“No,” Angus said softly. “You’re here to warn me off the case. I was just playing around.” If the agents hadn’t shown up, he probably would’ve chalked up his theory that Lassiter was still alive to an overactive imagination. 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 damn 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 Lassiter, and blood had sprayed all over. But he’d been shot as well, and he’d passed out before he’d been 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 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.”