“Are you Anthony Dyer?” Deke inquired, his eyes steady.
“I am,” the man confirmed.
“We’re with the Montana department of livestock. I’m Agent Anderson and this is AgentBowman. We need a few minutes of your time.”
“What does MDOL want with me?” Dyer asked, curiosity piqued.
“Could we come inside?” Rawley interjected, his tone polite yet firm.
“Sure, come in.” Dyer opened the door wider, his gesture inviting them into the cool, polished interior of the house.
Deke glanced at Rawley, raising an eyebrow, to which Rawley responded with a slight shrug.
“Thank you,” Deke said as they stepped over the threshold, the scent of polished wood and leather enveloping them.
“Would you like something to drink?” Dyer offered, gesturing toward a sleek bar in the corner.
“No, sir. Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?” Deke asked, scanning the elegant furnishings.
“We can go into my office. Follow me.” Dyer turned and led them down a long, dimly lit hallway adorned with framed artwork. After a few moments, Deke and Rawley followed, their footsteps echoing softly.
“What the fuck? He doesn’t seem like he’s worried about us being here,” Rawley muttered under his breath.
“I know. Let’s see what we can find out,” Deke replied, determination etched on his face.
After an intense conversation with Anthony Dyer, Deke and Rawley exited the house, their expressions grim as they climbed back into the truck. They sat silently, staring through the windshield at the disappearing light of day.
“He lied. He fucking lied,” Deke said through clenched teeth, his jaw tight with frustration.
“Yeah, he did. Son of a bitch. Now what?” Rawley asked, looking over at Deke.
“We’re going back to Smith,” Deke decided with a resolute nod.
Deke drove to the sheriff’s department, the tension in the cab palpable. Once there, he and Rawley entered the building, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over everything. After a brief discussion with the sheriff, they made their way to the interrogation room to wait for Smith to be brought in, the air thick with anticipation and unspoken questions.
A deputy in a khaki uniform guided Smith through the steel-reinforced door. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed, casting a sickly glare over scuffed gray walls. The deputy clipped the handcuffs to the metal bar bolted on the table. The sharp clank echoed, then the deputy nodded to Rawley and Deke and slipped out, the door thudding shut behind him.
Deke yanked a dented metal chair away from the scarred table and sat, letting it scrape on the floor. Rawley remained standing, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, eyes half-hidden under the brim of his hat. A faint whiff of stale coffee and musty sweat hung in the air.
“You want to try again on who Winchester was dealing with on the black market?” Deke’s voice was low, controlled, but every word stung.
Smith frowned, the dim light catching the worry lines around his eyes. “I told you. Anthony—”
“Bullshit. That man doesn’t know anything about it. You just pull a name out of a hat?” Deke’s chair creaked as he leaned forward.
“That was the name I was told.” Smith swallowed hard, throat bobbing.
Deke’s gaze flicked to Rawley. “Dyer has no prior records of any kind. He’s a hell of a lot cleaner than you and the Winchesters.”
Smith’s voice cracked. “I swear, that’s the name I was given.”
“By whom?” Rawley’s tone was slow, accusatory.
Smith’s gaze darted between them. He flattened his lips. “Teddy Winchester.”
Deke let out a long breath. “Figures.”
Rawley rolled his eyes. “The one who won’t talk but still leads us on a wild goose chase.”
