Special Agent Tom Rutherford, his blond hair mussed for the first time ever, reached them next. Fielding’s partner was usually impeccably put together, although his too-blue eyes were as pissy as ever. “You’re not supposed to be here. Neither are we.”

“I still have some sources in the FBI and was contacted immediately about the crime,” Angus muttered, his hands itching for his gun. “Now get out of my way.”

“This scene isn’t the same as the others,” Rutherford said, his eyes bloodshot.

Wolfe rocked back on massive boots, spraying water. “What do you mean?”

Rutherford slid a manicured hand into the pocket of his perfectly creased dress pants. Who dressed up for a crime scene at midnight? “I’ve studied your old case files on Henry Wayne Lassiter. His MO was unique. This crime scene is different.”

Angus swallowed. “Where’s the note?” The psychopath had always left a note.

“No note,” Fielding said as the local techs moved efficiently around.

“Look again,” Angus said evenly, his gut aching so bad he wanted to bend over and puke.

Rutherford planted a broad hand on his shoulder. His law school class ring dug into Angus’s skin through his T-shirt. “Please leave before I have you escorted away.”

Wolfe shoved Rutherford’s hand off before Angus could grab it and break a finger or two.

Angus probably owed Wolfe for that. “There are two options here. Either you get the hell out of our way so we can view the scene, or we get in a fight, beat the shit out of the two of you, and then we go and view the scene.” His voice had lowered to a hoarse threat. Once the FBI showed up, he was definitely going to be thrown out of the alley. His exit from that agency hadn’t been cordial.

Wolfe tensed next to him, while West drew up abreast, his shoulders back.

They were ready to fight alongside him, if necessary. Angus would reflect on how much that warmed him later. His team was good. Better than good. He had to keep them in the game somehow.

Rutherford smiled, no doubt wanting payback for when Raider, another team member, had broken his nose a few months ago. “I’m ready. You hit one of us, just breathe wrong on us, and I’ll plant your ass in a jail cell. You’re done, Force.”

West cleared his throat, his blue eyes piercing through the dark. “If you’re so sure Lassiter didn’t do this, give us a minute with the scene. Force will know the truth.”

Rutherford began to shake his head.

“Okay,” Fielding said, stepping aside. He shrugged at his younger partner. “Why not? Lassiter is dead, right?”

“Right,” Rutherford gritted, his gaze promising retribution.