Angus allowed no emotion to show in his expression as he turned and entered the long room with its collection of older washers and dryers.

The body lay on a table used to fold clothes, her body naked, her eyes open. Burn marks showed down both arms and bruises marred her neck as if she’d been strangled repeatedly. Rope tied her ankles together, and her hands rested, palms up, at her sides. Her chest gaped open, one broken rib sticking out. The cuts looked more uniform this time. Her heart was gone.

She had long blond hair and green eyes that were murky in death.

“No note?” Angus asked, the room swirling around him.

“Haven’t found one yet.” Tate flipped out his notebook, which looked ridiculously small in his glove-covered hand. “Does this victim look like anybody from your team?”

Angus blew out air. “I have two blond females on my team—or former team—and one has green eyes.” Dana. Wolfe would lose his fucking mind if his pregnant fiancée was in this kind of danger. “But there are millions of blond women in the world.”

“Yes.” Tate gestured him toward the body and then gently lifted her stiff arm, turning it over. “Does this ring a bell?”

A tattoo of the Washington Times logo was freshly inked on her skin, as evidenced by the reddening around it.

Angus sucked in air as if he’d been punched. “Yeah. Dana Mulberry has written articles for the Times.”

Tate released the woman. “I guess the killer wants you to be sure now.”

“Apparently.”

Tate’s phone rang and he lifted it to his ear. “Tate Bianchi.” He listened, looked at Angus, and then nodded. “Yes, sir. I think it’s connected. All right.” He clicked off. “I’m supposed to bring you in for questioning.”

Angus shoved his hands in his pockets. “Good thing I’m here, then. Let’s go.”

* * *

After the fourth hour of being questioned by two Metropolitan Police detectives in a box of an interrogation room, Angus was suddenly having sympathy for all those folks he’d interviewed through the years. Of course, most of them were guilty. It made sense that Tate wasn’t the one to question him, considering they were friends. At least the cops had let Roscoe come in to the interrogation room, where he was snoring quietly in the corner.

Finally the two detectives left, asking him to stay put and seeming cranky about it.

He looked at the sleeping dog. He and Roscoe could leave, but why? He didn’t mind helping, and hopefully the cops would let some facts slip. There was no doubt Tate couldn’t keep including him now, so his access to information would be limited.

The door opened and HDD Special Agents Rutherford and Fields walked inside, looking like federal agents with their suits and air of irritation.

“Ah, shit. What are you two doing here?” Angus muttered.