“Affirmative. Laundry room in complex B. That’s where you used to live?” Tate asked, his voice lowering.

Heat smashed through Angus’s muscles. “Yeah. That’s my complex.” So much for any of this being a coincidence.

“Hell. Okay. You’re officially a witness at this point, so we’re going to have to be even more careful if I let you study the scene. Get here as quick as you can. I’ll tell the uniform guarding the front to let you in.” He paused, and there was a muffled sound behind him. “This is a bad one, Force.” Then he clicked off.

His heart pounding, Angus swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his hands. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to remain calm and rational. Three bodies in three days—and now one near his home. This was a game that seemed carefully planned out by the killer.

He jerked on jeans and a somewhat clean T-shirt, hit the bathroom, and was in his truck within minutes. Roscoe took care of business outside and jumped into the front seat, oddly sober. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know you already miss the team.” Angus reached out and scratched the dog’s ears.

Then he pulled out of the small clearing by the cabin and drove down the dirt road flanked on each side by forest and a lot of underbrush, all covered with morning dew. At least it wasn’t raining.

The substantial ache in his gut increased with each mile until he reached his former apartment complex, where police cars and crime tech vans angled in from every direction. Crime scene tape secured the front of the building. He jumped out of his truck and walked through the vehicles as if he had every right to do so, then gave his name to the first uniform by the front door.

He was nodded through.

So far, so good. He headed straight for the laundry room on the basement level that he’d used many times, passing crime techs and other police officers.

Tate waited for him by the door, standing a head taller than most of the people around them. He was built like a linebacker, but he’d once told Angus that he’d attended college on a tennis scholarship. The guy did move gracefully. Today his dark-brown eyes burned with a fire close to fury.

Angus reached him. “What do you know?”

Tate rubbed the dark skin across his forehead. “Victim looks to be in her midtwenties, but we don’t have an ID yet. We don’t have the fancy gadgets of the federal agencies, and so far her prints haven’t brought anything back. The medical examiner puts time of death at a few days ago. We don’t know yet how long she was with the killer or where he had her.” Tate stepped aside.