Angus crossed his arms. “There is nothing the Homeland Defense Department could possibly want with me.” The agency was an offshoot of Homeland Security; one of the offshoots the public didn’t really know about. The name alone made it easy to divert funds. “Go away.”
Agent Rutherford set his hands in his expensive pockets in an obvious effort to appear harmless. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“Too bad.” Angus would like another drink. They stood between him and his bottles. That was a bad place to be.
Agent Fields had a hangdog expression. He finally looked away from Roscoe and focused on Angus. “We know you’ve been contacting witnesses from the Henry Wayne Lassiter cases.”
Heat flushed down Angus’s spine. “The last person who said that name to me got a fist in the face and a broken nose.”
“We’re aware of that fact,” Rutherford said. “FBI Special Agent in Charge Denby still has a bump on that nose.”
Yeah, well, his former boss had known better. Angus shrugged.
Agent Fields tried again, his gruff voice matching his weary eyes. “We just want to talk.”
“No,” Angus said softly. “You’re here to warn me off a case I was just playing around with.” If they hadn’t shown up, he would’ve probably chalked up the scenario of Lassiter still being alive to a ghost theory, but now that they were here, he was inspired. Finally. “I know something is up and I’m not going to stop until I know what.” He’d been a good tracker for the Behavioral Science Unit until that case, and then he’d fucking lost everything. Maybe even his mind. “A source reached out and told me Lassiter isn’t really dead.” Yeah, he’d shot the lunatic, and blood had sprayed. But he’d been shot as well, and he’d passed out before being able to check the body for a pulse. Apparently his recent nosing around had ruffled some feathers.
Rutherford smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. The guy probably had them bleached. “We understand that an old file clerk contacted you, but you have to understand that the FBI had just forced Miles Brown into retirement and he was trying to make trouble by reaching out to you and drumming all of this up. He apparently succeeded. Lassiter is dead and you killed him.”
Apparently the HDD still wanted to keep secret the fact that one of the most prolific serial killers in history had been a low-level computer tech for the agency. Why? Who the hell cared?
Miles Brown had been a great recordkeeper, and the only thing his message had said was that there was a problem with the Lassiter file and for Force to call him immediately. “Fine. Then let me talk to Miles.” His phone number had been disconnected and, so far, Angus had been unable to find the old guy.
Agent Fields winced, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawing down. “Miles Brown suffered a stroke and is in St. Juliet’s on the east side of DC. He has no family, so we put him up.”
That would explain why Force couldn’t get to him. “I’d like to see his office and all of his records.”
“His office was cleared out,” Fields said, clasping his gnarled hands together. “Per procedure. Nothing out of the ordinary there.”
Right. Except that Miles had called, and there had been a sense of urgency in his voice. “Yet you’re here,” Angus murmured.
Agent Rutherford sighed, looking as if a bartender had served him too many olives in his martini. “We know you’ve been through an ordeal, but—”
“Ordeal?” Angus growled. “Are you kidding me?” He’d give anything for his gun.
Fields held up an age-spotted hand. “We’re very sorry for your loss, but this is important.”
Loss? Had he really just said the word “loss” to him? Angus took two steps toward the agents, and Roscoe kept pace with him, low growls emerging from his gut. “Leave. Now.” Angus still hadn’t dealt with the fact that a serial killer had murdered his sister . . . and it was Angus’s fault. Loss didn’t cover it. Not by a long shot.
Rutherford eyed the dog warily. “We want you to stop pursuing the issue. Lassiter is dead. Let him lie.”
Angus snorted. Roscoe remained at attention but stopped growling. “Why are you here, then? If the case was really closed, you wouldn’t bother.” Homeland Security had barely been able to shut down news of Lassiter’s former employment before it became public. Of course the agency wanted this dropped.
Fields shuffled his feet, his gaze descending to his scuffed shoes.
Angus straightened. His gut churned and his instincts flared to life. “Say what you need to say.”
Rutherford swallowed and looked toward the older Fields.
Fields sighed and glanced up again, experience stamped hard on his square-shaped face. “Let it go. We’re not going to give you a choice.”
Ah, shit. Lassiter really was alive. No way would two HDD agents have sought him out if he wasn’t getting close to something. Or maybe they were really afraid he’d let the public know about Lassiter’s former employment. Governmental agencies had definitely taken a beating lately in the press, and Homeland Security wanted to keep HDD under wraps.
Angus stood perfectly still, his mind focusing despite the booze. “Well, then. We all know you don’t want me talking to the press. I guess, for now, that gives me leverage.” Just how much? How worried were they?
Their silence gave him even more confidence. It also urged him to pursue that nagging feeling at the back of his neck that had never really left. The Lassiter case had never felt . . . finished. Sometimes his instincts were all he had. Well, his instincts and his dog. What else did a burned-out, obsessive, drunk of an ex-FBI agent really need?
He rubbed his jaw and let whiskers scrape his palm. “Let’s see. Either I work on this myself, along with a couple of really good investigative journalists I befriended during my years with the FBI, or you give me the resources to do a little investigating and I keep everything to myself. That seems fair.”
