lot of employees, but she was pretty isolated for her part of the process. The new guy in the office, Andrew Connors, was hired just after her and kept asking her out on a date whenever he saw her. Actually, date really stretched the limits of what he implied. Call her crazy, but she wasn’t particularly interested in the Ivy League dropout whose silver tongue didn’t quite cover the sleazy looks he raked over her. Oh, he would be charming if you ignored the glint in his eye, but he was disingenuous and far too invested in his own profit without regard for those around him. Dating wasn’t the first thing on her to-do list anyway.

At this hour, though, everyone besides the director had gone for the day, but still a few paintings remained for her to finish with.

It was strange, really, that they brokered so much art. They had no gallery and operated strictly as a museum, the gift shop only containing small objects in a Southwestern style. She certainly didn’t take issue with it, but it seemed odd when as a rule museums worked only through acquisition or the lending of collections. As long as they weren’t selling off historical pieces, though, she didn’t mind.

Perched on the stool next to her most recent crate of paintings, Charlie let out a sigh and rubbed her aching eyes. Now the day felt long. Though not technically part of her job, she inspected the paintings that were supposed to be shipped out as well. The crates occupied one side of her workspace, and when she finished with the inventory that the museum had, she would often package and prepare the paintings that littered the area. They crowded her already small room, and it felt good to make it orderly when possible. Even though these were modern, she always inspected them with the same care and diligence she would for a historical piece.

That being said, however, it did make her days stretch longer. By now her feet hurt and she just wanted to stop and get something to eat on her way home.

She couldn’t imagine that the takeout place near here got many orders at—what time was it? She checked the clock: nine-fifty already. If she wanted something, she would have to call ahead to order so it would be ready.

Taking off the protective cotton gloves she had been wearing, she pulled the phone out of her back pocket. The taquería was the most called number on her frequently called list. She huffed a laugh—that was unsurprising. She tapped on their contact icon and heard the call ring.

Hello—this is Alvaro.

A pleased smile crossed her face. Her favorite of the employees there, Alvaro was the only one anywhere under the age of seventy and she had struck up an easy friendship with him over the past month, often chatting for a while when she came in to get her food.

Hey, man—this is Charlie. I see you’re working as late as I am. Can I place an order for a burro asada? I want to pick it up when I’m done at the museum.

Hey, Chuck. Yeah, I can get that in for you. He paused and she could hear the scratch of a pencil on the other end of the line. Just the usual?

Yup.

He hummed under his breath and started writing again, the scritch-scritch of the pencil lead resuming as he repeated her order under his breath in Spanish.

Got it. When are you planning to be in?

I won’t be too much longer. I’m about done, and I haven’t eaten since this morning. Lots of motivation to wrap it up here. Thanks!

No problem. He gave a soft grunt and she imagined he was shifting the old corded phone from his shoulder. The thing was ancient and still had a shoulder support from the eighties, which made it look like it would be clumsy to handle. He let out a hum and she could hear a smile. It’s not as if we’re busy at this time of night. You’re the only order in the last forty-five minutes.

Yeah, well, Charlie said with a smirk, how many people do you think would eat something so heavy at ten o’clock at night?

None of the normal ones, that’s for sure.

Very funny, Alvaro. I’ll be by soon.

She heard him chuckle at the other end of the line and couldn’t help the satisfied smile that broke across her tired face in response. No problem, he repeated. See you.

The line clicked off and she put down her phone. The drive back to the guest house on the north side was a long one, but she lived there when she wasn’t at her school in Montana, and since starting at the museum, she had been taking advantage of that time in the car to consume Mexican food after the long shifts.

Her feet were aching in spite of the comfortable Sanuks that she wore for long days, but she stood back up off the stool and started checking the next painting for shipping. She checked for dirt and damage, running her re-gloved hands gently over any spots that looked suspicious.

This particular piece was exceptionally unexceptional. The sea of beiges made her eyes cross. It was so completely bland, she couldn’t help but wonder why anyone would pay for it, let alone to ship it by sea to Maracaibo. Then again, maybe someone in Venezuela wanted a break from all the rich greenery around them.

For some reason.

As she swept her hand along the bottom edge, her mind wandered in exhaustion as she looked blankly at the dull colors and uninteresting landscape on the canvas.

What was that? Her finger brushed against a raised portion of the frame. Squinting in the low light, Charlie looked closer. It was unusual that such an anomaly in the frame had not caught any extra paint.

Actually, it almost appeared as if there were something wedged in the back between the stretched canvas and the wood, which was arguably odder than a bump on the frame. The curls that she hadn’t bothered to contain all day fell forward into her face, and she brushed them back frustratedly as she turned the painting over. She blinked, trying to remoisten the contacts that had dried throughout the day so she could see what it was that was stuck. It looked like . . . a micro-SD card.

Well, that didn’t make any sense.

She grabbed tweezers and pulled it out, turning it over in her hand. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t belong there. Shrugging, she pocketed it, now more than ever ready to leave.

The remaining paintings didn’t seem to have any of the same marks, and she was quickly done with the rest of her work. It was nearly ten-thirty as she walked out the door to the dimly lit orange-toned parking lot where her old beat-up 70s Volkswagen Rabbit sat. Early winter in the desert usually meant near-freezing temperatures at night, and she burrowed into the thick wool-knit wraparound she wore. There had been a cold snap in the last few weeks, though, and the nights had dipped below freezing with regularity. There had even been snow up in the foothills. Shivering, she stuck her hands in her pockets, warming her cold fingers and absentmindedly rubbing the SD card in the confines of the fabric. She had no idea how it came to be there but decided she would put it in her computer back home to see what was on it.

Unlocking the car, she plopped into the seat, turning the key and listening to the engine sputter to life as she waited for the heat to kick in. Satisfied that she wouldn’t freeze in the next few minutes, she pulled out of the lot and drove the few minutes to pick up her late-night burrito.

The door of the little takeout shop jingled as she walked in, and though the neon light flashed open, Charlie was the only one inside.

There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you wouldn’t show.

Breathing a small laugh, she turned from the windows and saw Alvaro with a cloth in his hand.

Okay, so under seventy had been a bit of an undersell. Somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties, Alvaro worked at the shop in his spare time to help cover his family’s bills. His uncles, she had learned early on, were the ones who owned the little restaurant, and as they had aged, Alvaro had stepped in to keep things running and earn more. They kept saying they would find other help, but with how much they were putting it off, Charlie imagined they knew they wouldn’t find anyone they could trust as much as him. In the past month, after she had found the shop on her way home from her second day at work, they had spent nearly every evening after her shift talking while she ate and he closed up the restaurant. Sometimes his sister was there too, sometimes his mother, but usually it was just him. Right then, he looked to be in the process of cleaning up and was smiling with an edge of good-natured sarcasm in her direction.

She returned the expression. You know me, man. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow and all that. It took me longer than I expected. I still have food to pay for?

Por supuesto, he scoffed. I’m not letting your guilt money get away tonight, Chuck. I’ve been here since opening this morning and can use all the help I can get.

He had a point. Charlie always felt bad ordering this late and was prone to compensate with a hefty tip.

Well then, you’re in luck. My guilty conscience is a little louder than usual tonight.

Glad to hear it. A smile made his eyes crease at the corners as he took the bills from her proffered hand, tapping the order total and payment into the battered old cash register. The machine made the same rattling sound it usually did, stubbornly refusing to open, but it only took him pounding his fist into the side of it once to get it to cooperate, so it was a good night. Normally as orderly as the rest of him, tonight his hair fell over his face as he ducked his head to get her change from the drawer.

Feeling chatty after such a long day with no company, Charlie leaned against the counter and reached into her takeout bag to pop one of the pickled jalapeños into her mouth. So, she asked around her mouthful, how’re classes? Ready to ditch legal writing once and for all?

He looked up and raised an eyebrow at her. Not much point in getting the degree if I was going to ‘ditch legal writing’ when I graduated.

I suppose, she acknowledged with a reluctant smile. He had a sense of humor, but his more serious nature meant he tended toward droll. However, she dragged out the word, you didn’t answer the question.

Chuck, I’m pretty sure no one has ever liked legal writing. Or torts. Or contract law. Well, he paused and smirked grimly, maybe contract law, but those people are insane. But you forget—I already graduated. It’s taking the bar that I’m dreading.

She had forgotten. She couldn’t remember the number he had told her, but taking the bar was ridiculously expensive, and he had delayed taking the test so that he could pay living and medical expenses for his family while slowly saving.

Sí, she said, nodding. I remember now. I can’t imagine you’re looking forward to that much.

He grimaced. No, I’ve spent more time in my books these last months than I ever did in school. I’m just so worried that I’m going to forget everything. I want it over with, but I’m terrified of not passing.

With his dedication? Not likely.

I doubt you have any cause for concern. She popped another pepper into her mouth. How’s your dad? Is he doing okay with how cold and wet it’s been recently?

Worry clouded his dark eyes and his brow furrowed. I might know if he ever talked about it, but he refuses to admit if he’s in pain. You know his leg has bothered him for years, ever since the accident, and he does seem to be moving slower the last few days. At least with me having more time now that I’m not in school, I’ve been able to convince him to let me cover more of their expenses. A very serious smile barely lifted the corners of his mouth and he gestured grandly to the interior of the shop. Hence me working here so much. I think I mentioned it last week, but he’s supposed to start for a company—working mostly from home, stuff he can do without physical involvement. But, he shrugged, we don’t know if that will pan out. Rosa’s kept him distracted, though. She won a medal in her science fair.

The mention of his precocious baby sister brought a soft smile to her face. And she’ll win each one after this. Ten-year-olds shouldn’t be allowed to be that smart.

Rosa had been in the shop a number of nights when Charlie had come by, keeping her brother company and whipping through her homework. The last time Charlie had seen her, Rosa had caught an error on the teacher’s part and had very solemnly asked Charlie how to address it with the man the next day.

Alvaro’s serious smile gained some life at the mention, and he dipped his chin in a nod, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. She will at that. I can barely keep up anymore. She makes Dad smile, which is a miracle these days. How about your brother? Heard from him lately?

Charlie shook her head. No, not that I expect to. I probably won’t hear a word from him ‘til I pick him up at the airport.

Yeah? I wonder what it would be like to have a quiet sibling.

Charlie barked a laugh. Hardly. Much like me, it’s getting him to shut up that’s the trick.

Well—a grin spread across his face—I hate to feed into that, but I do need to close up one of these days, so if you could get your jaw to stop moving . . .

She laughed again and pushed up from the counter. Yeah, yeah. I’m going. Tell Rosie hi from me.

I will. Buenas noches, Charlie.

’Night, Alvaro. She waggled her fingers in a wave and pushed the door open with a jingle of the bell. Cold night air washed over her face and she dug into the steaming burrito, ready to get home.

CHAPTER TWO

It wasn’t until after eleven when she had finally pulled up to her little guest house. Drained and inexplicably agitated, she parked and walked to her door, unlocking it and dropping her keys on the table by the heavy wooden door. She flicked the light on and trudged in, collapsing on the couch for a moment to work up the motivation to shower. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she figured out what was on the card, Charlie lit a fire in the plastered stone fireplace that dominated the main room of the adobe guest house. She breathed in and looked around, searching for peace from the familiar surroundings.

Sturdy mesquite furniture filled the living area, handmade by the previous owner—a missionary couple who liked projects to keep them busy during their furloughs in the States. The caramel leather was soft from wear and matched the earthy tones of the walls around her. Windows faced east and south for viewing monsoons during summer, but just then they made her feel vulnerable, though she couldn’t say why. Thick pine beams from the Catalina mountains held up the rather low, hipped ceiling, giving the room a cozy feeling, especially with the fire going. She curled her toes into the thick, well-worn Diné rug that had been gifted to her parents by friends from the reservation years ago. Underneath, the uneven stone floor was chilled from the long winter day and the cold nights.

With one more look at the fire crackling, Charlie sighed and turned to the kitchen, opening the rusting 50s-era turquoise fridge to get some of the flan she had made earlier in the week. Dripping with dulce de leche, it would certainly give her the sugar boost she needed. Turning the kettle on, she reached for her favorite talavera mug that she had gotten on her last trip down to her parents’ home in Oaxaca, where she had grown up, and made herself a bracing cup of hot chocolate—bitter and made with hot water, very dark chocolate, and enough cinnamon and cayenne to make her eyes water. Just the way she liked it.

She set her snack and drink on the dark granite counter, then strode through her room to the bathroom to rinse off as quickly as possible under the hottest water she could stand.

A few minutes later she walked back out, clean and dressed in her favorite hand-me-down wool sweater of her dad’s and a pair of Wranglers that she hadn’t worn since her last stint working her friend’s ranch outside of Nogales. For some reason this hadn’t seemed like a pajama sort of project. She snagged her hot chocolate, now cooled to a palatable temperature, and the plate of flan and sat down in front of the laptop that she kept near the studio section of the living area. Grabbing a converter, she inserted both it and the SD card into the slot on her computer and waited for the icon to pop up so she could open the files.

Her cat, Mortimer, jumped up onto her lap, rubbing under her chin and getting his long orange-cream-colored fur everywhere.

Hey, buddy, Charlie crooned, stroking his ears. Did you have a long day too? Did you get that packrat that’s been destroying my yard?

He flicked his tail and looked back at her dispassionately before jumping onto the desk to stare her down from beside her laptop.

Hmm, I see. I suppose I should take that as a no, huh, Mort? Charlie shook her head and reached for him, only to have him jump away again.

Seriously? You don’t earn your keep and on top of it refuse to keep me company? Charlie glared at him, but it had no effect.

Giving up, she turned back to her computer and clicked on the icon.

Huh . . . She clicked around, growing more curious by the second. It looked like some of the larger files were heavily encrypted, which struck her as odd, but the smaller files still seemed as if they might be more vulnerable. She clicked on one, leaning in as her hair fell forward to obstruct her vision. Charlie heaved a sigh and prayed. She was way out of her depth here but felt a disquiet inside that kept prodding her to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t like she wanted to break into someone’s personal information, but with how she had found it, it didn’t seem as though that would be the contents.

Lord, if this is something you want, please help me.

She took a bite of the sweet custard and caramel, washed it down with the bitter chocolate, and set to work. It took her a few minutes to get through the encryption, but she couldn’t be sure if that was due to her lack of skills or if it was simply poorly secured. The only reason she had ever learned the basics was because she had kept locking herself out of documents she needed at school.

It was a government document. A memo, from what she could see, roughly outlining the instructions on a weapons and equipment shipment from the military base in Huachuca to the base on the south side of Tucson.

Lord? What is this?

Charlie tried valiantly not to let her imagination get the best of her, but she couldn’t think of any explanation for the placement, content, and discovery of the card that didn’t sound like fiction. All the other files in the one folder she had managed to unlock had similar content, all about future shipments and transactions, all from the military bases scattered around Arizona. The information was vague, as if it had come from some early planning stage rather than an actual plan of action, but there was absolutely no reason it should have been where it was. She absentmindedly took several more bites of the flan, hardly registering the taste for all the thoughts flying through her mind. Her fork scraped against the empty plate, the unpleasant sound making her jump.

What should I do with this? she wondered, pushing her fingers into her hair until they tangled in the dark curls.

Wincing, she extracted her hands and began running through her options aloud, though they seemed rather slim.

Okay, Mort. She looked at the cat. Let’s go through this. Obviously, my first two options are either report it or don’t. No way I can’t report this—I could never live with myself knowing that I let it go just for my own comfort. And probably safety.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. Oh, boy, I’m really screwing myself here. I can’t see this going well, at least not if the people in charge of this are as serious as this—she gestured to the computer distractedly— makes them seem. So I report it and accept the consequences. Good step one, even if it might come back to bite me.

Her foot tapped a muted staccato on the floor.

Well, she muttered, at least I’m the only one here to get in trouble.

All right. She stood and started to pace. "So, Mort, obviously I am going to report it. But how? Local cops? This seems—well, like it might go beyond that with the military involvement." She slumped back down in her seat.

"I mean, there’s local government, but that doesn’t seem wise. I don’t even know what they would be able to do with it. Or how they would make sure I don’t get, well . . . dead. She stared off into her darkened living room over the top of her computer and tried to engage her exhausted brain. I guess I could report it federally, but I have no idea how that works." She huffed in frustration, then sat up straight. Wait, wasn’t the FBI office in Phoenix? Tucson wasn’t large enough to justify one, but there had to be one in Arizona’s capital. Well, hopefully they wouldn’t mind a late-night intrusion on their offices, because she was far too wound up to wait until morning; besides, she had work.

That was enough to stop her short.

She groaned and clenched her hands in her hair. "Argh. What am I supposed to do in the morning at work? Who’s running information through the museum that I work with? If this is as weird as it appears to be, then—" Well, then she was in for some serious paranoia at her place of employment. Charlie shuddered and tried to shake it off. No time for that now.

Mort? What do you think? Am I going crazy? Bored green eyes stared at her from under her desk, offering no help.

Right, well . . .

She stood resolutely and downed the rest of her chocolate with a wince before grabbing her keys and heading to the garage. Before hitting the highway, however, she veered down another dirt road and drove to her parents’ house to get the old conversion van that they left at their place when they were in Oaxaca working on translations. Since she already lived on the north side, Phoenix wasn’t too far of a drive, but she still trusted the van more than her own hand-medown Rabbit, and, more than that, it wouldn’t be connected to her directly.

Maybe that was taking her concern a little far, but hey—she was in no mood to have all this fall back on her.

The back highway that connected Oracle junction to the Phoenix area was deserted as she drove north, and the winding, aged road was filled with swells and dips that lulled her even as her mind raced from anxiety and the caffeine in the chocolate. Slipping a John Denver cassette into the player of the old van, Charlie rolled down the window and let the crisp winter night wind rush over her as the heater warmed her feet and hands. The cholla and saguaros glistened under the beams of her headlights with frost that would dissipate in the morning sun. Although it was still warm during the day, there were occasional nights of frost that transformed the desert for a few brief hours. Charlie leaned her head back against the fabric of the headrest, praying with no particular words. Goodbye Again began to play and she braced her leather-booted left foot against the wood-paneled dash, not particularly caring about the inadvisability of driving in such a position. She exhaled fully and drove through another gentle dip.

Dios mío, ayúdame, por favor. Just . . . Help. Please help.

CHAPTER THREE

Since traffic had been non-existent at this late hour, Charlie pulled into the lot her phone told her was the FBI office in Phoenix in just over an hour, shutting off the engine with the short flathead screwdriver that had served as a key since the original had broken off in the ignition. Her lead foot had helped speed things along, but right now she was just trying to work up the courage to walk in the door. During the entire ride up she had been fighting to keep herself from speculating since she knew she didn’t have the full story. It had been more exhausting than successful.

She slipped through the door as someone left the building, noting the sparse population, though it made sense at after one in the morning. Looking none too pleased but acquiescing when she insisted that it was urgent and sensitive, a man in his early twenties escorted her upstairs after confiscating her phone but only saw fit to point down a hall and give her vague directions. Seemed like lax security to her, but she wasn’t exactly a threat, and who knew what kind of day the man might have had before this. Now she was looking for the office of one Kevin Caine. Charlie had no idea who he was but hoped he could help. She also hoped that she wasn’t just being sent to him because he was the only one still in the building.

All the other desks and offices on that floor were dark, which made finding his easier. She checked the door, making sure it had his name on it before approaching. He was hunched over his desk with a hand shoved in his hair, making it stick up at all different angles. She watched him for a little while, trying to get her mind together before making a fool of herself.

He was young—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties from what she could see in her limited view of his face—and his exhaustion was visible in his posture. His hair was a dark russet brown and had been thoroughly mussed by what must have been a repeated hand-in-hair motion. It looked as if it might have some wave to it, though, so that could have contributed to its disheveled state. His tie was yanked askew and his shirt was wrinkled; both appeared to be more for function than fashion. She scanned the room. Given the number of awards hanging behind him, she was in good hands. Bracing herself, she knocked on the frame.

Hello? Sorry to disturb you; I was sent up here by a young guy at the desk.

His head shot up and confusion washed over his face.

Wow, the guy looked as if he were about to keel over. His hair stood on end, and his face was lax with fatigue. If he put himself through this much stress on a regular basis, she could understand why. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders sloped from lack of rest.

Somehow emboldened by his lack of response, she decided to push on and explain herself. I just drove up from Tucson. Well, just south of Oracle really, because I need to get something cleared up. I have no idea what it means.

Shoving her hands in her back jeans pockets in the prolonged silence, Charlie cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably as he continued staring blankly at her.

The tension stretched for a moment before his eyes cleared and he nodded, motioning for her to come in. Yes, well, since at this point I have no information, I don’t know what ‘it’ means either. But sit down and I’ll see what I can do. His voice cracked from hours of disuse and he cleared his throat.

He looked skeptical and nonplussed. Charlie couldn’t blame him. She was rumpled from driving and discomfort and had barged in during the middle of the night. With how she looked, he probably thought he was having a nightmare. She sat and met his eyes.

What seems to be the issue, miss . . .?

Huh. Even after clearing his throat his voice was still deeper than she expected. He had a peculiar cadence too, and she suspected that he spoke Spanish more often than not for his inflections to sound like that. Not quite an accent. Her parents always sounded like that when they returned from Mexico for furlough. For that matter, she probably had too, when she lived there, but she didn’t notice when it was her talking.

He lifted an eyebrow, still waiting.

Oh, right, she said, laughing nervously. My name is Charlotte Eliasson. I’m not entirely sure what the issue is, but I needed to take this somewhere. She looked at him to confirm and continued when he dipped his head. A little more than a month ago, I started a job at a museum on the east side through the end of the year. I work with their inventory and packing paintings to ship overseas after sale. That, though, isn’t part of my job. I just do it when I’ve finished everything else to keep my space manageable. I check the pieces for damage and dirt and tonight I came across this wedged between the frame and the canvas of a painting. She leaned forward and handed him the SD card. I didn’t think much of it, but when I took it home and opened it to see whose it was, there were documents detailing military weapons shipments.

That certainly got his attention. Are you positive, Miss Eliasson?

Touchy from lack of sleep, Charlie sank back in the seat and crossed her arms, knowing he meant nothing by it but a little irritated nonetheless. After staring cross-eyed at the screen for a solid fifteen minutes and rereading them twenty times, yeah, I am. More than that, there are a number of large and heavily encrypted files on it that I couldn’t access. The ones that I was able to open were much less heavily protected, so I was able to get into them, but if those were the less important documents, then I would hate to see the others. What I found most noteworthy is that I was packing the paintings to send to Venezuela. Some private collector buys a lot of work from the museum, and none of it is good. The art, I mean.

He pushed back in his chair, clearly digesting the information. She knew it was strange and farfetched— she had spent most of the time up until now looking for some other less-serious explanation. She had no idea what should be done with this information, though, and was even less inclined to try figuring it out herself. She just knew she couldn’t be the only one to know.

After a minute Agent Caine looked back up at her, his tired brown eyes looking stark in the flickering fluorescent light. Well, Miss Eliasson, I will take this to the technical analyst we have on for the night and see what he can make of this. Would you prefer to leave the card with me and go? Should it be pertinent I would call you when we had something.

Charlie shook her head. I have a long drive back to Tucson. If something is decided, especially since I still have to work with these people, I would like to know now. Forewarned, forearmed, you know.

He nodded and rose, wavering a moment but quickly catching his balance and straightening, then moved toward the door. Holding it open for her, he followed her into the hall. That makes sense. If you were able to retrieve files off of the card, then Will, our analyst, should have no problem. I can’t imagine it will take long. If this is actually what it sounds like, however, it will take significantly longer to make a plan of action.

He walked briskly while he talked, seeming far too energetic now for how late it was. She figured he had been here all day, so where he was getting his new energy from, she had no idea. Maybe he just liked a good puzzle; if that were the case, then she had just handed him a doozy.

Do you always work this late? she asked, dodging a janitor’s cart in the hall.

Luckily, no. He chuckled and shrugged slightly, looking almost embarrassed. I’ve had a few cases lately that have really been getting the best of me. I seem to have convinced myself that if I stare at the files long enough, the answers will materialize.

His fair skin gave evidence to his fixation, as most people in Phoenix would still sport a tan if they spent any time outside, even in December. He must spend all of his time in the office. Good for Charlie’s situation, she supposed, but it seemed a little depressing for him. She was glad to see that he at least appeared fit and active, because if someone had to pull her out of a tough situation, she would prefer it wasn’t a desk jockey who moved only to refill his coffee or file paperwork. He wasn’t overly tall, no more than six feet, but she had a feeling that his rumpled appearance was making him look smaller than usual. As he moved, he seemed to be growing back into his own skin.

Pulling her mind back to his last statement, she found she could relate. She was pursuing