Flash Fiction

The Map

Angela was in the bathroom as I quickly explored her bedroom. Illegal searches weren't my normal method of operation, but this woman had me stymied. We had a warrant for a wiretap on Antonio Ramos but have failed to acquire full cooperation from the Colombian authorities. Armed only with phone numbers and the call times the Colombian authorities allowed, we had isolated Angela Sorenson as one of Ramos's three main US contacts.

It didn't help that she was kind. I have put five years into building a case against the drug lord, and one of my first solid US connections had to be nice. Why couldn't it have been a 50-year-old, grease stained, pot-bellied, unshaven scum bag? Nope, she was as pretty as she was kind.

I moved quickly through the dresser drawers, smiling at her underthings as I pushed my hand underneath to check for anything that would solidify my case. Nothing, not even my paranoid search of the undersides of the drawers revealed any clues. The bed and nightstands were equally unhelpful.

Looking around, I noticed that something was missing. There were no pictures or knick-knacks, nothing that spoke of a life. In fact, the dresser seemed unnaturally unstuffed, empty of old things that normally clutter over the years. The book on the counter, the one I fanned in hopes of clues dropping out, was a fairly new publication. I wondered if she would think it was me who foolishly knocked out her bookmark and replaced it randomly.

Opening the closet door was an exciting revelation. There, against the backside, a map was mounted with hundreds of pins. Each pin marking a city, each pin sporting a color. A cursory analysis identified the red ones as crucial. Manizales, the hometown of Ramos was clearly marked in red, as was Boise where I now stood. One of the other reds marked another main contact in Louisville. It looked like some master marketing plan. South American production and distribution centers tied to North American outlets. It was a gold mine. I pulled my phone out and snapped a few pictures. If I could find the legend that tied the pins to real people, I could end Ramos's empire in a week.

"Daniel?" Angela called from inside the bathroom. I moved quickly, carefully closing the closet door and silently shifting back to the family room, so my voice didn't sound as if I were in the bedroom.

"Yes?"

"Where are planning to go? I'm thinking of staying in my jeans, but I can dress up."

"No need," I replied. "I have some tickets to the Egyptian Theater to see Ferris Bueller's Day Off. It's the 30th anniversary, and I was feeling nostalgic."

"Ferris Bueller, you must be joking," Angela said with a warm chuckle. I liked how her laugh floated in the air, warm and inviting. I shook it off, remembering her ties to the cartel.

"Nope. I guess I should have been more forthcoming," I said. "I think I stopped maturing in high school. Figured we'd hit one the brewery pubs after the show." I needed her talking, and a stupid comedy mixed with some beer should loosen her up.

"Actually, it sounds fun. It's been awhile since I've had a non-intellectual night out," Angela joked.

"So, I'm bringing down your IQ," I bantered back. I sat in a soft chair that faced the dark flat panel on the wall. I might as well look like I was patiently waiting since Angela sounded on the verge of completing her primping.

"It's refreshing," Angela said as she opened the bathroom door. "Too many people waste too much time trying to impress. I like the idea of just having fun." She exited the bedroom and mesmerized me.

Angela's smile was genuine and seemed designed just for me. Her brown hair was cropped in soft waves at the neckline and perfectly framed her attractive features. The jeans showed off the girlish figure she somehow maintained. I sat up straighter. There was nothing girlish about the shirt she had tucked into those jeans. It was a soft red with a gold necklace lazily circling the softness of her throat. Her breasts were pushing against the fabric in a conservative, yet liberal way. They were announcing their presence but insisted on remaining classy. She stopped and did a little turn.