It’s Friday, so I place a call to my boss before he takes off for the day. I phone the line to his office, and get put on hold for the better part of five minutes. Finally, the line clicks and Special Agent Lafontaine’s voice comes over the line.

“Lafontaine.”

“It’s Agent Brentano, sir. I’m in Tanner Springs. Just checking in.”

“Fine.” He sounds brusque and a little annoyed.

“I’ve liaised with the chief of police here, Crup. On my way to talk to the source of the tip now.”

“The police chief tell you anything useful?”

“No. He was a little less than welcoming.”

“Well,” Lafontaine replies with exaggerated patience, “You’ll just have to deal with that.”

It feels as though he’s talking to a child. My blood starts to heat up, but I don’t rise to the bait.

“I’ll do some rooting around over the weekend and contact you Monday with an update.”

“Don’t feel there’s any need to keep in such constant contact unless you have anything real to report, Brentano.” He says in a clipped voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.”

The line goes dead. A sound of suppressed fury rises up in my throat. I hold up the phone and stick my tongue out at it — then hate myself for being the child that Lafontaine was treating me like.

“God —!” I begin to swear, then shake my head and snort in disgust. What the fuck is up his ass? I’m sick of his bullshit. I’m a goddamn FBI agent.

And I feel like the errand girl who’s been sent out for an order of coffee that nobody wants.

Speaking of coffee, I’m in the mood for some, if only to have something to give me a little mood boost. I spotted a little shop on Main Street in downtown earlier that looks promising, so I head in that direction. I park my car in front of the shop, which is called The Golden Cup, and treat myself to a medium skim latte to go. The woman behind the counter who serves me is an attractive redhead about my age, pleasant and efficient. The coffee ends up being delicious, too. My mood has improved slightly by the time I push out the door with my cup and get back in my car.

The map app on my phone takes me to the address of the business whose owner filed the tip I’m here to check out. It ends up being in an aging strip mall, on the opposite side of town from my hotel.

As I’m parking, I happen to glance in my rear view mirror. I catch a glimpse the logo of what I think is the Tanner Springs PD on the side panel of a car. Shifting in my seat, I peer through the back window just in time to notice a police car driving slowly past the mini-mall.

Huh. Looks like I’ve got a babysitter.

Of course, it could just be a coincidence. But in my line of work, I’ve learned that coincidences are few and far between. It looks like Chief Crup has assigned someone to keep an eye on my comings and goings.

I wait until the cop car vanishes down the street. Then I push open my door and step out into the afternoon sun, taking my coffee with me. The sandwich shop I’m looking for is on one end of this mini-mall. The laundromat the business owner called us about is at the other end. I vaguely recall this mall from when I was younger. If I remember correctly, there used to be a video store here, and a nail salon, and a pet shop. Now, about a third of the businesses appear to be empty. Besides the sub shop, there’s an insurance place, and one of those twenty-four hour gyms. My car is one of the only ones in the lot.

I step into the sub shop. The front of the store is deserted, but the sound of the bell must alert someone because I hear footsteps coming toward me from the back. A second later, a small, dark man with tufts of dark hair on either side of his balding pate comes up to the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Pavel?”

“Yes?” He arches a brow at me.

I hand him my card. “I’m Agent Brentano. FBI. I’m following up on a tip you submitted using our online form.”

Mr. Pavel takes the card from me and scrutinizes it, then pulls his eyes back to my face. “You’re from the FBI?” he asks, looking less than convinced.

“Yes. I’m from the field office in Cleveland, Mr. Pavel. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

He sweeps the hand holding my card around the deserted shop. “I’m doing nothing else,” he says with a tinge of irony.

We sit down at one of the empty plastic booths near the window. “Can you tell me what led you to submit this tip, Mr. Pavel?” I ask, setting my coffee in front of me.

“Haven’t you read it?”

“Yes,” I explain patiently. “But I’d like to hear you tell me everything in person.”

“It’s the laundry business over there,” he says, pointing. “E-Z Wash Express.”

“What about it?”

“I think it’s a front. For prostitution. Sex slaves!” He raises his bushy brows at me, dropping his voice conspiratorially.

He seems almost gleeful about this, despite the fact that he’s tsk’ing and shaking his head. For a moment I feel like an idiot. Is this just some crank conspiracy wacko who sees criminal activity around every corner?

“You’re speaking of human trafficking, Mr. Pavel,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Can you tell me what leads you to believe that this laundromat could be involved in something like that?”

“I go into the laundromat. To see what is happening. Whether there are people there. There are so many open washers and dryers!” Mr. Pavel grows animated, his hands beginning to wave in the air. “Why so many open washers and dryers? Almost no one doing laundry!”

“Isn’t it possible that the laundry just isn’t doing very good business?” I glance outside and nod toward the rest of the mall. “It seems like this place has seen better days.”

“But that is just it! There are constantly people coming and going, coming and going! Men! So many men! And then sometimes, young girls. Why would middle-aged men in suits go into a laundromat?”

“Isn’t that a little sexist, Mr. Pavel?” I ask. “Men have dirty laundry, too. Maybe they’re divorced,” I suggest. “Maybe they’re estranged from their wives and living in apartments without a laundry facility.”

“Why would they come without bags of laundry then?”

“Wait.” I cock my head at him, puzzled. “You’re saying that the people who are coming and going from the laundry aren’t actually carrying bags of laundry?”

“Yes!” Mr. Pavel nods his head emphatically up and down. “No laundry! And they stay, for an hour, but if you go inside, they are not there. Then they come out, get in their cars, drive away. No laundry. No nothing.”

Huh. This actually might be something after all. It’s not a lot. In fact, it’s hardly anything. But it is at least enough to merit a follow-up.

“Mr. Pavel. Can you tell me why you decided to report this to the FBI, instead of going to your police department?”

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “I tried to talk to police. They told me I was just jealous that the laundromat gets more business than I do.” He locks eyes with me. “So I contact you.”

I sit for a moment, considering. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know the owners? Have you ever talked to them?”

“No, I do not know the owner. There is a woman who works there. Now when she sees me, she tells me to leave.” His eyes furrow. “She does not like me asking questions. She thinks I’m a crazy old man.”

I take a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pavel. And your information.”

“I am not a crazy old man,” he insists.

“I’m sure you aren’t,” I say, giving him a neutral smile. “By the way, before I go, can I order one of your turkey subs?” I ask, glancing at the menu. I may as well grab something for dinner to stow in my mini-fridge while I’m here.

Mr. Pavel is delighted to make me a sandwich. While I’m waiting, I stare out the window and watch the traffic go by. No one drives into or out of the parking lot.

My turkey sub ready, I pay with a card and put a dollar in his tip jar. I tell Mr. Pavel goodbye and thank him for his time. Out at my car, I set the sandwich and my now-empty coffee cup inside, then lock it and walk over to the other side of the mall.

There are a couple of cars parked in the spaces in front of the laundromat, which is next to a tiny hole-in-the-wall pizza joint that looks permanently closed. But strangely, the laundromat is dark inside. A plastic sign hanging in the window is flipped to the “closed” side. I try the door, but it’s locked. Frowning, I rap on the glass a few times. No response. Then I notice the business hours posted under the sign.

On Fridays, this place is supposed to be open until nine in the evening.

I knock on the glass again, but I don’t really expect an answer. I wish I’d happened to notice when I drove in whether the laundromat was open then. Turning away from the door, I take a quick note of the make and model of the two cars sitting in front, just in case. I grab a small pad of paper from my blazer pocket and write down the license plate numbers of both cars. Then I wander down the row of shops, looking into each one to see if there are any customers. There’s no one in the insurance place but a lone employee staring at a computer screen. In the fitness place next door, a couple of people are working out on some machines. I go inside and ask each of them whether either of the cars in front of the laundromat is theirs. Both of them say no.

Hmm.

Well, at the very least, this deserves another visit back to the laundromat when it’s open. I walk back to my car, and point it in the direction of my hotel on the other side of town.

I drive back, my mind turning over everything I’ve just seen.

On the way, another cop car — an SUV this time — pulls in behind me, about half a block back. He stays with me until I turn into the hotel parking lot, then continues down the road.