Page 4 of A Ruthless Bargain
One, he told me the truth about working for the US Marshal’s office and didn’t have anything online. That would make sense, since the movies taught me their officers needed to maintain a low profile.
Two, he told me the truth about his job and had profiles and information online, but under another name, maybe his real name. If that was the case, I’d never figure it out. That would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.
Three, he lied about working for the Marshals, and nothing would be under Jax Smith because I was right that it wasn’t his real name. That would be another immediate dead end, like number two, because I couldn’t search for what I didn’t know.
My wine glass empty, I jumped from my chair and poured myself another from the bottle on the counter. I swigged the glass, enjoying the flow of the fruity red wine down my throat.
Oh, wait.
There was another option.
I sat back at the table and considered my laptop. Of course, one of the first places I’d checked was the actual US Marshals Service website, but not surprisingly, they didn’t list all their agents.
But they did list district contacts.
And they had an article posted warning people about schemes where individuals posed as fake marshals.
I grabbed my cellphone and dialed the number for the US Marshals Office for the Northern District of Georgia.
“Good afternoon,” a pleasant southern voice answered the phone.
“Good afternoon,” I responded, and then froze.
“Ma’am, are you still there?”
I hadn’t planned this at all and stumbled over what to say.
“Ma’am?”
“Apologies, I have a tricky connection,” I lied, stealing myself another moment. It wasn’t necessary to give all the information. I’d stick to the facts.
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“I wanted to confirm that someone is a US Marshal.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t disclose the identities of agents,” she said, sounding genuinely sorrowful. She was either very empathetic or a very good actress.
My stomach clenched. I knew if I told her about the invasive search, that would get her attention, but something held me back. “What if he’s impersonating an agent?” I asked instead.
“Now that we’ll look into,” she said, her voice sharper, less saccharine. “What’s the name of the individual claiming to be an agent?”
“Jax Smith.”
“Hmm. Give me a second.” A thud sounded, and I wondered if she’d set the receiver on an office desk. “He’s not out of this office,” she said to herself, though it came through the line. Tapping on a keyboard followed, and I strained to listen.
My leg bounced, my heel banging on the tile in time to my thumping heart.
“Ma’am, thank you for this information. We’ll take it from here,” the woman finally said.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me if he’s an actual agent or not,” I wondered aloud.
“No, ma’am, but the US Marshals thanks you again for the information about the possible scam.”
I recognized the sound of a brush-off and thanked her for her time, before ending the call. Worry spiked at the dead end. I’d searched the vast internet as best I could with no success. I called the US Marshals and directly asked if he was an agent. And I found nothing. Now what? There had to be something else I could do.
There was. I had to admit I needed help.
I scrolled through my contacts and found the name I wanted. Tapped the entry and pressed Call.