In a second he went cold. Ice cold. He stepped away from her.
She exhaled. “What? What’s happened?”
When he looked up his eyes were expressionless. Completely. “We have another body.”
Chapter Seven
Lanterns set every few yards marked the muddy trail from the dark parking area at Soapstone Valley Park outside of DC, their light, small beacons leading to hell. Dead leaves smashed beneath his boots as Angus ducked his head against the punishing rain pelting through bare tree branches to attack his head. “You should go back to your car, Nari,” he said. Again.
“No.” She stepped lightly behind him, unsuccessfully attempting to share her umbrella as they walked through the night.
He didn’t want to be dry. Didn’t want to find any comfort right now. Most of all, he didn’t want her to see what no doubt lay ahead. “Go back to the car and wait with Roscoe. You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.
“Neither should you,” she countered, slipping on the mud and quickly regaining her balance. “I’m surprised the cop at the trailhead let either of us pass.”
A lot of bluster had helped, as had Nari’s HDD badge. “Listen. I appreciate the ride, but trust me, you don’t want to be here.” He wiped rain from his face to see better. Movement sounded up ahead, and brighter lights flickered through the wet underbrush and desolate trees.
“But I enjoyed our talk on the long ride here,” she said dryly.
They hadn’t said a word. Either one of them. He’d been consumed with thoughts of another body and she’d been uncharacteristically silent. Yet another thing to irritate him about her. The woman knew when to give him space. Plus, he’d had time to sober up while she’d driven. He scowled into the night.
A small creek lay nearly still and dark to their right and he followed its path.
She kept close to him. “If this is the same killer, he’s killed one night apart. If he’s copying Lassiter, that’s not part of the MO. Right?”
“Right.”
She cleared her throat. “One night apart is crazy. I mean, there’s no cooling down time.”
“We’ll see.” Angus finally turned a corner and the scene came into view. “Jesus,” he breathed.
Nari drew abreast of him, stopping silently.
Angus took in the entire area. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a large area, wrapped around thin trees and bushes to protect the area. Bright spotlights shone from four directions, two on either side of the creek toward the center. Darkness encroached outside the circle of lights. A thick tree—old, with rough bark—had fallen across the creek and provided a bridge to the other side. The victim lay on the log, tied to it, with one rope around her neck and the other around her feet. Both arms hung uselessly toward the water and she stared up into the rain.
Techs hustled around, trying to find evidence in the storm. Two figures in white struggled to somehow fix a tarp from one side of the creek to the other to protect the victim from the elements.
Angus caught the eye of a homicide cop standing to the side and then hustled toward him, ducking under the crime scene tape. “Thanks for calling me.” He waited until Nari had reached him. “HDD Special Agent Nari Zhang, please meet MPD Homicide Detective Tate Bianchi.”
Nari held out a slim hand and they shook, her dusky coloring a contrast to his deep black skin. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Ditto,” Tate said, with rain sliding down his strong face. He stood eye to eye with Angus at six-four and still looked as fit as he’d been years ago, when Angus had last worked with him. “You have to be quick, Force.” Tate released Nari’s hand. “The MPD’s Homeland Security Bureau received word that you’re no longer with HDD or FBI, and I got a special little note from the chief of police about you.”
“So you called Angus in anyway?” Nari asked softly.
Tate flashed a rare smile. “Of course. We also want to keep the feds away and keep this case ourselves, so I can only fight on so many fronts right now.” His deep brown eyes sobered. “No kidding. I can give you about five minutes and I’m going to get yelled at, regardless. This way.”
Angus followed him toward the tree and the victim, dropping to a crouch at the edge of the log. The woman appeared to be in her twenties, with pale skin marred by bruises and burns. Her chest gaped open, the ribs broken and the heart removed. The cuts looked smoother than on the previous victim. This woman’s long hair was wrapped over one side of the log, the rain having darkened it. “She’s blond?” Angus squinted to make out the color in the dark.
“Redhead,” Tate said. “Compared her hair to a white sheet of paper when we got here, but then it got wet, too. The body’s been here for at least a day, maybe more, and it’s rained the whole time.”
“You won’t find DNA from the killer anyway,” Angus said, standing. His heart raced. “When did she die?”
“At least a week ago,” Tate said. “I’ll compare her to the body last night. Makes me worry about tomorrow night, you know?”
Angus nodded. “This guy is definitely messing with us. Lassiter did like to play games.”
Tate’s shoulders straightened. “She’s not blond or particularly tall, Force. The MO is different. Before you ask, we’ve scoured the area, and no note. There’s no note for you. I think we have a copycat.”
