Jethro shut his door and peered across the quiet street. “I like fast cars, and this one has a twin-turbocharged, twelve-cylinder engine that produces six hundred sixteen horsepower and will take me to sixty mph in four-point-three seconds.”
Someday Angus was going to ask exactly who Jethro was running from, but today wasn’t the day. “I thought you British tough guys drove Aston Martins,” he said, loping across the street to the sidewalk and toward the cheerful blue door. “Bond would kick your ass.”
“Not in an Aston Martin,” Jethro returned, striding up the four clay-colored steps to the front door, where he knocked.
The door opened and Angus smiled. “Hi, Jeremy. You probably don’t remember, but I’m—”
“Angus Force,” the young man said, his sandy blond hair tousled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He’d thrown on faded-green sweats and a worn Georgetown sweatshirt. “Dude, I already told you everything I know. Why are you on my front porch? In fact, how did you even find me? I moved three years ago.”
“I have good sources,” Angus admitted. “This is my colleague, Jethro, and he has a couple of new angles on the case. Do you mind if we just ask you a couple of questions?” He didn’t like playing good cop, but this guy didn’t have to talk to them at all.
Jeremy sighed and pulled the door open. “Come on inside.” He gestured them into a living room covered with fast-food wrappers, red cups, and old newspapers. Definitely a bachelor pad. A beer pong table was set up just beyond the sofa. He looked around. “I had a party Saturday night and am still hung over, so try to keep your voices low, would you?” Shoving papers off his sofa, he dropped onto it, emitting a soft sigh. “Beer is bad. Really bad. Although not as bad as Jäger.” He shuddered.
“Amen to that, bloke,” Jethro said, lifting a pizza box from a chair and sitting. “Would you please run me through what you remember about the day Henry Wayne Lassiter died in your ambulance?”
Jeremy scrubbed both hands down his whiskered face. “Why do serial killers always have three names?”
“It’s one of the great mysteries of life,” Angus said, sitting on the other chair and ignoring the laundry littering the floor. “Did he say anything to you before he died?”
“He’d been shot in the face, the chest, and the leg,” Jeremy said. “People don’t usually talk while bleeding from multiple wounds.” He looked around and grabbed an open Pepsi, then peered inside. Shrugging, he took a deep drink. “He died right before we got to the hospital.”
Jethro nodded. “I’m aware. Then you transferred to Dr. Shelman and she called time of death?”
“Yep. She’s a hot one, isn’t she? I saw her last week when we caught a pileup on North Fifth Bridge. All business and bossy, she is.” He grinned. “One of these days she’s going to say yes when I ask her out.”
Not if he didn’t learn to clean up his place and stop playing beer pong on Saturday nights. “Good luck with that,” Angus said. “Is your partner still living over on Green Street?”
The amusement fled Jeremy’s olive-colored eyes. “No. I figured you knew. Janice died almost six months ago. Traffic accident after work.” He rubbed his hands down his sweats, his pain nearly palpable as he looked around the room. “The place didn’t look like this when she stayed over.” He shrugged and rubbed his gut.
Alertness danced down Angus’s back. He’d met with Janice about eight months ago. Was her death a coincidence? “What happened in the accident?” he asked.
“She got hit by a truck. Hit-and-run,” Jeremy said. “Never found the guy.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jethro said quietly.
Jeremy shrugged. “What are you gonna do?” He shook himself. “Why is all this being brought up again? And don’t you guys all coordinate?”
Angus sat up, his body going on full alert. “What do you mean?”
“I already told all this to the other detective yesterday. He said it was the last time you guys would bug me.” Jeremy drank more of the old Pepsi.
Angus shared a look with Jethro. “Tall guy, big shoulders, African American? Works for Metro PD?” Maybe Tate really was on his side here.
“No. White guy, big shoulders, pretty tall,” Jeremy said. “Works for the FBI. He had brown hair and a mustache with a beard, and his suit was expensive-looking. Like seriously expensive.” He rubbed his chin again. “Even his shoes were something. Italian and shiny.”
“How dark was his hair?” Angus asked. The description kind of fit Special Agent Rutherford from the HDD, but he had blond hair.
“Pretty dark,” Jeremy said.
“What did you tell him?” Angus leaned forward, adrenaline shooting through his veins. “Start at the beginning and tell us everything.”
* * *
Angus drummed his fingers on his jeans-clad thigh as Jethro broke numerous speed limits to reach the hospital.
Jethro parked at the end of the parking area, away from other vehicles. “You know, it’s entirely possible it was somebody from the FBI who interviewed Jeremy yesterday.”
Angus nodded. “I’m aware.” He twisted his phone in his other hand, waiting for Brigid to send the accident report concerning the paramedic who’d died months ago. She’d seemed like a nice woman—bubbly and earnest.
