Dustin smiled. That was straightforward. “I initially asked about applying to one of your units. They told me there was no application process. You formed your own units.”
“That’s true,” Crow said. “And I wish I’d known about you earlier. David was talking to Malachi about you, and then Malachi talked to me. So, yes, I looked you up and pulled strings to get all the information I could on you. Thus far, each recruit has worked out. We’re...careful in the people we approach. We have to be.”
“Because you all have special talents, I take it?” Dustin asked. “And, of course, because all the other agents like to call the units ghost hunters and rib you all about it. But really, they’re all envious of your record.”
“Detective Caswell has told us that working with you was like—”
“Like working with me,” Malachi Gordon cut in. “David and I were together in New Orleans,” he explained.
“I see,” Dustin said.
“Are you a candidate, Mr. Blake?” Crow asked him.
Dustin lowered his head, hiding a smile. He looked back at Crow. “Well, let me put it this way—if you haven’t met him yet, I’d be glad to introduce you to General Bixby. He’s sitting at the bar right now, next to the man in the jeans and Alice Cooper T-shirt.”
That brought a grin to Crow’s face. Dustin hadn’t been sure the man was really capable of a smile.
“We haven’t met formally, no, but we’ve been aware of his presence.”
“I wasn’t sure if I was being tested or not.” Dustin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at Jackson Crow, then Dustin and finally the third man, Malachi Gordon.
“Why now?” he asked.
It was Gordon who answered him. “You’re from Nashville,” he said.
Dustin thought quickly. He was privy to law-enforcement reports daily. He hadn’t heard anything about a kidnapping or murder in the city of Nashville.
“I am from Nashville,” he said, frowning. “But I’ve been gone for a long time.”
“You go back often enough, don’t you?”
He did, except that he hadn’t been there in a while. His academic parents were living in London. His little sister, Rayna, had grown up to be a country music singer. But she’d been on tour for the past year. He’d caught up with her—and his folks—for a few days in London earlier in the summer.
“Yes, but I haven’t been back in about a year,” he said.
“That’s not too long,” David said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Marcus Danby?” Malachi Gordon asked him.
“Marcus Danby.” Dustin repeated slowly. The name was familiar. “Of course. Yes,” he said. “He founded a therapy center. He brings in clients—patients—to work with horses. Or dogs, sometimes. He was the black sheep of a very elite family, wound up addicted to everything known to man. He did time, but he was the last living member of his family and inherited property. He also changed his ways. The Horse Farm is extremely well-respected.”
“Danby is dead,” Gordon said abruptly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”
“Fell into a ravine,” Gordon told him. “He was buried two days ago but the autopsy report was just released. He had drugs in his system.”
“That’s a pity. The man must’ve been clean for at least twenty years,” Dustin said. “What does this—”
“Some people close to him don’t believe what they’re hearing. We’d like you to investigate,” Jackson Crow broke in.
“You don’t believe it was a fall—or you don’t believe he was on drugs?”
“Neither,” Malachi replied.
“Are the police suspicious?” Dustin asked.
“No.” Crow shook his head.
“Then I don’t really understand—”
“Special Agent Blake, we often find ourselves slipping in when local law enforcement doesn’t see an immediate problem,” Crow said.
“I see.”
Malachi Gordon told him, “We’d like you to go in as a patient.”
“As a patient. You want me to go in as a patient and investigate an accident brought on by substance abuse when no one believes it might have been anything other than it appeared?”
“We have more than a suspicion that he was murdered,” Malachi said bluntly.
Dustin stared at him. “How? Why? I’m in the bureau. I know how it works. We’re usually called in when there’s a suspicion that a serial killer is at large or when a killer is crossing state lines.”
“Agent Blake,” Jackson Crow began. “We move in on cases when we’re afraid the truth may never be known because of unusual circumstances. We don’t go barging in as a unit. We send one or two people and they assess the situation for us.”
Dustin was surprised and, he had to admit, disappointed. This didn’t sound like a case that was worthy of the Krewe.