Rutherford smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. The guy probably had them bleached. “We understand that a former file clerk contacted you, but you have to realize that the FBI forced Miles Brown into retirement, and he was trying to make trouble by contacting you and drumming all of this up. He apparently succeeded. Lassiter is dead. 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 had been a great record keeper, and the only thing his message had said was that there was a problem with the Lassiter file and Angus should call him immediately. “Fine. Then let me talk to Miles.” Brown’s phone had been disconnected, and so far Angus had been unable to find him.
Agent Fielding 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’re putting him up.”
That explained why Force hadn’t been able to reach him. “I’d like to see his office and all of his records.”
“His office was cleared out,” Fielding said, his gnarled hands clasped 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.
Fielding held up an age-spotted hand. “We’re very sorry for your loss, but this is important.”
Loss? Had the fucker 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 throat. “Leave. Now.” He still hadn’t dealt with what had happened. 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 stayed 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 previous employment before it became public. Of course the agency wanted this dropped.
Fielding 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 agent.
Fielding sighed and glanced up again, experience stamped 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 Angus out if he wasn’t getting close to something. Or maybe they were 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 as under wraps as possible.
Angus stood perfectly still, his mind focusing through the booze. “Well, then. We all know you don’t want me talking to the press. I guess for now this gives me leverage.” Just how much? How worried were they?
Their silence gave him even more confidence. It also helped him pursue the nagging feeling that had never really left him. 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. That seems fair.”
The wind tousled Rutherford’s blond hair, and he scoffed. “Not a chance.”
“Bull,” Angus returned instantly, reading the men. Oh, they were seasoned and pretty good, but he hadn’t lost all of his abilities. “Try again.”
Fielding shot a hand through his thick hair, making the gray stand up more through the brown. “You know we can’t have you at HDD looking into a closed FBI case.”
Fair enough. “You could have me at HDD working on other cases while I quietly pursue this one. I’m a reasonable guy, and I’m sure we can