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the side of my smokes. Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
    “You’re listed in my file as the officer in charge. I just got into town. I need to get up to speed. And for the record, I called you four times over the last six hours and left messages each time. Never got a call back.”
    “I’ve been busy, haven’t even checked my phone.”
    “I’m sure you have been busy, ma’am.” He thought,
And I’m sure you did check, but didn’t bother to call me back
. Then his SAC’s admonition came back to him.
    Play nice
.
    “I’m sorry to roust you out of your sack, ma’am. I thought you might still be at the crime scene.”
    She said, “I’ve been working this thing all day and most of the night. My head just hit the damn pillow an hour ago.”
    “Which means I have a lot of catching up to do. But I can call back later.”
    He heard her get up, stumble and curse.
    “Ma’am, I said I can call back later. Just go back to sleep.”
    “Will you just shut up a minute?” she snapped.
    “What?” Puller said sharply.
    “I have to pee!”
    He heard her drop the phone on the floor. Footsteps. Door closed, so he didn’t actually hear Cole relieving herself. Another minute went by. He wasn’t wasting time. He was reading through the report again.
    She came back on. “I’ll meet you there at seven o’clock—excuse me, oh zero seven hundred o’clock a.m. or whatever the hell it is you say.”
    “Zero-seven-hundred Juliet.”
    He listened to another long inhale and then exhale of smoke.
    She said, “Juliet? I told you my name is Sam.”
    “Means local daylight saving time. If it were the winter and we were in eastern standard time it would be zero-seven-hundred Romeo.”
    “Romeo and Juliet?” she said skeptically.
    “Contrary to popular belief, the United States Army has a sense of humor.”
    “Goodbye, Puller. Oh and just so you know, it’s
Sergeant
Samantha Cole, not ma’am, or Juliet. Romeo!”
    “Got it, Sergeant Cole. I’ll see you at zero-seven. Look forward to working with you on this case.”
    “Right,” she growled.
    He could visualize her throwing the phone across the room and falling back into her bed.
    Puller put the phone down, drank his coffee, and went through the report page by page. Thirty minutes later he gunned up, slipping one M11 into his front holster and the other into a holster attached to his belt in the rear. After fighting his way through the Middle East, he never felt as though he had enough weapons on his person. He put on a windbreaker and locked his motel room door on the way out.
    The young man who’d been lying in the bushes was now sitting up and gazing around in bewilderment.
    Puller walked over and looked down at him. “You might want to think about cutting back on the booze. Or at least pick a place to pass out that has a roof.”
    The man blinked up at him. “Who the hell are you?”
    “John Puller. Who are you?”
    The man licked his lips as though he was already thirsty for another round.
    Puller said, “You got a name?”
    The man stood. “Randy Cole.” He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans.
    Puller reflected on the last name and wondered about the obvious possibility but chose to keep it to himself.
    Randy Cole was good-looking and appeared to be in his late twenties. About five-ten with a lean, wiry build. Under his shirt he probably had six-pack abs. The hair was brown and curly, the facial features strong and handsome. There was no wedding band on his finger.
    “You staying at the motel?” asked Puller.
    Randy shook his head. “I’m local. You’re not.”
    “I know I’m not.”
    “So what are you doing in Drake?”
    “Business.”
    Randy snorted. “Business. You don’t look like no coal man to me.”
    “I’m not.”
    “So why, then?”
    “Business,” Puller said again, and his tone indicated he was not going beyond that description. “You got a car? You okay to drive?”
    “I’m cool.” Randy