Page 40 of Max's Mission

Sixteen

“There. Is that him?” Margot nodded toward the door at a man in a tired gray suit under a bland khaki trench coat. She and Max were seated in a small lounge area at Ranchero Mutual, waiting for Gallagher’s colleague to arrive. They’d already told a teller they were waiting on someone. The woman kept sending suspicious looks their way.

The wind that followed the man in fluttered the front of his coat, revealing the badge clipped to his hip.

“I’d say so.” Max stood. “That or the teller finally called the cops.”

Margot sighed as she stood up. That would not surprise her. Not with their luck.

“Dr. Gaultier? Mr. Carson?” The man walked closer with a curious frown.

“That’s us.” Max held out a hand. “Agent Dye?”

The man shook his hand. “Yes. Call me Jeremiah.” He extended his hand to Margot.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Agent Gallagher gave me a quick rundown of this case. Have you opened the box here?”

Margot shared a look with Max, then shook her head.

“No,” Max said. “We wanted to, but we didn’t want to obscure any fingerprints on the key.”

“You’d have done that by picking it up.”

“Not if we wore gloves and were extra careful taking it out of the box.” Max pulled a fresh pair from his pocket. “We thought about fingerprinting it, but didn’t want to tamper with evidence.”

Dye raised an eyebrow, and Max’s mouth took on a sardonic tilt. “Anymore than we already have. We also figured the staff here might get suspicious if we pulled these babies out to turn our key in the lock.” He shook the gloves.

“You’d be right.” The man scratched at his temple and blew out a breath. “Okay. You have the key?”

Margot reached into her purse and pulled out the Ziploc bag containing it.

“Perfect.” He took the bag, looking toward a counter that ran along the wall to the right. “Let’s go see if I can lift any prints from it, then we’ll find the manager.”

He led them over to the counter and set the bag down. From one pocket of his trench, he withdrew a small black case and opened it, taking out a fluffy brush, a container of black powder, and several fingerprint cards.

It only took him a minute to dust both sides of the key. He found a thumbprint on one side.

“That’s a decent print.” Covering it with clear tape, he picked it up, looking at it. “I’ll run it when I get back to the office.” Putting his kit away, he brushed the powder off the counter and picked up the key. “Shall we?” He nodded toward the teller.

Max turned and motioned Dye to go ahead. As the agent walked past, Margot slipped her hand into Max’s, and they followed.

The same teller who’d been staring at them suspiciously while they waited looked even more wary as they approached.

Dye lifted his badge from his belt and showed it to her. “Hello. I’m Agent Dye with the FBI. I’d like to speak to your manager, please.”

Her eyes widened, then her gaze shot past him to Max and Margot. “Um, sure.” She turned her head, looking down the long desk at a woman in a black pencil skirt and a floral patterned black and white blouse, who’d just emerged from the back. In her late forties, the woman had her light brown hair pulled up into a loose French twist. Gold-framed glasses sat on the end of her nose as she stared down at a pile of papers in her hand.

“Tess.”

The woman looked up. Her brows pinched as she took in the teller’s wide-eyed look and the three people standing on the other side of the desk. A wariness crept into her eyes.

Margot didn’t blame her. It probably looked like she was getting robbed.

Dye held up his badge. “Are you the manager?”

She nodded and walked closer. “I am. How may I help you?”

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