“Yes. The one with a big-assed shovel,” Angus agreed. He studied the two detectives. They were good, and he was running out of time. “How about this: Let’s play a game where you tell me something and then I give you information in return? Okay? Either you two start ponying up or I’m leaving. Walking right out of here.” Unless they arrested him, which was definitely an option.

“What do you want to know?” Detective Buckle asked, her voice pure reasonableness now.

Angus took a deep breath. “Who’s the dead guy?”

“His name is Willie Treeland, and he has a record that spans the gamut from assault to grand theft. How’d you get hooked up with him?” Tate asked.

“Why would he try to kill me?” Angus asked. Or, more importantly, “Who would hire him to shoot Scott and then me?”

“You tell us,” Buckle said. Again.

Angus stared down at the dead young man. “I don’t know. My team was trying to run a background search on all our old cases, but we were disbanded, as you know. My guess is that it has something to do with one of them.” He looked up. “Where did you find this guy, and where is the blonde?” The woman had looked young—maybe twenty years old.

“No blonde,” Dr. Buckle said.

Angus sat back and rolled his aching shoulders. “Well, I gave you her description. She was with this guy and she swung a shovel. My guess is that she was just along for the ride.”

“Why?” Tate asked.

“Because she didn’t kill me after she knocked me out,” Angus said quietly. “I think she tried to save her boyfriend, and wherever you found him, she’ll be nearby.” It was fairly simple and they knew it. “So. You have me for another hour and then I need to pick up a friend at work.”

“Nari Zhang?” Tate asked.

Angus didn’t flinch. “My friends are none of your business. Now. Where did you find Willie Treeland?”

Tate studied him, his dark eyes inscrutable. “He was found dead in his truck a block from a hospital parking lot. North Ridge Hospital, which is the closest to where the shooting occurred.”

Angus leaned forward. “I assume you pulled the CCTV?”

“Yeah. A block away; there wasn’t any sign of the truck,” Detective Buckle said, her unpainted nails tapping on the table. “So, once again, no video of what happened that day. I find that to be an interesting coincidence, don’t you, Tate?”

“I surely do,” Tate said. “It’s almost as if a trained agent made certain this happened. A frightened young blonde wouldn’t have thought of it, agreed?”

Buckle nodded. “Totally agree.”