“You think somebody in Metro or the HDD is involved?” Jethro asked.

Angus prodded the lump on his head. “I don’t know. Lassiter is a serial killer who works alone, but he did have a lot of money, so maybe he bribed somebody for information? But who? If not, how?”

“So long as they’re not here looking to shoot me,” Jethro muttered, stepping out of his vehicle.

Angus followed suit. “It’s not like you’d catch any attention with a Bentley Continental Flying Spur,” he returned, carefully shutting the door of the ridiculously expensive black automobile.

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?”