Angus Force reached into his bottom drawer and drew out a bottle of Jack, pouring a healthy shot into the too-sweet latte he’d just warmed up in the microwave. His team worked at various places around the aged basement office space, and he had just finished compiling a complete profile of Gary Rockcliff. What a nutjob. A talented, dangerous, psychotic nutjob.

Roscoe had abandoned him hours ago to follow Pippa around the office and beg for treats. The kitten was probably in Nari’s office, where a bowl of kibble was always full.

A rap echoed on his door, and Jethro entered without waiting for an invite. “If this op goes wrong, you’re going to have to put Clarence Wolfe down,” he said mildly, drawing out a chair and sitting.

“I’m aware,” Force said, nudging the bottle across his paper-and-manila-file-folder-riddled desk.

Jethro waved off the booze. “I’m still on a sugar high from that latte earlier. Does he always bring treats like that?”

“Yep. Probably fulfills some need to keep other people happy and safe.” Angus couldn’t help but profile the people around him, although he didn’t like to get too involved if they didn’t need help. “Stress and dangerous ops have kept the team from gaining weight, but if things ever calm down around here, we’ll have to institute some sort of exercise program.”

Jethro’s eyebrows rose. “Do you believe things will calm down?”

“No, Jet. I really don’t.” Angus had no intention of stopping his search for Lassiter, and once he buried that bastard in the ground for good, he’d retire again to his cabin in the woods with his issue-riddled dog to fish and drink.

Jethro angled his head to read the top of one of the file folders. “We have not yet had an opportunity to discuss the fact that Lassiter might very well be deceased. Have you exhumed the body?”

“The body was supposedly cremated and the ashes spread somewhere.” Of course, Angus had thought of that. “Before you ask, the executor of the will was a woman named Bali Sandaniz, who was the housekeeper that helped to raise Lassiter. She died of natural causes last year.”

“You sure?” Intelligence shone in the Brit’s eyes.

“Yeah. Read the autopsy report myself.” The woman had been nearly ninety with several stints already in her heart. “I don’t think good old Henry Wayne Lassiter would’ve killed his mother figure. She tried to protect him from arrest, putting herself in jeopardy at the time, and he seemed to have a sense of loyalty to her.” The guy wasn’t able to empathize or really feel emotions, but he had felt some sort of allegiance to Bali.