West looked back at the board. “Where are we on this case?”
“Nowhere,” Angus said, his gut starting to churn. “I can’t even prove he’s not dead.” He pointed to the stack of letters that spouted philosophical bullshit and challenge. “Feel free to get caught up. But for now, we’ve got nothing until he makes another move.” That was the sad part.
“He sent you letters?” Mal glanced at the stack. “That’s personal.”
“It was a sick game between the two of us,” Angus said.
West eyed him, the letters, and then the board. “I’d read that—”
Angus nodded. “Yeah. He got my sister first. Don’t want to talk about it.” There was still a hole in him that would never be filled. No matter what. “Your first duty is the cult case. My source says they’re gearing up for something, but I don’t know what or when.”
West nodded. Then he glanced at the empty doorway. “Before I forget, who won the staring contest yesterday? Wolfe or the dog?”
“They both finally fell asleep,” Angus said, tilting his head to see the board differently. To find a clue.
West snorted. “Is Clarence Wolfe crazy?”
“No more than you or me,” Angus returned.
“So, yes.” Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s time you gave me the records on Pippa and the family cult. I want to know everything.”
The elevator dinged in the other room. Angus’s calmness started to dissipate.
“Must be Wolfe,” Mal said.
“No. I wish.” Angus pushed his chair back. “We’re saddled with a shrink for the unit, so I asked her to meet you this morning for her take on the cult and Pippa Smith. She’s also shrinking your head—never forget it.”
West stood up. “You didn’t know I’d be here this morning.”
Angus straightened his shoulders. “Yeah. I did.”
* * *
Malcolm followed Force out of the room, his thoughts jumbled. Was Force a freaking mind reader or what? No wonder the guy had been able to bring down one of the most brilliant serial killers in history. What had it cost Force to get into the Surgeon’s head?
Two men dressed in suits and a petite woman in a pencil skirt and a white blouse waited on the other side of the bull pen.
Tension rolled off Angus with a heat Mal could feel. This was interesting. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Angus, letting the three walk to them.
Angus nodded at the woman. “Dr. Nari Zhang, this is Special Agent Malcolm West.”
Mal hadn’t been sworn in yet, but he still held out a hand. “Hi.”
“Hello.” Zhang had long black hair and intelligent dark eyes. Her three-inch heels still only made her about five-foot-four. “It’s nice to meet you. Angus has been so forthcoming with your information that I’ve been ... curious.” Amusement tipped up her full lips.
Angus huffed out what could only be a suffering sigh. “The doctor is here to help, and also to report back to our handlers—these guys—if we’re fit for duty or not.”
No tension there. What had the doctor done to be relegated to the office from hell? Malcolm released her hand. “Wonderful.” He turned his attention to the two men.
Angus jerked his head at the younger guy. “Special Agent Tom Rutherford.” The derisive tone said it all.
Rutherford held out a hand. He was sleek with blond hair, wore a suit that had to cost as much as a small car, and had perfectly manicured hands. “Hello.”
Mal disliked him immediately. He shook hands, surprised by the strong grip. “Yeah. Hi.”
Angus’s voice mellowed just a little at the next introduction. “Special Agent Kurt Fields.”
Fields held out a gnarled hand. He was older, with world-wise brown eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. “Hi.” He glanced around. “This is a shithole.” His shake was firm and quick. His ill-fitting suit showed a wiry body and his stained brown tie probably was purchased in the early eighties.
