Nari settled more comfortably on the sofa. “Nobody has been reassigned?”
Brigid picked at a string on her jeans. “Raider was reassigned to the main Homeland Security and I’m supposed to report to a new computer center at Homeland Defense on Monday. It’ll suck not working together.”
Nari bit her lip. Maybe she could figure out a way to have Brigid work with her team. “Anybody else?”
Wolfe shook his head. “It’s doubtful that Mal, Dana, or I still have jobs. Thus, my plan for poker tonight. Have a nice dinner. For now, lock the door.” He didn’t wait for Pippa to follow his instructions but locked the door and then shut it, his bootsteps heavy outside.
Brigid turned toward her. “I’m with you, Nari. Something feels off about Angus leaving. What should we do?”
Chapter Eleven
Angus groaned and unzipped the sleeping bag laid out on the hard bed. The way-too-hard bed. “Where the hell did Wolfe get this thing?” he muttered, an old bullet wound in his side aching.
Roscoe looked up from the end of the bed and glared at him.
Angus rolled his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. Most dogs sleep on the damn floor, you know.” He looked around the rugged cabin. Wolfe had purchased it about six months before for an Op but hadn’t needed it. During that time, Brigid had created a chain of ownership for the place that didn’t lead to anybody. Wolfe had finally sold it a month ago, and Angus had bought it through a set of dummy corporations. Even back then, he’d had an inkling he’d have to separate from his team to finish this case.
Man, Wolfe would be pissed if he found out Angus had purchased the cabin in the middle of the woods. Of course, this bed was decent revenge. Angus’s entire body ached.
His gaze focused on the murder board he’d stretched across the entire north wall. It was the only wall without windows in the small cabin, and Lassiter’s face was right in the middle, next to a blank sheet with a question mark. The new killer, if there was one. Pictures of victims lined the left, while other cops and his contacts to the right.
In the corner a fire crackled in the stone fireplace, next to the sliding door that led to the front porch. His kitchen, if it could be called that, was on the opposite side, and the lone bathroom was next to that. Only a sofa and one chair resided in front of the fireplace.
It was kind of homey, and the electricity worked; that was all he needed.
His phone buzzed. Was it Nari? He grabbed it off the floor, quickly reading the text. “Damn.” He sat up and called Tate. “You can’t have another body.”
“We do, and you’re gonna want to see her. I can get you in and out of the scene, but we have to be quick. My balls are on the line here,” his friend said, giving him directions.
Angus jerked. “Say that again. The address.”
Tate paused and then gave it. “I take it you know the place?”
“I just moved out of that complex,” Angus growled. “She’s in the laundry room?”
“Affirmative. Laundry room in complex B. That’s where you used to live?” Tate asked, his voice lowering.
Heat smashed through Angus’s muscles. “Yeah. That’s my complex.” So much for any of this being a coincidence.
“Hell. Okay. You’re officially a witness at this point, so we’re going to have to be even more careful if I let you study the scene. Get here as quick as you can. I’ll tell the uniform guarding the front to let you in.” He paused, and there was a muffled sound behind him. “This is a bad one, Force.” Then he clicked off.
His heart pounding, Angus swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his hands. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to remain calm and rational. Three bodies in three days—and now one near his home. This was a game that seemed carefully planned out by the killer.
He jerked on jeans and a somewhat clean T-shirt, hit the bathroom, and was in his truck within minutes. Roscoe took care of business outside and jumped into the front seat, oddly sober. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know you already miss the team.” Angus reached out and scratched the dog’s ears.
Then he pulled out of the small clearing by the cabin and drove down the dirt road flanked on each side by forest and a lot of underbrush, all covered with morning dew. At least it wasn’t raining.
The substantial ache in his gut increased with each mile until he reached his former apartment complex, where police cars and crime tech vans angled in from every direction. Crime scene tape secured the front of the building. He jumped out of his truck and walked through the vehicles as if he had every right to do so, then gave his name to the first uniform by the front door.
He was nodded through.
So far, so good. He headed straight for the laundry room on the basement level that he’d used many times, passing crime techs and other police officers.
Tate waited for him by the door, standing a head taller than most of the people around them. He was built like a linebacker, but he’d once told Angus that he’d attended college on a tennis scholarship. The guy did move gracefully. Today his dark-brown eyes burned with a fire close to fury.
Angus reached him. “What do you know?”
Tate rubbed the dark skin across his forehead. “Victim looks to be in her midtwenties, but we don’t have an ID yet. We don’t have the fancy gadgets of the federal agencies, and so far her prints haven’t brought anything back. The medical examiner puts time of death at a few days ago. We don’t know yet how long she was with the killer or where he had her.” Tate stepped aside.
