Rutherford reached for a yellow file folder. “Where were you between the hours of three and six a.m. this morning?”
Angus grew still. “Excuse me?”
Rutherford smiled, showing perfectly even white teeth. “Based on our investigation, the body was dumped during that time frame. Where were you?”
Irritation heated through Angus, so he let his lip curl in a smile. “You can’t seriously be telling me I’m a suspect.”
Agent Fields finished chewing his cough drop, and the smell of menthol wafted around. “Of course you’re a suspect. Think about it, Force.”
Huh. Interesting. He truly hadn’t thought that one out. Angus rubbed his chin. “I’ve never been a suspect before.” Did he know any lawyers who didn’t dislike him? The list of people who actuallydidlike him was pretty short, and even those he wasn’t sure about.
Roscoe, as if sensing a change in the atmosphere of the room, lumbered to his feet and padded over to Angus’s side. He sat, at attention, his ears up and his brown eyes facing the agents.
Fields shook his head. “That dog is something else.” Admiration glowed in his eyes.
Rutherford slid the phone closer to Angus. “You’ve been obsessed with Henry Wayne Lassiter for at least six years, and once you’d killed him, you still didn’t think he was dead. The victims this week have all shown markers of the Lassiter case, and they all resemble the female agents from your ragtag HDD team. You need to account for your time, and you need to do so right now.”
Angus’s phone buzzed and he pulled it free of his jeans to read a text from Tate. Everything inside him went cold. They’d found a note. He looked up, smiled, and then stood. “I have to go.”
Rutherford slid back in his chair. “The hell you do. This is an interview.”
Angus moved toward the door. “I’m here voluntarily and I can leave. Either arrest me or get the hell out of my way.”
Rutherford’s nostrils flared and he kicked over his chair when he stood.
Fields stood more slowly. “Okay. Let’s compromise. If you agree to come in to our HDD office tomorrow for an official interview, we won’t cause a ruckus now.”
They didn’t have cause for a ruckus and they knew it. But Angus needed information on this case, and they’d be bound to give some while interviewing him. “I’ll be there at eight a.m.” With that, he hustled out of the room, Roscoe on his heels.
He turned left down a quiet hallway toward the bullpen, but Tate was already heading his way.
“Took a picture. Get out of here and we’ll talk later,” Tate said, smoothly handing over a printout. “My boss is working on a warrant for your house.”
“I consent to a search of my apartment,” Angus said, pocketing the paper and turning to head for the exit in the other direction. “I’ll text that to you so you have something in writing.” He paused, looking over his shoulder. “You don’t think I’m a suspect?”
“Oh, you’re a suspect,” Tate said quietly, “but no way in hell did you murder those women. I’ll clear you as soon as I can, but HDD is on the case now, and they’re being pushy. Fancy jackasses.”
Angus nodded. “You’re a good guy, Bianchi.” He hurried out of the building in the dribble of rain and jumped into his truck. There were cameras mounted in several spots, so he got Roscoe settled before sending a quick text to Wolfe:
New victim—looks like Dana and had a tattoo logo of one of the papers she worked for. Lock her down and keep yourself safe. I’ll call you later when I know more—Force
Then he ignited the engine and pulled sedately out of the lot. He’d look at the picture once he was out of view.
He drove for a while, the paper in his pocket scalding hot. He tugged it out. Lassiter had always addressed the letter to Angus and then written a quote or combination of quotes from other people. This letter didn’t have a salutation, only a quote in italics.
Slivers of time make up each moment, and only the pale horse and his master prevail in the most crucial of breathy gasps.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Not this shit again.” Finally he exited the interstate. It was past dinnertime, but he wasn’t hungry. Although he should find a burger or something for Roscoe.
A ping echoed, and his back window shattered.
He swerved as more bullets impacted his truck. “Duck, Roscoe.” He shoved the dog onto the floor just as a bullet whizzed by his head, smashing his front window.
Chapter Twelve
Nari kicked her door open while juggling her briefcase in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other. What a mind-dulling day she’d spent at the HR department of the HDD. Maybe she should just start her own practice. She stepped inside her peaceful apartment and dropped her keys and purse on the table by the door before shutting it. Silence—blissful silence—surrounded her.
The exclusive, two-story apartments in her gated community were more like town houses. They were rented by urban professionals who commuted from Virginia into DC, or by retired people who still liked to be involved in the DC whirlwind. The quietness of the area was one of the reasons for the exorbitant price tag.
