“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.