In Plain Sight by Hope Anika
Chapter Sixteen
Catfish.
Max stared through the low-hanging cloud of cigarette smoke that curled through The Schooner and wondered how likely it was that he’d walked into a trap. Eighty-five percent chance, he thought, although that was undoubtedly optimistic. Probability said it was more like a hundred.
Still. He was getting nowhere fast. Linus was digging as quickly as he could, but the kid had to be careful. Max, however, did not.
And he was tired of waiting.
Pool tables sat in neat rows in front of him, all filled with bearded and inked players; the murmur of Fleetwood Mac mingled with the sharp crack of the balls. The wall behind him was seventies wood paneling, and the floor beneath his feet was sticky. The crowd, from all appearances, could have given two shits whether he lived or died.
A good sign.
Early this morning, he’d shaved away his sleek Bureau haircut, leaving only a faint shimmer of dark gold, trimmed his growing beard into a neat goatee, and donned a pair of clear, black-framed eyeglasses. He put on the battered camo pants that he’d picked up from the Salvation Army and a black tee that revealed the wealth of tattoos that covered his arms. A pair of scarred, square-toed black shit kickers sat heavily on his feet.
He bore zero resemblance to Special Agent Max Prescott.
Ironic, that he felt as changed on the inside as he now looked on the outside. The Max who’d sacrificed everything to climb to the top was now in free fall. And it felt…good.
Right.No matter the shitshow he now found himself navigating.
The Schooner was a southside dive close to the lakeshore. It catered to locals, and its maritime theme was highlighted by old fishing nets that sagged from the ceiling, a legless, eye-patch wearing wooden pirate who for some mysterious reason was riding a rusted unicycle, and a stuffed catfish as big as an armchair.
It wasn’t the kind of place you forgot.
So when he’d put the chip back into his Bureau cell phone and discovered the succinct message Lyssa had left—which consisted solely of the word catfish—he’d known exactly what she meant. The Schooner had been the hidey-hole for their first collective collar—a third-rate counterfeiter who specialized in bunk concert tickets. It also served the best catfish fry in the state.
Which was why he now found himself deep within the back room of The Schooner, seated in a pool of darkness with his back to the rough, paneled wall as he nursed a Sam Adams and wondered if he was about to be hit by SWAT. Well, at least something would happen then.
Because this was just getting pathetic. He’d been tailing Moss for the last day and a half, and the jerk had a more active social life than a Kardashian. On the clock and off, which disgusted Max but didn’t prove anything other than the fact that Moss was a political whore. No news there. But he hadn’t reached out to anyone connected to Dolan.
And other than Lee Chang’s wife’s penchant for nickel slots and Mojitos, there was nothing there, either. So all Max could hope was that Lyssa was either the guy—or she knew who the hell was.
Seriously goddamn pathetic.
And the clock was ticking. He didn’t have time for this—
“Hey, baby,” said a husky female voice. The scent of roses washed over him as a woman clad in a shimmering blue wig, hot pink sundress, and red cowboy boots slid onto the barstool beside him. “Sorry, I’m late.”
She leaned toward him, and he realized he was looking at his partner. Annoyance flashed through him. He’d seen her earlier—taking a selfie with the pirate—and looked right past her. Obviously, he hadn’t looked close enough—dumbass—and even if he had, he might not have seen it.
Not only did she look different, but her mannerisms were also changed. Her walk, her posture, the way she tilted her head. Even in the staid pantsuits she normally wore, she was an attractive woman, but with the electric blue wig and vampy make-up—not to mention the skin-tight dress—she looked like a budding model. Not only that—she was damn good at being someone else. Better than he ever would have imagined. She’d walked past him at least twice without him realizing who she was.
“Not a problem,” he muttered. “You look…nice.”
She eyed him with an arched brow. “Yeah? You look like you eat nails for breakfast.”
“Good,” he said. She was pressed into his side, leaning toward him, looking like an adoring girlfriend. No one in The Schooner cared. “What have you got for me?”
“You were right,” she muttered and propped her chin in her hand. “Men are faithless pigs.”
Max blinked. “Meaning?”
“Farland was having an affair. Her name was Scarlett, and she worked a pole down at Benito’s. His old lady confirmed it.”
Dread bloomed low in Max’s belly. “You spoke to Ellen?”
“I joined her ceramics class so we could have a nice, private, inconspicuous conversation
“And?”
“And Benito’s is run by Alexander Singleton. Leland Dolan’s college roommate.”
“Dolan went to college?”
“Briefly. But then he threatened to skin his biology professor and hang him from a tree.”
“Sounds like our boy.”
“Singleton’s got a rap sheet a mile long. Assault, battery, stalking. I guess they bonded. Birds of a feather, and all that.” Lyssa sighed, shifting closer. “I went to Benito’s, no Scarlett. But Singleton treats his girls like shit. They were happy to chat.”
Lead was filling Max’s chest. Not Farland. No.
Farland had been a decent guy; a good agent.
His fucking friend.
“And?” Max asked, his voice devoid of interest.
“Bird’s lying low at a domestic shelter on the south side. Lakeshore Services.” Lyssa picked up his Sam Adams and took a drink. “Broken arm, and black and blue all over.”
“Dolan?”
Lyssa’s bright blue eyes turned to flint. “Farland.”
Fury and nausea fought for control, and something that might have been pain stabbed through Max. “You sure about that?”
“He and Dolan had a little go-round in one of Benito’s private rooms, something about missing bills of lading, and a ship full of Carmack. Scarlett walked in on them, and our friend Farland lost his shit. Dragged her to the parking lot and wiped the pavement with her. Told her if she ever told anyone that she’d seen him with Dolan, he’d kill her. As soon as he turned his back, she ran. She’s been running ever since.”
Max’s jaw was so tight, it hurt. The cold in his veins burned. “Our rat.”
“Yep.”
“He was McLean’s handler.”
“You are paying attention. That’s good.”
“And Moss?”
“He signed off on the plea agreement.”
Son of a bitch. “So both of them.”
“Likely.” Lyssa took another sip of his beer. “I think they were killing two birds with one stone. Farland was either stealing from them or had become too big a risk. I hear he liked belonging to Dolan, and people were figuring it out. When he called and gave them the location of the house, my guess is they decided they would take two for the price of one. Just didn’t turn out that way.” She paused, searching his face. “I shouldn’t have told you to bring her in. I know you’re a good agent. I’m sorry.”
“I’m a dickhead,” Max muttered. “A stupid, blind jackass dickhead.”
“We all have our faults.” She bumped her arm against his. “I have to tell you something else, but you can’t get mad.”
Alarm seared through him. “What?”
“I’m not FBI.”
He turned slowly and looked at her.
“Down, boy.” She winced. “Sometimes you’re freaking scary.”
“Not FBI?” he repeated dangerously.
“No.” She shook her head. “CBP.”
He blinked. “Say what?”
“Customs and Border Patrol. I was sent in by Homeland to discover the identity of the federal agent—or agents—who were providing cover to Dolan’s import and export businesses with falsified custom authorizations, inspections, and trade certifications.”
Max stared at her. “I knew you weren’t Agency. You’re too soft.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” A wry smile flashed across her face, and Max watched her, suspicious and uncertain. His gut said she was telling the truth, but he didn’t trust anything or anyone—least of all his traitorous, idiot gut that had believed Farland was a friend. “Lucky for me, you’re the only one who seems to have noticed. I’ve been watching Moss for the last six months, and all I’ve got is a boatload of circumstantial evidence. I haven’t been able to get my hands on anything concrete. He’s very careful. But I’m close. I can taste it. And I’m pretty sure he and Farland aren’t the only ones on Dolan’s payroll. He’s a very big fish; the parasites love him.”
Max pinched the bridge of his nose and counted, slowly, to ten.
Farland, dirty. Check. Moss, probably even dirtier. Check. Lyssa, CBP.
Goddamn it.
“He gave you to the Marshals,” Lyssa continued softly. “And people aren’t happy about that. They know you. They might not agree, but they know you’re doing what you think is best. They know you’re trying to save her. And you’re one of ours. It shouldn’t be the Marshals who bring you in.”
“They’ll do their jobs,” Max said coldly. He knew; he would.
“Some of them. Not all.” Lyssa met his gaze steadily. “You’re a good agent, and you’ve never failed them. That goes a long way.”
He snorted. “For the shit-all good it does me.”
“I’m here, jerkface.” She emptied his beer and set it back down on the table. Hard. “Does that count?”
She was bristling, and that, oddly, steadied him. Lyssa always bristled like a pissed off hedgehog when he annoyed her. And she was right: meeting him was a huge risk. If she was legit, she was taking one hell of a chance to clue him in, not only about Farland but also by disclosing her own covert role in this whole mess.
“Make no mistake, Max,” she told him seriously, “Moss is distancing himself, but he’s keeping tabs. He wants her. I’ve listened to his calls. He’s getting desperate. You’d better watch yourself. But I’m on it. I just need a little more time.” Lyssa leaned over and brushed her mouth against his, and Max stared at her in bemusement. “Gotta go now, sweet cheeks. Stay cool.”
Then she climbed from her stool and sashayed away, her ass swinging beneath her tight dress. Several of the pool players gave her a once-over as she walked past, and she grinned at them.
Son of a bitch.
She’d just told him to lie low and wait it out. That she was on it.
Stay cool.
As goddamn if.