Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

dying, and she didn’t have a lead. Not one. A big, fat goose egg of an information string.
    Liberated from the cotton cling, Angela swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Ash pile?”
    “Haven’t found one…yet.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Corner of Yesler and First,” Mac said, sirens wailing in the background. “Follow the circus…reporters are already here.”
    Lovely. Just what they needed. Sharks already circling in the tank.
    “Keep it tight, Mac.” She ran her hand over the top of her head, ruffling her short hair. “See you in twenty.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    The snap of Mac’s phone sounded as she flipped her own closed. Setting the Motorola Razr on the bedside table, Angela reached for the civvies folded on the bench at the end of her bed. Force of habit. She couldn’t sleep unless her clothes were laid out, ready to go…just in case. Well, “just in case” had come about three hours too early. Not that it mattered. The investigation she and Mac had caught wasn’t a nine-to-fiver.
    Army-style chinos went on first. The plain white tee and button-down shirt got pulled over her head next before she reached for her Roots boots. The footwear was a thing of beauty, a rare budgetary splurge: heavy on comfort with gobs of style to spare.
    Stomping her right foot into her boot, she tucked her shirttails in, grabbed her holstered Glock 23 along with her badge from the drawer in her nightstand. After adding her Razr to the melee, she headed for the door. As she stepped out into the corridor and reengaged her condo’s double deadbolts, Angela ran her tongue over her teeth. Ugh. She really should brush—Mac would no doubt thank her for it—but with another crime scene on the go, getting there took precedence over fresh breath. Her partner would have to deal, and the Lifesavers in the glove box of her Jeep would have to do.
    In less time than it would have taken to find the Colgate, she was out of the underground garage and rolling down the deserted boulevard. Streetlights cast murky shadows, LEDs barely bleeding through the haze of night fog. Typical of Seattle, but Angela thanked God it wasn’t raining. The mist might be a pain, but reduced visibility was better than losing the integrity of her crime scene to weather.
    Ten minutes and two Lifesavers later, she hung a left onto Yesler Way. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel as she spotted the police cruisers. Lights flashing off gray brick, three patrol vehicles angled out from the curb, establishing the outer perimeter, keeping the growing crowd at bay.
    Yeah, the Thursday night club scene was a real Cirque du Soleil. And the biggest clown of all had come out to play.
    Even from half a block away, Angela could see Miss Thing powering up her microphone, cameraman following behind like a whipped dog. Clarissa Newton—pain-in-the-butt reporter with air in place of a brain.
    Angela shook her head, pulled up to the curb behind the cruisers. It was sad, really. The woman was a throwback, a bleached-out blonde who thought looks mattered more than intelligence. Had Clarissa used mental acuity instead of push-up bras and blow jobs to land her stories, Angela would’ve thrown her a bone and traded a little information. But the whole “I’m-beautiful-help-me-out” attitude annoyed the hell out of her. So, Miss Thing was on her own.
    “Yeah, definitely,” Angela murmured, watching Clarissa cozy up to a rookie uniform guarding a perimeter cordoned off by yellow police tape.
    Slamming the Jeep door behind her, she clipped her badge on her belt and made tracks, moving down the sidewalk at a fast clip. Dressed in club wear, the crowd stood three deep, college-age looky-loos jockeying for a sneak peek. Same story, different night. Except with Mac’s radar up and running, Angela knew this scene was different. Murdered girls, same MO, dead within days of each other. Nothing run-of-the-mill about that.
    With an “excuse me” or two, the gang of coeds parted and she slipped through, flashing her creds as she ducked beneath the crime scene tape.
    Miss Thing didn’t miss a beat. Waving her microphone like a cheerleading baton, she went from batting her eyelashes to the flapping red-lacquered lips in a heartbeat. “Detective Keen…Detective Keen! What can you tell me about the—”
    “Nothing.” A warning in her gaze, Angela made eye contact with the rookie patrol officer. Her focus slid from him to the reporter then back again. “Watch out, man.