Page 13 of Spitfire

"Who is the victim?" I question as we turn down an alleyway in a seedier part of the city. Leaving behind the shiny high-rises and affluent single-family homes, and instead being greeted by rundown shops and small war-era row houses.

"George Weston." My eyebrow shoots up toward my hairline with shock, and Jasper must clock it because he grimaces. "Yeah, of those Westons. He's the son and heir apparent to the fortune and companies."

"Anything different about this one?" What would someone with George Weston's wealth and stature be doing in this part of town? Did Ashmaker bring him here to torture him, or did he ambush him? None of this is making sense.

"Not really, torture, mutilation, and dismemberment, then the fire to cover his tracks. It's definitely Ashmaker." He raises his hand in placation. "I know, don't call him that, but really, what else are we supposed to call this freak? He literally burns them to ash."

We pull up to the yellow police tape, and it's absolute chaos with red and blue flashing lights, uniformed cops trying to hold back the crowds of reporters and spectators, and a white command tent already set up. I get out of the car, and it's the strangest thing: I'm instantly hit with a sense of déjà vu, but I know with certainty that I've never been here. A shooting pain sears through my temples, halting my movements, and bringing a grimace to my mouth.

"Lyssa?" Jasper questions with concern in his tone, as he comes around the car to my side. I wish I had brought my sunglasses. He's too observant and perceptive.

I don't get a chance to answer him as I spy Director Shaw furiously stomping in our direction, his face red like a damn tomato. "What's this about your tires being slashed, Agent Lyssa?" I give Jasper a dirty glare as he rolls his eyes and shifts awkwardly to hide, I'm sure, his grin of satisfaction at throwing me under the bus.

"Random vandalism, Sir. Probably just some street punks, nothing to worry about." My murderous glare at Jasper has him wiggling his thick, dark brows at me from where Shaw can't get a good glance at him. His serious eyes are now sparkling with pure enjoyment. Insufferable, hot asshole.

"I see, well, if you're not too occupied with your own life, Agent Lyssa, maybe you could do your fucking job and catch this asshole, before he kills another prominent member of our society." Shaw's angry words are a bucket of cold water thrown over me, and instantly cause my walls to rise and the mask I often wear to emerge.

"Yes, Sir. I'll do my best." I stride away towards the tarped-off areas, shielding the scene from reporters and bystanders who might otherwise get a photo. A cold rage whips through my body as I try not to show how Director Shaw's harsh words have impacted me. I notice he didn't reprimand Agent Garnier in the same way, just me, even though he's the lead on this. My fingernails bite into my palm as I attempt to keep myself centered and focused on my task. It doesn't matter. I know the two of us will never be measured fairly. After all, I'm not, and never will be, part of the boys' club.

"Lyssa, what the fuck are you wearing?" Jasper's amused voice penetrates through my furious thoughts. The current image in my head of me, strangling him with my bare hands, comes to a screeching halt.

No, don't turn around, don't even acknowledge the fucker, he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. That's what I instruct myself, but unfortunately, it seems I very rarely take my own advice lately. Maybe it's because I'm a damn Aries, but I know my temper will one day be my downfall. "Shut the fuck up, Garnier, and focus on the job we have to do and not my wardrobe!" I growl.

"Jesus, Lyssa, you use that filthy mouth to kiss your mother?" He speeds up so he's at pace with me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the look of pure devilment on his whiskered face.

Without skipping a beat, I reply to him, "My mom abandoned me in the system when I was born, so I doubt she cares how filthy my mouth is."

The sound of him choking on air almost makes me smile. Almost. "Fuck... Lyssa... I..."

I cut him off, not wanting to hear his lame apologies. They won't change anything, and honestly, I don't want his or anyone else's pity. The very thought of it makes my skin crawl. "Save it, Garnier. I do not care. It was a long time ago, and it doesn't bother me." That's not exactly true; a part of me still deals with the deep resentment at being abandoned. Knowing that I was healthy, she carried me to term, even named me before discarding me, and made sure I could never find out who she was. I refuse to allow anyone to see that weakness, though.

I move past the last barriers and approach the body, or what's left of the smoldering remains. This one seems a bit crisper than the others. Is it possible it had more time to burn before being discovered, or was there a different accelerant used to speed up the process? "Stephens, how long do we think he's been dead?" I don't bother with civility. It's not like this is a social call.

Dr. Stephens pulls his intense gaze away from the remains, his head turning in my direction. His bright eyes roam down my frame, landing on my sneakers, and his thin lips twitch. I watch impassively as his gaze moves quickly from me to Jasper, and I stop myself from rolling my eyes. He really needs to either be more discreet in his attraction to my partner, or go all in and ask him out. At this point, everyone around us can see the interest with just one glance. I'm not sure if Jasper swings that way, but I'd love to be a fly on the wall if and when Stephens dares to make that jump.

"Hard to say with the effects of the fire. Not long would be my guess. He would have suffered a large amount of blood loss first, and been in excruciating pain." Stephens rises to his full height, removes his gloves, and discards them, before rubbing at his jaw. "There seems to be more rage with this one. Even with the burns, I can see Ashmaker... I mean, ummm... the killer took out his rage on him. I count no less than ten deep stab wounds across his torso, possibly more, but until I get him on my table, it's hard to tell."

I move past Stephens, grab a set of gloves from the command table, and crouch to inspect George Weston myself. The grim remains smell like cooked meat on a barbecue, and that makes my already queasy stomach revolt. I force myself to breathe only through my mouth, as I lean in closer to get a look at the way his body has been purposely displayed. It appears that Ashmaker has shrined him in garbage, some of which is now nothing more than sodden soot.

My eyes land on the space where his cock should be, and I don't see any lumps that would confirm that he's still intact. "His cock?" I question without taking my gaze off George, even though Jasper's already told me it's missing. I want to hear it for myself. I'm going to be dotting all my fucking i's and crossing my damn t's, especially if I'm the one likely to take the blame for something going wrong with the investigation.

"Removed. Most likely, like the others, pre-mortem. Once we get him back to the morgue, I'll be able to confirm if it's lodged in his throat."

Stephens' voice becomes background noise, as I allow myself to trail my glance over the details that might have been missed. It's not that Stephens or even Garnier aren't great at their jobs, it's just that Ashmaker isn't speaking to them. He's leaving clues for me. My gaze rises to the area around George Weston, surveying the garbage and dumpsters littering the alleyway, as old buildings rise up around us. There's graffiti on most of the walls, some of it old, some newer and crude, with drawings of phallic symbols and gang tags. My glimpse lands on something small etched into the concrete wall, just past where George lies. I lean forward, careful not to step into the line of evidence, and pull out my phone to snap a picture.

"You got something, Lyssa?" Jasper's voice is so close I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, making the hairs on my arms rise, and my heart rate skyrocket.

Everything in me that's filled with excitement wants to show him what I might have discovered, but instead I pocket my phone, turn around, give him a frigid glare, and force him to put space between us. "Nothing. I'm not sure any of these gang signs have anything to do with this crime, just being cautious."

"Agents?" A young uniformed officer calls over to us, and both of us turn in his direction. "One of the neighboring businesses thinks they might have caught the perpetrator on their security camera."

A thrill races through my veins as I instantly step away from the remains and head in that direction, with Jasper quickly following me. My sneakered feet slip on the slick asphalt, and I momentarily slide, and just as I am about to lose my balance, Jasper's warm palm meets my lower back, steadying me.

"Steady there, Scarlett." I glance over my shoulder at Jasper, only to meet his smoldering gaze. He quirks those sinful lips, before his straight, white teeth bite down on the plump bottom one, and suddenly I'm filled with the desire to bite down on it too. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him to remove his hand, but I can't seem to make the words leave my lips. The warmth of his touch penetrates through my thin shirt, branding me, and I realize suddenly that I'm holding my breath. Fuck.

"It's a good thing you're not wearing your usual sexy heels. You'd probably break an ankle in this alleyway, and then I'd have to carry you," he smirks playfully. I'm still way too focused on the feeling of his fingers touching me to come up with a witty retort. All that's working through my misfiring brain is that he thinks my shoes are sexy, he wants to carry me around, and he smells like sin.

Jesus, what the fuck is the matter with me? I pull away from his touch, taking a much-needed deep breath, as I put distance between us. Focus, Scarlett, you have a job to do, and it's absolutely not to jump your coworker's bones.