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"Alright, that wraps up today's briefing." Hank dismissed his officers, poured himself a glass of water, chugged it like he was competing in a frat house drinking contest, refilled it, and slumped into a creaky chair at a folding table that had seen better days.
"What brings you back to my humble office of broken dreams? I already gave you every lead I could scrape together."
"Excuse me, but your boys out there don't seem to have much faith in their fearless leader," Ron said, completely ignoring Hank's defeated tone while channeling his inner sarcastic know-it-all. "Word around the water cooler is that your little detour from that Mexican border assignment might've dinged your reputation. Care to comment?"
"That wasn't running away!" Hank shot back, his voice carrying through the paper-thin walls. Through the venetian blinds, he could see his officers pretending to work while obviously eavesdropping. "I just wanted to wrap up this case before heading down to play border patrol!"
"The chemical Einstein who's cooking up that blue candy is still running around free! I've got to nail this guy before I report to the desert!"
"But remind me, when was the last time you actually saw any of this blue magic? Three weeks? A month?" Ron's face lit up with the kind of smug grin that could make a saint throw punches, which only made Hank's eye twitch more violently.
"Twenty-nine days! So freaking what? There's no way that moron I plugged could've cooked up something this sophisticated! If he had that kind of brain power, he'd be running a Fortune 500 company, not dealing drugs!"
Hank's voice boomed loud enough to rattle the windows. He was talking to Ron, but really performing for his skeptical audience outside.
Ron finally dropped the entertainment act and dangled a baggie of blue powder in front of Hank like a carrot. "Well, congratulations, Sherlock. You called it. Check this out! This isn't some old stash gathering dust in my evidence locker—this is fresh off the streets from a source I'm definitely not naming.
I had it tested, and the purity matches your original samples perfectly. Maybe even better. I'm starting to think if we left this guy alone long enough, he might actually hit that holy grail of 100% purity. Probably patent it and start selling it at Whole Foods."
"Holy..." Hank held the baggie up to catch the fluorescent office lighting, his hands shaking like he'd just found the Holy Grail in a Walmart parking lot.
While everyone had been treating him like he was afraid of a little border action, someone finally backed up his professional judgment with actual evidence. He wasn't a coward dodging deployment—he was a dedicated cop following a real lead.
"So where'd you score this?"
Ron shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "You're gonna love this, but I didn't buy it locally. Got a buddy who tipped me off about some crazy new product making waves out east. Sent me a sample, and boom—turns out this stuff's been right under our noses the whole time."
"Another state?" Hank's voice cracked slightly. "You telling me this genius packed up and moved his operation?"
"Nah, I'm betting he's still cooking right here in our backyard, just upgraded his distribution network. Maybe hired himself a sales team that would make Amway jealous. This blue stuff isn't just hitting the neighboring states—our intel shows it's popping up all across the country. Money says it's all shipping out from right here."
"So, how about we make this official? Joint task force—IRS and DEA. I'm happy to let you have the collar when we nail this guy, as long as he settles up with Uncle Sam first."
Ron practically licked his chops at the thought. A 30% finder's fee on back taxes would be serious money—enough to upgrade his entire arsenal and maybe finally buy that sports car he'd been eyeing.
Hank felt torn between excitement and suspicion. Ron's resources could crack this case wide open, but the IRS had a reputation for making side deals with criminals—collect the taxes, pocket the bonus, and let the bad guys walk away with a receipt.
But Hank was desperate for backup, so he stuck out his hand. "Deal, but we share everything. No secret squirrel stuff, no hidden agendas."
Hank squeezed Ron's hand with all his might, but it was like arm-wrestling a brick wall. The guy didn't even flinch.
"Absolutely," Ron agreed smoothly. "Actually, I've got some other intel about that plane crash that might blow your mind..."
Ron filled Hank in on his discovery about the crash victim's daughter's relapse, and more importantly, how the new tenant in her house was definitely the same Jesse that Hank had questioned earlier—just using a different name and apparently thinking nobody would notice.
"Bingo! This punk is our way in!" Both men grinned like they'd just solved the Sunday crossword.
Hank extended a genuine invitation. "Hey, Ron, right? I know this great little watering hole nearby. Want to grab a couple cold ones and talk strategy?"
Beer was the universal male bonding ritual, and Ron was game. Thirty minutes later, they were perched on barstools in a dimly lit establishment, each nursing a frosty mug that could double as a small fishbowl.
Ron looked around in mild horror. He'd been expecting something with attractive waitresses and maybe some friendly conversation. Instead, Hank had brought him to what could only be described as a testosterone preserve—all middle-aged guys, most of them sporting the same chrome-dome look as Hank, with beer guts that suggested they'd been regular customers for decades.
"I'm starting to think you've got some kind of grudge against me," Ron muttered, taking a long, defeated gulp of his beer.
"Hey, I'm a happily married man. I'm not looking to chase skirts," Hank chuckled.
"But did you have to pick somewhere that looks like a rejected set from a cop show?" Ron surveyed the scene. It was like a dive bar had a baby with a truck stop diner. "Please tell me you're not planning what I think you're planning..."
"Yep," Hank nodded toward two burly guys in the corner booth. "Ten bucks says those gentlemen are conducting some extracurricular business."
Ron glanced over just in time to see one guy slide something under the table while the other slipped him a wad of cash faster than a Vegas dealer.
A drug deal had just gone down right under their noses.
"In a joint like this, I wouldn't be shocked if the bartender was running a side hustle," Ron observed. He'd seen plenty of similar transactions at street racing gatherings. "So what's the play? Storm over there with badges blazing? You know those small-timers won't know squat about our blue-cooking genius."
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