Page 8 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

The agent – Agent Nowitzki, she’d introduced herself – glanced at his glass and then back to his face, lips curving downward the tiniest fraction. “Your late father was the president, right?”

“Right. Recently late, so, thanks for all the sympathy,” he drawled, swallowing down the tightness in his throat, gripping his own thigh beneath the cover of the bar when his free hand started to shake. “He was president, Walsh was VP. Walsh moved up, and I got nominated, so.” He shrugged, sipped more beer, and wished it was something stronger.

She consulted her pocket-sized spiral notebook, tapping its edge with her pen. “‘Walsh’ meaning Kingston Walsh, correct?”

“Yep.” He popped the P.

She glanced up, through her lashes again. He thought they might be fake ones. “He’s not American, correct?”

Though he knew to expect anything, he for some reason hadn’t expectedthisline of questioning. He fought to keep his expression placid and said, “He’s British. But he’s married to an American, so I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Yes.” She consulted her notepad again. “Emmaline Walsh. Is she here?”

“No.”

She gestured to Aidan’s left hand where it was curled around his beer. “And what about your wife? Samantha. Is she here?”

“No.”

“And your stepmother? Your father’s widow?”

He gritted his teeth, saw Tango give the faintest shake of his head, and took a slow, measured breath. “She’s out of town.”

She nodded, expression going grave. Then she slipped her notepad and pen into an inner pocket of her jacket – lifting it away from her body farther than necessary to show off the factthat her shirt was sleeveless underneath; Jesus Christ,feds– and softened her posture. Leaned up against the corner of the bar between Aidan and Tango.

Tango lifted his brows, and Aidan thought he almost smiled.

“I am sorry about your father, truly. It must be difficult.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“And your brother-in-law–”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks.”

Behind her, two other agents – these in the windbreaker/ballcap getup that denoted them as less powerful than Nowitzki and the guy who Boomer had taken to Walsh – were shifting from foot to foot, scanning the interior of the clubhouse.

“Look, you’re great,” Aidan said, and her faux sympathy gave way to a raised-browexcuse melook. “And I’m sure you have a whole list of questions on that little pad in your pocket, and you probably aren’t supposed to tell us anything, but do you have any leads?”

Her brows climbed higher, and, behind her, so did Tango’s, though less alarmed and more questioning. Aidan was going off-book.

“Leads?” she asked.

“On my nephew. Remy. He was kidnapped.” He frowned, and hoped it looked sincere. “That’s why you guys are here, right? The local cops are trying their best, but if a kid gets taken across state lines, the FBI gets involved.”

“I…” she floundered. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to–”

“Wait.” He sat up straight on his stool and frowned harder. “Are younothere looking for Remy? But…you guys were here already. And you didn’t find anything. And Remy’smissing. He’s…” Aidan blew out a harsh breath and slumped hard onto his elbow, shaking his head.

Tango’s compressed lips said he was laying it on a little thick. Fucking sue him: he wasn’t Fox or Tenny.

“Mr. Teague,” she said, more formally. “my team and I are following up on the previous team’s investigation: your brother-in-law’s murder charges.”

“But…he’s dead.”

“Allegedly.”

He blinked at her. “There was an explosion. We had a funeral. If the FBI thinks he’s onlyallegedlydead, why did they pack up and leave town?”

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