He watches me as he settles into the chair. "I know about the trouble with your niece. I'm sorry one of our own was involved in it. If you haven't gotten an apology from the Bureau, I'm here now to offer it."
The Bureau? Surprised, I ask, "You're not DEA?"
He shakes his head. "FBI." Before I can comment, he follows with, "You are exactly as I pictured you. Or rather, as Max described you."
Another unexpected revelation. "Max told you about me?"
Foley nods. "Of course. Max and I are friends. I know a lot about you. I know how you and Max came to be acquainted. How it was your contact that supplied the information needed to get Max that job with Martinez."
Okay. I suppose if Foley was Max's friend and a fellow federal agent, he might know about that, know that a skip I caught was a drug runner for Martinez. He used me to leverage a deal with the Feds. Information in return for immunity. It's how Max got his job as Martinez' driver.
But then Foley continues, ticking off the items as if reading from a mental checklist.
"I know that you were a schoolteacher who left education to pursue a rather unusual career path as a bail enforcement agent. I know you have been at odds with your family about that decision, but that they have come to terms with it, probably because of what happened with your niece. I know you have a relationship of some kind with Police Chief Williams, though not the details of that relationship…"
He seems prepared to go on but I hold up a hand to stop him. There would be no reason for Max to share any of this with Foley. "Max told you all that?"
Again, the slow smile. "Not exactly."
Suspicion turns to anger. "Have you been investigating me?"
"It's routine."
"Routine?"
He nods. "You're involved with Max. It's policy to run a background check on anyone close to an agent—especially an undercover agent. Don't look so disapproving. It's for your protection as well."
"Does Max know what you're doing?"
"He set it in motion."
"How?"
"I told you. Anyone involved with an undercover agent comes under scrutiny. Max knows this."
"Scrutiny? Or invasion of privacy?" But the rankling goes deeper. "Max didn't tell me about this."
Foley sits back in his chair. "You think he should have?"
I don't know what I think. I only know what I feel— anger. What else has Foley found out about me? When I meet his eyes, he seems to read the question reflected in mine.
"Max doesn't know everything," he says quietly. "I didn't see the point in telling him about your lovers—Dr. Avery, that teacher at your mother's school. I will tell him, if I think it necessary."
Foley's kindly demeanor suddenly rings false. The smile is the same, the straightforward manner relaxed and open. But there is an undercurrent. He's playing a game with me. The only consolation is that I get no vibe that he thinks I'm anything other than a female who likes to sleep around.
"What do you want from me?"
"Your help. We need to find Max."
"Is he in trouble? Because I don't believe he quit the agency."
Foley shrugs. "I can only tell you that he hasn't checked in in a month." His eyes narrow a little. "In fact, the last contact we had with Max was the day after he spent the night with you. Do you remember?"
I do. I was chasing the scumbags who exploited my niece at the time—including the one who turned out to be an FBI agent. I knew then something was going on with Max, but I was too involved in my own troubles to follow up on it. Maybe I should have.
I shake off the thought. Max is a successful and resourceful undercover agent for the DEA. He wouldn't have accepted help from me even if I'd offered it.
I look up at Foley. "Why are you here? What is the FBI's involvement?"
"Interdepartmental cooperation."
"Bullshit. I know enough about government bureaucracy to know there is no such thing as 'interdepartmental cooperation.' What's the real reason?"
Foley lets a sigh escape his lips. It comes off as dramatic and practiced, something meant to divert suspicion.
It doesn't. I don't move a muscle and I don't lower my eyes, forcing him to be the one to shift in his seat and look away. He does, finally, pushing himself to his feet. He crosses to the window and says over his shoulder, "Max is a friend. We've known each other a long time. If he's in trouble, I want to help. Before he gets in any deeper."
A friend? Somehow I don't think so. "Gets deeper in what? Isn't he doing his job?"
Foley isn't looking at me. If I wasn't aware that he would surely notice that I cast no reflection in the window he's so determinedly staring out of, I'd jump up and force him to meet my eyes. I don't buy this friendship thing and I don't trust his motives. "You think he's in danger because of Martinez?"
At that, Foley turns. "No, Ms. Strong." He isn't avoiding my eyes this time. "I'd say he's in danger because of you."
CHAPTER 8
WHAT FOLEY SAYS IS SO RIDICULOUS, IT'S ALL I can do to keep from snickering. But I stay quiet and stare right back at him.
The silence stretches while Foley eyes me. What is he expecting? That I'll crumble under his thousand-mile stare? He's a manipulator and, I suspect, a liar. I'm beginning to really dislike him.
"Wow, Foley, you're pretty good." I let sarcasm drip off each word. "Just the right amount of threat and concern. You've convinced me that I'm the danger to Max, not the vicious, murdering drug lord he's worked to bring down these last two years."
Foley's mask slips. The open, frank expression morphs into anger.
"Max has been in deep cover for years," I say. "He's put his life on the line every day getting close to one of Mexico's most dangerous men. And you tell me he's in trouble now because of me? Why on earth would I believe that?"
Foley comes back to the chair and sinks into it, holding up both hands as if offering up an apology. "You're right, of course. I shouldn't have said that."
"Then why did you? What do you think I know?"
Foley lifts one shoulder. "Where Max is, maybe. What he's doing. Why he's gone off on his own."
For once, it's nice not to have to lie. "I can't answer any of those questions."
His eyes narrow. "You're telling me you haven't had any contact with him?"
Define contact. We spent only a few moments together last night. Hardly qualifies as "contact." And I'm sure Max is long gone from Beso de la Muerte. I shake my head. "I can't help you, Foley. And I don't believe Max has gone off on his own. He's too much of a company man. If he hasn't been in contact for a while, there's a good reason."
I've risen from my chair. Foley stands up, too. He fishes in a jacket pocket and comes up with a card. He holds it out. "Call me if you hear from him."
I push the card away. "When Max shows up, he'll contact his superiors in the DEA. But if he does get in touch, I'll be sure to tell him a friend in the FBI was asking about him."
Again, there's a spark of dark anger that's smothered before it does more than tighten the corners of Foley's mouth. It's instantaneous and almost undetectable. If I weren't such a suspicious bitch, I would have missed it.
Foley realizes I caught his little display of temper, too.
He pushes the card back into his pocket, smiling now with smooth concern. "Have it your way, Ms. Strong. But remember what I said. Max is in trouble. You can believe it or not. I hope you won't have cause to regret refusing my help."