Praise for
New York Times bestselling author
Christina Dodd
“Christina Dodd reinvents the romantic thriller. Her signature style—edgy, intense, twisty, emotional—leaves you breathless from first page to last. Readers who enjoy Nora Roberts will devour Dodd’s electrifying novels.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author
“Featuring an unforgettable protagonist, who makes Jack Reacher look like a slacker, Dodd’s latest superior suspense novel builds on the well-deserved success of Dead Girl Running.”
—Booklist (starred review) on What Doesn’t Kill Her
“Action-packed, littered with dead bodies, and brimming with heartfelt emotion, this edgy thriller keeps the tension high.”
—Library Journal (starred review) on What Doesn’t Kill Her
“No one does high-stakes, high-voltage suspense quite like Dodd, and [Dead Girl Running] is another guaranteed keep-the-lights-on-late read. Dodd is at her most wildly entertaining, wickedly witty best.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Complex, intense, and engrossing, this riveting romantic thriller has a chilling gothic touch and just enough red herrings and twists to keep readers on edge.”
—Library Journal (starred review) on Dead Girl Running
“You can always count on the ingenious mind of Christina Dodd to deliver fascinating, unusual and highly intriguing stories. Dodd is truly a masterful storyteller!”
—RT Book Reviews on Dead Girl Running (Top Pick)
“Dodd’s gripping voice will appeal to fans of Sandra Brown, Nora Roberts, Linda Howard and Jayne Ann Krentz.”
—Mystery Tribune on What Doesn’t Kill Her
Also available from
Christina Dodd
and HQN Books
Cape Charade
Hard to Kill (ebook novella)
Dead Girl Running
Families and Other Enemies (ebook novella)
What Doesn’t Kill Her
Hidden Truths (ebook novella)
Strangers She Knows
Right Motive (ebook novella)
Wrong Alibi
For additional books by Christina Dodd, visit her website, www.christinadodd.com.
Right Motive
Christina Dodd
Honey, thank you for another wonderful idea and all the help in creating Right Motive. Here’s to another eon of earth-cooling together.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
ALASKA
Rockin Police Department
A Tuesday morning in August
POLICE CHIEF RODOLPHE DUMAS looked up as Officer Gabriella Donatti put down her phone, stood up from her desk and turned in a circle, arms extended in despair. “April Fools’ Day has come and gone,” she called to the ceiling. “Is it Halloween already?”
He noted, also, that their dispatcher, Stu Helgeson, hung his head out of his office, watching and grinning.
Dumas liked Donatti; she was tough, intelligent, quick-witted and, in his never-to-be-spoken opinion, cuter than a speckled pup under the porch.
A long-legged speckled pup—the female was curvaceous and nearly six feet tall, which made her six inches taller than him, and that was if he lied about his height. If he was twenty years younger—okay, thirty years younger—he would have gone all out to woo her. He might have a kink in his neck, but the pain would be worth it.
Plus she was a gosh darned good officer, the first female officer hired in the Rockin Police Department in years upon years (the former police chief had been female, and such a disaster everyone had done their best to forget her), and if this call had been serious, she would have been on it like stink on a skunk.
This sounded like the usual prank and he asked affectionately, “What’s up, chère?”
Deadpan as all heck, she said, “Bigfoot has been sighted west of here, near Denali National Park.”
Grins bloomed across the length and breadth of the office.
Dumas had been in law enforcement for over thirty-three years, first in Louisiana—he was Cajun to his bones—and now in Rockin, Alaska. “Of course he has. Did whoever call this in get a photograph?”
“Not just a photograph.” Donatti paused dramatically, then said, “A video. Which proves without a doubt that Bigfoot is in the area because no one in the history of Photoshop has ever tampered with a video.”
Grins widened.
“Why me?” Donatti asked.
“That’s rhetorical, right?” Officer Howland leaned back in his desk chair. “Because you’re the newest, which automatically means you’re holding the short straw.”
“That’s easily solved.” She turned to Dumas. “When are you going to hire someone else?”
“Soon.” His gaze skittered around at his officers, never resting on any too long. But it didn’t require much to make a few avoid his gaze.
He still had officers hanging on from the previous police chief’s administration. He’d had no reason to replace them—but only because he hadn’t caught them in the act of…whatever unlawful activity they were involved in. “Officer Donatti, your partner’s out today.”
“Jim Kittilia. Yes, he’s out sick.” She didn’t use air quotes, but Dumas saw them anyway.
He hoisted himself out of his chair and adjusted his belt. “I’ll ride along with Donatti. I have not yet met Bigfoot. That must be a rite of passage.”
A ripple of laughter around the room.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath on that.” Blake Schofield had been born here, raised here, had been an officer here for all his twenty years in law enforcement, and was the self-appointed purveyor of local knowledge. “Especially not in broad daylight. For the most part, he’s a nocturnal creature.”
“Ah, well. It’s a beautiful day out, and Donatti might need backup while dealing with this wild creature.”
Another ripple of laughter.
“Ito, you’re in charge.” As Dumas walked out, he was aware the sentiment in the department was oh-so-slowly shifting his way. When he’d first arrived as the newly appointed police chief of the municipality of Rockin, he was all smiles and affability, shaking hands, laying on the thick Cajun accent, convincing them he was the chief they imagined—maybe corrupt, possibly lazy, certainly none too bright.
When he’d told them he was there to kick butt and take names but he’d forgotten his pencil, they’d smirked. Then he’d called three of them in, right in a row, and fired them, boom, boom, boom.
They were the easy ones: Officer Gerasimova, who took a call and always took the long way around; Officer Nichols, who arrested women for jaywalking and ignored the guys drag racing down Main Street; and Officer West, who beat up his girlfriend, had a restraining order slapped on him—and ignored it.
Dumas did not kick dogs or gratuitously hit women—or anyone, for that matter. His job was to protect and serve, and he took that duty seriously. Ignoring the restraining order was unlawful, and when he fired West, he said so.
West had called Dumas “dumbass”—because Dumas had never heard that insult before—slammed down his sidearm, the keys to his patrol car and a few other essentials, and stormed out.
Dumas had taken five minutes to don his bulletproof vest and pick a team to provide backup in case of trouble. The cops had headed to t
he girlfriend’s place of employment, and got there in time to find West aiming a loaded shotgun and holding the whole diner hostage while his girlfriend begged him to shoot her and spare the kids.
Dumas had drawn his sidearm and ordered West to stand down.
West had swiveled toward Dumas, ready to shoot.
Dumas had nailed him in the chest right over the heart. Didn’t kill him, sadly; West wore his own bulletproof armor. But the bullet knocked him backward, and another fast shot removed his elbow and, with it, the shotgun, saving the good people in the diner from harm.
Unfortunately, while more officers arrived to handle the situation, Dumas enjoyed a hospital visit to remove stray buckshot from his thigh and forehead. The doctors had wanted to keep him for observation. He’d brushed away their advice, taken pain relievers and returned to work.
He’d limped in to find his backups giving a full accounting of the episode as the rest of his officers drank coffee and buzzed with excitement. One look at the bandage on his face and the bruise that spread out around it, and they’d hopped fast to their desks or out to their patrol cars.
With not an ounce of his former affability, he’d said, “Did I neglect to mention that I won the Southern Regional Small Arms Championship?”
Silence.
A mutter from Officer Marroquin, “Hadn’t heard that.”
And another from Officer Schofield, “Congratulations, Chief.”
Dumas had limped toward his office, groaning and making much of his injuries. They might think he was old, but all of them knew buckshot from a gun fired ten feet away could have been deadly. In the doorway, he’d turned. “Also the World Championship, but I don’t like to brag. Gentlemen, the good ol’ boys’ club of Rockin law enforcement is officially at an end. You all comprehend that?”
Most of them had returned his gaze and nodded.
But he’d taken note of those who never quite met his eyes.
Within five minutes, Dumas had called Officer Ito in, put him in charge of screening applicants for the new openings in the Rockin Police Department.
The first hire had been local, from the Alaska State Troopers, a guy who lived in the Rockin outskirts and wanted a job closer to home. That was Erik Chee. Then they’d picked up Colton Joshi from Anchorage, and Gabriella Donatti had applied from Nevada. Her excellent recommendations, her driving skills—Nevada’s roads were similar to Alaska’s in their long, empty stretches that in an emergency allowed great speed—and the summers she’d spent in Rockin had given her the edge over other applicants. Her pilot’s license sealed the deal; in Alaska, every officer, whether it was the Alaska State Troopers or the local metropolitan police, covered vast amounts of territory.
Most important, Dumas had known she would overcome the resistance of the all-male department; she could get along, and it had been fun watching the guys discover that if they gave her trouble, she had the personality to hand it right back and top it with a shovelful of manure.
Now Police Chief Dumas was close to having his perfect law enforcement office. Only one thing remained undone…
CHAPTER TWO
DUMAS HEADED OUTSIDE with Officer Donatti to the police vehicle. The sun shone, the air was clear, and the temperature hovered at sixty-five degrees; a perfect Alaskan August day.
Donatti offered the keys. “Sir, do you want to drive?”
“I’m along for the ride.” Dumas climbed into the passenger seat of the Ford Expedition and checked his smartwatch; he was all about technology. In police work, it made sense to have communication, a timer and a million apps at the end of his arm. And, gosh darn it, the watch told him the time, too!
Donatti backed out of her parking space and headed out the gate onto the street. “Are you checking my driving?”
“No, chère. I read the report. You’ve got the stuff.” More than the stuff. “No, I’ve got to leave to catch a rat.”
Donatti glanced at him in surprise.
She’d missed all the excitement of his early days as police chief, and because she was the only female police officer and not included in the men’s gossip, she didn’t quite comprehend the turmoil before she’d arrived.
He wasn’t going to tell her. “What brings you to Alaska?”
“I could ask you the same,” she said.
Was she telling him to mind his own business? Or was she being evasive? “Every summer, I came up from Louisiana to fish and hike. I used Rockin as my base. I like the place, I like the people. A lot of odd folks, eccentrics. Rockin reminded me of home, only not so darned hot. When the police chief got removed for sexual misconduct, I thought about it, decided to take the post and moved up here.”
“It’s an appointed post.”
“Yes.”
“You were sure you were going to get the job?”
“I said people in Rockin were eccentric, not stupid. Of course the city council would hire me.”
She laughed. “Good. Yes. Well. I’m the same as you. My whole life, I’ve come up in the summer.”
“You have relatives here?”
“In the area. I’d come up, learn about the wilderness, so different from Nevada, hike and fish. It was like Girl Scout camp on steroids.” She cast him a humorous glance. “And it’s not so darned hot here.”
He chuckled. “We have a lot in common.” She hadn’t been telling him to mind his own business. But she hadn’t told him everything. Not by a long shot.
He waved a dismissive hand. “How far are we going?”
“We’re going to the Magnussons’ place. It’s outside of Denali Park. Assuming—”
The dispatcher rang through, and Donatti shut up.
Dumas answered. “What is it, Helgeson?”
“Sir, it’s a full moon, so of course the crazies must be out in force, because we just got another Bigfoot sighting. It’s from a female in the warehouse district.”
“Female’s name?”
“Laila Shockley.”
“She got a record?”
“Not even a parking ticket. You want me to send a couple of officers?”
“Who’s available?”
“Schofield is here cleaning up his paperwork. I’m sure I could convince him he’d rather take the call.” Paperwork was a necessary drudgery. “Jim Kittilia just walked in.”
Dumas glanced at Donatti, who was eloquently expressionless.
Jim Kittilia had been easy to spot as the officer most likely to get canned next. Skinny, mustached, constantly smiling, a shoulder-slapper and one of those guys who conveniently “forgot” he had to pay for the Girl Scout cookies he ordered from Howland’s seven-year-old daughter.
Dumas was pretty sure Donatti detested Kittilia, but she gritted her teeth and didn’t complain. It would have done her no good; Kittilia had seniority, and the fact he smiled too widely was not a valid reason for termination.
And when Dumas told her he listened seriously to complaints of sexual misconduct, she had looked him in the eyes and said, “It only ever happens once.” Which was not an answer, but he was both glad he’d spoken to her and reassured.
Dumas said to the dispatcher, “If Kittilia is still sick, send him home. I don’t like my officers spreading germs.”
“He looks okay to me,” Helgeson said. “Jittery, like he’s had too much coffee.”
I’ll bet. “The call from out near Denali—no one’s in danger?”
“Nope, nothing but an unconfirmed sighting,” Helgeson assured him.
“Then we’ll take this call, too. Might as well get all my Bigfoot credits in one fell swoop.”
Helgeson gave them the address and without looking at the GPS, Donatti turned toward the warehouse district. “I’ll bet you never had these problems in Louisiana,” she said.
Dumas laughed softly. “You have never heard of the Rougarou?”
Don
atti shook her head.
“It has the head of a wolf and the body of a man, and roams the swamps killing and mutilating man and beast.”
“Sounds like a werewolf.”
“Yes, the legend comes from the French Loup-Garou.” With the mingled humor and horror of a lifelong Catholic, he said, “He especially hunts those who do not keep the Lent.”
“Uh-oh.” She echoed his tone.
“Are you in trouble?”
“When I was in high school, there was that hamburger on Friday. But there were extenuating circumstances!”
“What kind of circumstances?”
“I was in a Catholic boarding school, got to escape for a few hours, and it was then or never.”
He shook his head sadly. “The road to hell is paved with excuses.”
“You’re good with the guilt,” Gabriella said sourly. “You could be a nun.”
“Sadly, no. I have, in my life, celebrated all seven sins.” As Donatti parked at the end of the alley behind the abandoned furniture warehouse, he indicated the woman standing beside the dumpster, checking her phone and looking annoyed. “That would be our reporting citizen.”
Laila Shockley wore black ankle leggings, a starched button-up shirt long enough to reach almost to her knees and tennis shoes that cost a billion dollars, give or take.
He knew about the price of the shoes; they were the kind his ex-wife liked to wear, and liked him to pay for.
But clearly Laila Shockley paid for her own footwear.
Dumas snapped his fingers. “That’s why her name is familiar. I’ve seen it on signs around town.”
“Who is she?”
“Laila Shockley owns a local real-estate firm.”
“Right! And the Due North Apartments—that’s my apartment building.” Donatti prepared to exit the car. “This changes things a bit.”
He placed his hand on Donatti’s arm. “Why?”
“If she’d been homeless…”
Gently, he said, “No, chère. We treat the citizens, no matter who they are, with complete respect. A homeless person has no property, no reason to lie. They have eyes to see, they are overlooked, and we hear their reports and thank them most kindly.”
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