“That’s why I’m here,” I replied, somewhat puzzled by the question.

“You’re sure?”

I shook my head and stammered for a second, searching for the words to form an answer. “Well… Ben… You know I can’t say that. You know as well as I do, that’s not how it works.”

He shook his head vigorously and held up a hand. “Just friggin’ tell me if you can get somethin’ off this scene or not.”

“Maybe.” My voice took on a defensive tone. “I won’t know until I try.”

Ben rubbed his eyes then sent his hand back to massage his neck and muttered, “Shit.”

“What’s going on, Ben?” I asked again.

After a moment, he began shaking his head as a decision visibly fell upon him and his shoulders drooped.

“Not here,” he said, then shifted his gaze over to Felicity. “You better get in the back unless you’re drivin’.”

*****

“Okay, I give up. What’s going on?” I asked. My frustration had finally festered to a point of eruption.

“Settle down,” Ben ordered with a hushed voice and a stern glance.

The drive had been short but conspicuously wordless. In complete silence, we had traversed slightly more than a mile of block-long jaunts and eleventh-hour ninety-degree turns. Fortunately, less than five minutes passed before we arrived at our final destination, which turned out to be a small diner at the intersection of Seventh and Chouteau. Still, even five minutes can seem like forever when you are sitting next to a taciturn cop who outwardly appears to be pissed off at the world, you included.

I was no stranger to “Charlie’s Eats,” and neither was Ben. In fact, this is where he had first shown me the case file that proved Eldon Porter’s identity. But, that wasn’t its only distinction. With its proximity to police headquarters, officers frequented it at all hours. There was even a pair of parking spaces on the lot designated specifically for patrol cars. The standing joke was that, other than the food itself, “Chuck’s” was probably the safest place in the entire city to have a meal.