The guy in the suit might have thought he was smiling when he grimaced, but there was no friendliness in his voice. “John Falkirk, National Security Agency.” He presented an ID wallet with his photo.
Jeffy felt most comfortable pretending to be dumb and rattled by the uproar in this previously sleepy canyon. He spoke rapidly, running sentences together. “What’s wrong, what’s happening, do we have to evacuate?”
“This house is owned by a Jeffrey Coltrane,” said Falkirk. “Are you Mr. Coltrane?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right, that’s me,” Jeffy said, nodding in agreement with himself. “What’s going on, all the helicopters, are we safe? I have a young daughter here.”
Perhaps Falkirk thought that withholding reassurances from a befuddled citizen would inspire less guarded responses. Having put away his ID, the agent held up a smartphone on which he had summoned a photograph of Ed. “Do you know this man?”
“Who is he?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Jeffy squinted at the phone. “I’ve maybe seen him before.”
“Where?”
“I can’t say where.”
“You can’t say where?”
“No, sir. Maybe I’m wrong, never saw him. If I saw him, it was maybe just in town somewhere.”
Falkirk resorted to an intimidating silence again, as if he’d been conducting an inflection analysis of every syllable Jeffy spoke while observing the degree of dilation of his pupils, and now needed to match the two data streams for evidence of deception. There was something of the machine about Falkirk.
If the agent were less officious, Jeffy might have cooperated with him. However, he liked frumpy, delusional old Ed far more than he liked this man. Intuitively, he didn’t trust Falkirk any more than he would have trusted a guy with 666 tattooed on his forehead.
“He’s a vagrant and fugitive,” the agent said. “That’s all you need to know. He lives in a small inflatable tent in the wild part of this canyon.”
Jeffy crafted a frown. “Used to be nothing up canyon except coyotes and bobcats and the creatures they eat. It was better then.”
“We believe this man walks into town at least a few times a week. He’d pass right by here. Could that be where you saw him?”
“Maybe. I don’t spend much time on the porch. I’ve got a life.”
“If he saw you, he might’ve stopped by for a chat. He’s a sociable guy.”
Jeffy’s frown carved deeper into his face. “I’d never encourage one of those people. Like I said, I’ve got a young daughter to worry about.” He glanced at the two men who looked like SWAT team members who’d taken off their Kevlar vests to swing by the doughnut shop. He turned his attention to Falkirk again. “What’s going on here? How freaked out should I be? This vagrant kill someone?”
“His name’s Dr. Edwin Harkenbach. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not my doctor,” Jeffy said, shaking his head. “My doctor’s Ben Solerno. And my dentist is Jennifer Goshen. Thank God, I don’t need any specialists.”
After staring at him in silence for a moment, Falkirk put away the phone and produced an official-looking document. “Mr. Coltrane, do you understand it’s a felony to lie to an agent of the NSA?”
“Sure. I understand. Just like the FBI. Way it ought to be.”
“I am herewith serving a search warrant for these premises. This is a matter of national security. Failure to comply with a court order of this nature may result in your arrest.”
“You want to come in and look around?” Jeffy asked, accepting the warrant.
“That’s the general idea. Just so you understand—you aren’t the specific target of a criminal investigation.” His icy stare seemed to belie his assurances. “These are FISA warrants issued pursuant to an urgent threat involving an individual who might have taken advantage of your goodwill. We have warrants for all seven houses on Shadow Canyon Lane.”
“National security threat. Hey, far as I’m concerned, you don’t need a warrant for this house. It’s my civic duty, isn’t it? Come on in, gentlemen.”
When Falkirk and his associates stepped into the foyer, Amity appeared in sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt featuring her favorite anime character, and a light denim jacket with a yellow winking-face emoji on the breast pocket. Owl-eyed, she said, “Daddy, what’s happening?”
“These men are federal agents, sweetheart.”