Rebel's Karma Page 29
Angus crossed his arms. “You’re trespassing, assholes.” Was it a bad sign he could sound and feel sober after the amount he’d imbibed all day? Yeah. Probably.
The older man watched the dog. The younger man kept his gaze on Angus.
The older guy was obviously the smarter of the two.
The younger guy smoothly reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his wallet to flip it open. “Agent Thomas Rutherford of the HDD.” His voice was low and cultured. Confident. He was probably about Angus’s age—in his early thirties.
“You’re lost,” Angus returned evenly.
“No. We’re looking for you, Special Agent Angus Force,” Rutherford said, his blue eyes cutting through the space between them.
“I’m retired.” Not exactly true, which was probably why these guys had shown up.
The older guy cocked his head. “That’s a tactical Czech German shepherd,” he said thoughtfully.
Angus lifted an eyebrow. “Nope. He’s a mutt. Found him last week in a gulley.” Was he drunk, or did Roscoe send him an irritated canine look? Angus jerked his head at the older man. “You are?”
The guy also took out a wallet to flash an HDD badge. “Agent Kurt Fielding.” Rough with an edge of the street—no culture there.
Angus crossed his arms. “There is nothing the Homeland Defense Department could possibly want with me.” The agency was an offshoot of Homeland Security—one of the offshoots the public didn’t really know about. The name alone made it easy to divert funds. “Go away.”
Rutherford set his hands in his pockets in an obvious effort to appear harmless. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“Too bad.” Angus would like another drink. They stood between him and his bottles. That was a bad place to be.
Agent Fielding had deep dark eyes with a hangdog expression. He finally looked away from Roscoe and focused on Angus. “We know you’ve been nosing around the old files of the Henry Wayne Lassiter case.”
Heat flushed down Angus’s spine. “The last person who said that name to me got a fist in the face and a broken nose.”
“We’re aware of that fact,” Rutherford said. “Special Agent in Charge Denby still has a bump on that nose.”
Yeah, well his former boss had known better. Angus shrugged.
Fielding tried again. “We just want to talk.”
“No,” Angus said softly. “I know something is up, and I’m not going to stop until I find out what.” He’d been a damn good tracker for the Behavioral Science Unit until the Lassiter case, and then he’d fucking lost everything. Maybe even his mind. “A source reached out and told me Lassiter isn’t really dead.” Yeah, he’d shot the lunatic, and blood had sprayed. But he’d been shot as well, and he’d passed out before he was able to check the body for a pulse.
Rutherford smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. The guy probably had them bleached. “We understand that an old file clerk contacted you, but you have to realize that we’d just forced Miles Brown into retirement, and he was trying to make trouble by calling you. He apparently succeeded. Lassiter is dead.”
Miles had been a great record keeper, and the only thing his message had said was that there was a problem with the Lassiter file and for Force to call him immediately. “Fine. Then let me talk to Miles.” The phone number had been disconnected.
Fielding winced. “Miles Brown suffered a stroke and is in St. Juliet’s on the east side of DC. He has no family, so we put him up.”
That would explain why Force couldn’t get to him. “I’d like to see his office.”
“His office was cleared out,” Fielding said. “Per procedure. Nothing out of the ordinary there.”
Right. Except that Miles had called, and there was a sense of urgency in his voice. “Yet you’re here,” Angus murmured.
Rutherford sighed. “We know you’ve been through an ordeal, but—”
“Ordeal?” Angus growled. “Are you kidding me?” He’d give anything for his gun.
Fielding held up a hand. “We’re very sorry for your loss, but this is important.”
Loss? Had the fucker really just said the word “loss” to him? Angus took two steps toward the agents, and Roscoe kept pace with him, low growls emerging from his gut. “Leave. Now.” His sister had been murdered by the last serial killer Angus would ever put away. Loss didn’t cover it. Not by a long shot.
Rutherford eyed the dog warily. “We want you to stop pursuing the issue. Lassiter is dead. Let him lie.”
Angus snorted. Roscoe kept at attention but stopped growling. “Why are you here, then? If the case was really closed, you wouldn’t bother.” The psychopath had actually worked for the HDD.
Fielding shuffled his feet, his gaze dropping to his scuffed shoes.
Angus straightened. His gut churned, and his instincts flared to life. “Say what you need to say.”
Rutherford looked toward Fielding.
Fielding sighed and glanced up again. “Let it go. We’re not going to give you a choice.”
Ah, shit. Lassiter really was alive.
Angus stood perfectly still, his mind focusing despite the booze. “Well, then. If you’re here, I guess I have leverage.” Enough to get an office and maybe a team he could put together—until the HDD figured out a way to get rid of him. He looked down at the dog. “Wanna go back to work, boy?”
Chapter 1
The swirl of red and blue lights bounced off the yellow crime tape in a back alley outside of DC. The bastard had dumped the victim near a pile of garbage.
Angus kept his face impassive as he ducked under the tape and flashed his badge to the uniformed officer blocking access. It felt good to be able to flash the badge, even though he worked better without it.
It would be the only good feeling of the night.
Agent Kurt Fields was the first one to reach him, skirting several numbered yellow evidence markers placed on the wet asphalt. The guy was pale and looked even more grizzly than before. “I heard the call go out, got the details, and figured you’d be here.” His T-shirt was wrinkled and his brown shoes scuffed.
Force nodded, acutely aware of West and Wolfe at his back. They’d both seen some rough shit in their time, but this was something new. He needed West to run the office, but when he turned his head to give an order, West was already shaking his head at him, his gaze direct. No way would he be left behind.
Angus turned back around and started to focus, speaking as much to himself as to his team. “Everything is relevant. Any sign on a piece of garbage, any scratch on the building, any glint of something shiny.”
Agent Fields shook his head, sliding to the side and putting his body between Angus and the scene. “You’re not understanding me. This is not your case.”
Fire ripped through Angus as if he’d been prodded with a hot poker. “It’s Lassiter, which makes it my case. Period.” He had to get to the body and make sure, but his gut never lied.
Agent Rutherford, his blond hair mussed for the first time ever, reached them next. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I still have some sources in Homeland Defense,” Angus muttered, his hands itching for his gun. “Now get out of my way.”
“It’s not the same,” Rutherford said, his eyes bloodshot.
Wolfe came up on Angus’s left. “What do you mean?”
Rutherford shoved a hand in his perfectly creased dress pants. Who dressed up for a crime scene at two in the morning? “I’ve studied your old case files on Henry Wayne Lassiter. His MO was unique. This crime scene is different.”
Angus swallowed. “Where’s the note?” The bastard had always left him a note.
“No note,” Fields said as techs worked efficiently around them.
“Look again,” Angus said evenly, his gut aching so much he wanted to bend over and puke.
Wolfe shoved Rutherford’s hand off Angus before Angus could grab it and break a finger or two.
Angus probably owed him for that. “There are two options here. Either you get the hell out of our way so we can examine the scene, or we get in a fight, beat the shit out of the two of you, and then we go and examine the scene.” His voice had lowered to a hoarse threat.
Wolfe tensed next to him, while West drew up abreast, his shoulders back.
They were ready to fight with him, if necessary. His team was good. Better than good.
Rutherford smiled. “I’m ready. You hit one of us, just breathe wrong on us, and we’ll finally get you out of the HDD. You’re done, Force.”
West cleared his throat, his blue eyes dark in the night. “Give us a minute with the scene. If it isn’t Lassiter, Force will know.”
Rutherford began to shake his head.
“Okay,” Fields said, stepping aside. He shrugged at his partner. “Why not? Lassiter is dead, right?”
“Right,” Rutherford gritted, his gaze promising retribution.
The stench of puke, garbage, and worse filled Angus’s nostrils as he stepped past the agents to go deeper into the alley. “Lassiter kidnapped women and tortured them until their hearts gave out,” he told his team. “We’ll need an autopsy on this one, but we probably won’t know much about her heart.”
“Why not?” West stopped short as the body came into view.
“That’s why,” Angus said.
West’s breath caught. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. A tarp had been erected above the body to protect it from the elements. She lay naked on the pavement, her eyes open and staring straight up. Long dark hair, milky brown eyes, petite form. Her arms were spread wide, hands open and facing up. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles with a common clothesline rope found in a million places.
But the signature was just similar. Not the same. What did that mean? Her chest gaped open, the ribs and breastbone spread, leaving a hole.
West coughed. “Her heart is gone.”
Angus went even colder. The scene was…off. “He eats it. Says it makes them stay with him forever.” Nausea tried to roll up his belly, and he shoved it down.
Wolfe came up on his other side, his movements silent. He didn’t gasp, stall, or go tense. He just stared at the body, his jaw hard. He pointed to the victim’s arms. “Burn marks?”
“Affirmative,” Angus said crisply. “There will be both cigarette and electrical burns.” Outside and inside the woman. “As well as whip marks, ligature marks around the neck, and knife wounds. Shallow and painful—not enough to let her bleed out.” Yet the cuts made to remove the heart were rough—not smooth as Lassiter liked to do.
No. Yet the heart was gone.
West coughed. “Raped?”
“Probably,” Angus said.
Special Agent Tom Rutherford approached from the far end of the alley, carefully stepping over water-filled potholes with his shiny loafers. “There’s no note, and she’s not blond. In addition, the cigarette marks are too large—almost like a cigar was used.”
Angus breathed in and out before responding. He so much preferred Fields to this guy. Lassiter had been very choosy about his cigarettes and never would have used a cigar. Too common. Angus dropped into a crouch, closer to the woman. Lassiter had also loved blondes. This close, the victim’s skin looked dusky, not pale. Lassiter had liked them pale. “Are you sure there isn’t a note?”
“No note,” Rutherford snapped. “Told you it wasn’t him.”
Yet, everything inside Angus insisted it was Lassiter. He looked around, noting the alley had been cordoned off, blocking access to any nosy neighbors or the press. In a different case, he’d be fighting with Rutherford right now about the news media. It probably killed the guy that he couldn’t chase the cameras yet. “Once you get an ID, track down her medical records.”
“No ID,” Rutherford said, glancing down at his phone. “Her prints came up empty.”
Wolfe scouted the alley, his gaze sharp. “You think Lassiter did this?”
Yes. “I don’t know. The MO is close but not perfect, and he was a perfectionist.” Frustration tasted like metal in Angus’s mouth. “If it isn’t Lassiter, it’s a copycat. This is my kind of case. I was the best profiler the FBI had.”
“Until you drank the entire wagon,” Fields said, his bushy eyebrows raising.
Something on the victim’s hand caught Angus’s attention. “Glove?” He gestured toward a couple of techs.
One tossed him a blue glove, and he slid it on, gently turning the woman’s right hand over.
“Shit,” West said, leaning down. “Is that what I think it is?”
Angus swallowed. “Yeah.” A perfect tattoo of a German shepherd had been placed right beneath her knuckles.
Wolfe shook his head. “Looks like Roscoe.”
“Could be a coincidence,” West said, his lips turning down.
“Probably is,” Angus stood. But he knew it was Roscoe. “Fields? I want this case. Lassiter or not.”
West gripped his arm and pulled him to the side. He leaned in to speak quietly. “You sure you want this? Serial killers don’t just change their MOs, right? Especially ones like Lassiter.”
Angus nodded. “You’re right.”
“You’re obsessive, and you’re just getting your drinking under control. If this isn’t Lassiter, and that tattoo is a coincidence, then why take on the HDD right now?” West released him, his gaze again straying to the poor woman on the ground.
Fields slid his phone back into his pocket. “The boss says no way. You have a full docket of work, and he said to get back to it. We’ll call you if we need you.”
Angus turned on his heel and shoved his hands in his pockets, striding down the alley. A light rain began to fall, cold and angry.
His team members flanked him.
Wolfe sighed. “We’re not letting this go, are we?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Angus said. “Call everyone in. We have a new case.” He ducked under the crime tape, walking away from death.
For now.