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.