Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand

that, either. “Never mind. I don’t want to bore you with the office gossip. When does Ann get there? I saw Bridger the other day but forgot to ask.”
    “Tomorrow.” Again, she sounds disappointed, like I should already know the answer. She went over her plans with me more than once before leaving. It feels like a lifetime ago.
    “You should go see the Robbs,” she says.
    That old standby. I must really sound bad.
    “I’ll do that,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way, I saw Cavallo the other day, too. She says hello.”
    “That’s nice. How was she?”
    “I think there might be some trouble at home.”
    “Really?”
    The words are out before I can stop them. I’m as surprised as Charlotte is. I try to hedge a little, saying something about the stress Cavallo’s husband is probably under, reintegrating into civilian life after so many tours overseas. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t ask anything more.
    “Was it hard for you,” she asks, “when you first got out of the service?”
    “That was a lot different. I spent my time at Fort Polk, Louisiana, not Bagram. In my day, we considered Grenada quite a military operation.”
    “Those were the days,” she laughs. “Such an innocent time.”
    “Right.”
    I reach my exit on I-10 but I keep driving. I listen to her voice, cruising absently through the cones of light arcing down onto the highway. Just talk, baby. Talk. Let me hear the words crash in my ears like waves on the beach, so much reassuring white noise. When she’s said all she can think to say, we sit together silently. I listen to the road under my tires and the sound of her breath over the international line.
    ———
    “What can you tell me about Brandon Ford?” I ask.
    The man across the counter crosses his hairy arms, the jeweled dial of his Rolex catching the morning light. His name is Sam Dearborn, proprietor of Dearborn Gun and Blade. He helped me on a case last year, proving himself to be a source of all kinds of knowledge.
    “What makes you think I know more than the other guys you’ve talked to? Brandon’s all right in my book. He’s a small-timer, though. For the most part, he goes after the black rifle market, the weekend warriors with money to spend. Those guys aren’t so interested in the craftsmanship or the history. You tell them this is the rifle Delta Force is currently using to punch holes in the mullah’s turban, and all they wanna know is, ‘How much?’ I think he was also selling some big-game rifles to fellas daydreaming about going on safari.”
    “I already know all this.”
    He rolls his eyes. “What did I just tell you? You don’t need me for this.”
    “That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to get it out of the way.”
    “Okay, then. Shoot.”
    “Here’s the real question, Sam. What do you know about the Mexican cartels buying rifles in bulk from Texas dealers?”
    At first he doesn’t react, like he didn’t hear the question. Then he glances down the length of his counter, scratching at the gold necklace dangling in the opening of his shirt.
    “You’re serious?” He snorts the words out. “This is for real?”
    “Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. If anybody knows what’s going on out there, it’s you. If anybody’s got his finger on the pulse—”
    “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Spare me. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. That kind of business, it doesn’t go through guys like me. Just so we’re clear.”
    “Understood. So how would it work?”
    The simplest way, he says, is for a straw purchaser to walk into a gun store from off the street. Flush with money from the cartel, he buys five or ten assault rifles in his own name, then hands them over once he’s taken possession.
    “A straw purchase is illegal, but if I’m the one selling the guns, how do I know you’re not buying them for yourself? You pass the background check, you get the weapons.”
    A gang making straw purchases, even in small