I continued to keep my voice low, speaking slowly and non-conformational.

‘Jane, would you like to begin?’ I asked.

Jane nodded before she rearranged herself in her seat and pried the girls vice like hands from her arm.

‘It’s OK sweety,’ she said in her golden, British accented voice that made my heart flutter just at the thought of her whispering into my ear and nibbling my ear lobe. Fortunately, the station has shower facilities. I was in the market for a super cold one.

I noticed that Jane’s hands never reached onto the table, but I decided not to say anything. She began:

‘OK, I’m Jane, I’m British if you hadn’t already guessed by my accent and I’m here, in the US, on a two-year sabbatical visa. Essentially, I’m bumming around America in my trusty RV.’

‘And Jane, do you have a long-lost brother? Maybe you were separated at birth, and he lives in America under the name Jack Reacher?’

I could almost hear Jane’s gears grinding behind her poker-faced façade. Without a single tell, she smiled and replied.

‘No, I’m afraid Mr Grant does not feature in my family tree. But I like the semblance.’

‘Mr Grant? Jack Reacher is a character created by Lee Child. Not by some Mr Grant.’

I said feeling mighty proud of myself.

‘That is incorrect. Lee Child is a Nom de plume for an Author by the name of Sir James Dover Grant, who created the character,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Her eyes revealed nothing. Her cheeks smooth. Her lips drawn into the faintest of smiles. If we were playing Poker, I’d be leaving in my underwear and no Frenchy following me. So much for getting one over on her. Note to self, when trying to impress gorgeous, highly intelligent women, get ALL your facts straight or you’ll be wearing egg glasses on your face.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I decided to change the subject.

‘Ok then, what can you tell me about your young alien?’

Janes smile faded and her eyes took on a more serious expression. She was all business now. But what business?

‘This morning, I was busy making myself a cup of tea when I heard shouting. I went outside and saw young Vanessa here running for her life and two men chasing her. They were speaking Spanish, but I got the impression that they were not there to help her. Quite on the contrary as it tuns out.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘They demanded that I hand Vanessa back to them and when I said no, they became upset.’

‘Upset?’ So far Jane had spoken with a flat, factual business tone. But I knew the type she was describing and what she called “upset” most others would call Attempt to do Grievous Bodily Harm.

‘Yes, upset. One drew a knife and continued to demand that I return Vanessa who was clearly trying to escape the men.’

‘And then?’ I was struggling to comprehend how this Angel in khaki could sit here with a dead panned expression after being accosted by what I believed had to be Coyote’s, smuggling illegal immigrants across the border. I had confronted two so far in my USBP career and both were career criminals who would scalp their mothers if there was a profit to be made. Vanessa was cargo to them. A pay day. There was no way they would just shrug and walk away. What was Jane not telling me?

‘OK, then what happened?’

‘I convinced them to leave us alone, packed-up and came here.’

I looked around again. No dirty cups. No dishes. Everything was neat, tidy, and organised. Not thrown together in haste while trying to escape two professional, stone cold killers.

‘Um, Jane.’

‘Yes officer?’

‘How exactly did you convince them?’

This ought to be interesting, I thought.

‘I really can’t give you any details. You know, it all happened so fast, but they may have both slipped and hit their heads. Either way, I know neither will bother us again any time soon.’

Can this woman get any more cryptic? I wondered as she stared back at me, unblinking, as if I was the last designer dress at a bridal gown sale. I wasn’t sure if her piecing gaze turned me on or if I was being hypnotised and will soon wake up on a park bench, in ladies underwear, clucking like a chicken. The morning had become eery.