King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

They eyed each other.

“I guess I get that,” said Michelle.

“Trust me, my years with Dana were some of the worst of my life. I do not have enough time left to go back down that road, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

Michelle sipped her coffee. “Okay, what now? We’re waiting on Dana and Kathy. We really can’t approach Tyler at this point.”

Michelle’s phone dinged. She looked at the screen and then held it up for Sean to see. “We just got Tyler’s email address from Kathy.”

“Then our next stop is Edgar Roy.”

“At his farm?” she asked.

“No, I checked. He’s working in D.C. the rest of this week.”

“Bunting Enterprises?”

“Satellite office thereof,” replied Sean.

“Can we see him there? Isn’t it classified and firewalled with attack dogs ready to eat trespassers?”

“I’m sure it is. But we can call and arrange to meet with him outside the Emerald City. I’ll tell him to bring his laptop. And his big brain.”

Sean started to get in on the driver’s side of his Lexus.

Michelle said, “I’ll drive.”

“But—” Sean started to protest. Michelle was already climbing into her truck, however.

Sean opened the passenger door to the Land Cruiser and a pile of junk fell out onto the pavement. He jumped when a half-empty carton of orange juice spilled on his shoes.

“Just throw it in the backseat,” advised Michelle.

“How about I just put it all in that trash can over there?” he said angrily.

“But it’s not all trash.”

“If it looks like trash and smells like trash…?”

“In the backseat, Sean. Thanks.”

Sean glared for a moment at the pile of stuff and then proceeded to hurl it into the backseat with velocity. Finished, he slammed the door shut.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“No, not really,” he said between gritted teeth as he stared straight ahead. “I have orange juice in my socks.”

“Then your feet will never get a cold.”

Sean called Edgar on the drive over. He did not keep normal hours and had been at work for some time already.

When they reached the office building a block over from K Street, they both saw him at the same time. Edgar Roy was hard to miss. He was six foot nine, which was extremely tall on any surface other than an NBA court. He was also exceedingly thin, which made him seem even taller. He was carrying a laptop computer under one arm.

They pulled to the curb and Sean rolled down the window.

“Hey, Edgar.”

Edgar glanced over at him. Partially obscured behind the thick glasses was a pair of eyes that fronted one of the premier minds in the country, if not the world. Edgar Roy was America’s most invaluable intelligence analyst. The amount of material his mind was able to burrow through to find small nuggets of intelligence gold was truly unprecedented.