to be thrown out of the alley. His exit from that agency hadn’t been cordial.
Wolfe tensed next to him, while West drew up abreast, his shoulders back.
They were ready to fight alongside him, if necessary. Angus would reflect on how much that warmed him later. His team was good. Better than good. He had to keep them in the game somehow.
Rutherford smiled, no doubt wanting payback for when Raider, another team member, had broken his nose a few months ago. “I’m ready. You hit one of us, just breathe wrong on us, and I’ll plant your ass in a jail cell. You’re done, Force.”
West cleared his throat, his blue eyes piercing through the dark. “If you’re so sure Lassiter didn’t do this, give us a minute with the scene. Force will know the truth.”
Rutherford began to shake his head.
“Okay,” Fielding said, stepping aside. He shrugged at his younger partner. “Why not? Lassiter is dead, right?”
“Right,” Rutherford gritted, his gaze promising retribution.
The stench of puke, garbage, and worse filled Angus’s nostrils as he stepped past the agents to penetrate deeper into the alley. “Lassiter kidnapped women and tortured them until their hearts gave out. We’ll need an autopsy on this one, but we probably won’t know much about her heart.”
“Why not?” West stopped short as the body came into view.
“That’s why,” Angus said, trying to shut down his humanity. So he could analyze the crime scene and not lose his fucking soul.
West’s breath caught. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. A tarp had been erected above the body to protect it from the elements. The woman lay naked on the pavement, her eyes open and staring straight up. Long dark hair, milky brown eyes, petite form. Her arms were spread wide, hands open and palms up. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles with a common clothesline rope found in a million places. Her chest gaped open, the ribs and breastbone spread, leaving a hole. The crime signature was similar but not exactly the same. What did that mean?
West coughed. “Her heart is gone.”
Angus went even colder. Rain dripped off his hair and down his face. The scene was…off. “He eats it. Says it makes them stay with him forever.” Nausea tried to roll up his belly, and he shoved it down.
Wolfe came up on his other side, his movements silent. He didn’t gasp or go tense. He just stared at the body, his jaw tense. He pointed to the victim’s arms. “Burn marks?”
“Affirmative,” Angus said crisply. “There will be both cigarette and electrical burns.” Outside and inside the woman. “As well as whip marks, ligature marks around the neck, and knife wounds. Shallow and painful—not enough to let her bleed out. The cuts for the heart here were rough—not smooth the way Lassiter liked to do—which was why the press dubbed him ‘the surgeon.’”
Yet the heart was gone.
West coughed. “Raped?”
“Probably,” Angus said.
Agent Rutherford approached the scene from the far end, carefully stepping over water filled potholes with his shiny loafers. “There’s no note, and she’s not blond. In addition, the cigarette marks are too large—almost like he used a cigar.” He looked around as if worried the FBI would catch them working outside their purview. The Homeland Defense Department didn’t deal with serial killers.
Angus breathed in and out before responding. He much preferred Fielding to this guy. “Lassiter is very choosy about his cigarettes and would never use a cigar.” Angus dropped into a crouch, closer to the woman. Lassiter also loved blondes. Were the victim’s features Asian? This close, her skin looked dusky and not pale. Lassiter had liked them pale. “Are you sure there isn’t a note?”
“No note,” Rutherford snapped. “Told you it wasn’t him.”
Everything inside Angus insisted it was Lassiter. But was that because he needed it to be? Needed to be on the case and hunting the evil psycho down—finally? He looked around, noting the alley had been cordoned off and blocked from the view of neighbors or the press. In a different situation, he’d be fighting with Rutherford right now about the media. It probably killed the guy that he couldn’t chase the cameras—especially since HDD didn’t have jurisdiction. “Once you get an ID, track down her medical records.”
“No ID,” Rutherford said, glancing down at his shiny phone. “Her prints came up empty, and this isn’t our case. Time to go, gentlemen.”
Wolfe scouted the alley, his gaze sharp. “You think Lassiter did this?”
Yes. “I don’t know. The MO is close but not perfect, and he was a perfectionist.” Frustration tasted like metal in Angus’s mouth. “If it isn’t Lassiter, it’s a copycat, and I was the best profiler the FBI had.”
“Until you drank the entire wagon,” Fielding said, his bushy eyebrows rising.
Something on the victim’s hand caught Angus’s attention. “Glove?” He gestured toward a couple of techs.
One tossed him a blue glove, and he slid it on, gently turning the woman’s right hand over.
“Shit,” West said, leaning down. “Is that what I think it is?”
Angus swallowed. “Yeah.” A perfect tattoo of a German shepherd with strong markings had been placed right beneath the knuckles on the back of her hand.
Wolfe swallowed. “Looks like Roscoe.”
“Could be a coincidence,” West said, his lips turning down.
“Probably is,” Angus stood. But he knew that was his dog. “Fielding? I want this case. Lassiter or not. FBI or not.”
West gripped his arm and pulled him aside. He leaned in to speak quietly. “Even if the FBI and HDD both allow it, are you sure you want this? Serial killers don’t just change their MOs, right? Especially ones like Lassiter.”
Angus nodded. “You’re right.”
“You’re obsessive and you’re just getting your drinking under control. If this isn’t Lassiter, and that tattoo is a coincidence, then why take on the HDD, the FBI, and the local DC police force right now?” West released him, his gaze again straying to the poor woman on the ground.
Right now, they were the best chance of justice the woman had.
Fielding slid his phone back into his pocket. “The HDD wants you off this case.”
Angus turned on his heel and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, striding down the alley. The rain increased in force, its cold, angry slash a prelude to a dark oncoming winter.
His team members flanked him.
Wolfe stepped over a puddle. “We’re not letting this go, are we?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Angus said. “Call everyone in. We have a new case.” He ducked under the crime scene tape, walking away from death.
This time.
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Zanetti has worked as an art curator, Senate aide, lawyer, college professor, and a hearing examiner—only for it all to culminate in stories about Alpha males and the women who claim them. She writes romantic suspense novels and dark paranormal romances.
Growing up amid the glorious backdrops and winter wonderlands of the Pacific Northwest has given Rebecca fantastic scenery and adventures to weave into her stories. She resides in the wild North with her husband, children, and extended family who inspire her every day—or at the very least give her plenty of characters to write about.