Everything inside Angus insisted it was Lassiter. But was that because he needed it to be? Needed to be on the case and hunting the evil psycho down—finally? He looked around, noting the alley had been cordoned off and blocked from the view of neighbors or the press. In a different situation, he’d be fighting with Rutherford right now about the media. It probably killed the guy that he couldn’t chase the cameras—especially since HDD didn’t have jurisdiction. “Once you get an ID, track down her medical records.”

“No ID,” Rutherford said, glancing down at his shiny phone. “Her prints came up empty, and this isn’t our case. Time to go, gentlemen.”

Wolfe scouted the alley, his gaze sharp. “You think Lassiter did this?”

Yes. “I don’t know. The MO is close but not perfect, and he was a perfectionist.” Frustration tasted like metal in Angus’s mouth. “If it isn’t Lassiter, it’s a copycat, and I was the best profiler the FBI had.”

“Until you drank the entire wagon,” Fielding said, his bushy eyebrows rising.

Something on the victim’s hand caught Angus’s attention. “Glove?” He gestured toward a couple of techs.

One tossed him a blue glove, and he slid it on, gently turning the woman’s right hand over.

“Shit,” West said, leaning down. “Is that what I think it is?”

Angus swallowed. “Yeah.” A perfect tattoo of a German shepherd with strong markings had been placed right beneath the knuckles on the back of her hand.

Wolfe swallowed. “Looks like Roscoe.”

“Could be a coincidence,” West said, his lips turning down.

“Probably is,” Angus stood. But he knew that was his dog. “Fielding? I want this case. Lassiter or not. FBI or not.”

West gripped his arm and pulled him aside. He leaned in to speak quietly. “Even if the FBI and HDD both allow it, are you sure you want this? Serial killers don’t just change their MOs, right? Especially ones like Lassiter.”

Angus nodded. “You’re right.”

“You’re obsessive and you’re just getting your drinking under control. If this isn’t Lassiter, and that tattoo is a coincidence, then why take on the HDD, the FBI, and the local DC police force right now?” West released him, his gaze again straying to the poor woman on the ground.

Right now, they were the best chance of justice the woman had.

Fielding slid his phone back into his pocket. “The HDD wants you off this case.”

Angus turned on his heel and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, striding down the alley. The rain increased in force, its cold, angry slash a prelude to a dark oncoming winter.

His team members flanked him.

Wolfe stepped over a puddle. “We’re not letting this go, are we?”