Jill tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the rotary dial to complete its individual numbers. If the Time God had meant for us to waste time dialing, he wouldn’t have invented push-button phones.
She gave her name to the person on the other end of the line and listened attentively. “Oh, he did, did he?” she growled before slamming the phone back in place. “The nerve of that man!”
Jill snagged the leather satchel she used as a briefcase off the top of a dusty cabinet. “I gotta fly. Mondo Cop’s trying to pull a fast one.”
“Mondo Cop?” Dorry questioned, locking the metal fire door behind them.
Jill paused, one foot on the stairway. “You know—the hunky new cop with the dog. That’s what the she-cops are calling him because he’s supposed to be the ultimate in cool, but, cool or not, you don’t move up your appointment with no notice so the reporter won’t be there on time and you can weasel out of the interview.”
Jill dashed up three steps then turned around and ran back down two. “Dorry, I’ll call you later. I appreciate this. I mean it. You’re my one true lead, and I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got. Okay?” She thought—hoped— that tiny dipping of Dorry’s head was an affirmative. “Okay. Gotta run.”
As she sped out of the parking lot, Jill glanced at the oversized watch on her wrist. The Time God kept track of one’s little indiscretions, and Jill was in enough trouble with him already. Hadn’t she neglected to write to her mother for six months—failing to share such trivial matters as her final divorce decree and Peter’s subsequent marriage to Jill’s supposed best friend and former colleague, Clarice Asher?
Jill downshifted and stepped on the gas. Her little red MR2 shot forward. A gust of pure September, heavy with the pungent aroma of tarweed, channeled in through the open T-top. The smell reminded her of her sophomore year of high school when she and Penny had called themselves the “Two Misfiteers” and explored their alien—and sometimes hostile—environment via horseback. Jill remembered it as one of those rare, benign eras when the Time God had been magnanimous.
Three hours earlier, over a bag of powdered doughnuts—granted, an iffy choice to share with twin toddlers—Jill and Penny had discussed Jill’s impending meeting with the city’s newest hire.
“So tell me about this cop. I hear he’s gorgeous and single.”
“I haven’t met him,” Jill had said, licking white residue from her fingers. Normally, she would have found it hard to believe that in a town the size of Bullion, she hadn’t bumped into the celebrated dog handler by now. But her on-the-sly investigation into Land Barons’s exploits in Bullion was really eating into her time. Plus, she had a deadline to get the last of Peter’s crap out of her garage. Her “ex” and his “new” were scheduled back in town this coming weekend for the big Land Barons gala.
“You can’t tell much by his official picture. All hat, no-nonsense frown. But the dog is handsome. Classic Rin-Tin-Tin look. Tan with a black saddle and black muzzle. Keenly intelligent gaze. Awesome.”
“You know, Jill,” her friend had said with a maternal sigh, “it says something about your lack of social life when you’re more impressed by the dog than the man. Why are you interviewing him? I thought the paper already ran the story.”
Knowing Penny’s tendency to worry, Jill had no intention of mentioning her impending rendezvous with a bite suit. “Just the press release from the Bullion P.D. The bureaucracy gives one side—all praise and accomplishment, triumphs and commendations. But when you talk to the regular uniforms, you sometimes get a different story.”
“What do they say?”
“That he’s smart, gorgeous and a real loner.”
Jill could identify with the latter. Until her mother had put her foot down and declared that Jill would attend Bullion High for her final three—uninterrupted—years, Jill had never felt connected to one place. But now Bullion was home, and Jill took her job seriously. She intended to write a fair and accurate account of the canine patrol—even though she knew she’d been set up to fail courtesy of Bullion’s mayor, Bud Francis.
The man had never forgiven her for painting an honest, but unflattering, picture of him two months ago after the last city council meeting she’d covered. After the series of irate calls to her publisher, Everett Davenport, Jill had been taken off the city beat.
This article was Jill’s ticket out of Obituary Land, and she wasn’t about to be late.
BEN JACOBS STUDIED the high-tech chronometer on his wrist. One twenty-seven. Three more minutes and I’m outta here. Jill Martin would have to get her interview over the telephone. The photographer, Jamal Mosely, an enthusiastic young African-American, had already snapped a few shots of Ben and Czar as they were unloading gear from the back of the Blazer.
Ben appreciated the new vehicle. In Santa Ignacio, he and Czar had been number eight on the totem pole for a new car, and even then it wouldn’t have been as well equipped as the one he had here in Bullion. The Blazer helped reinforce in Ben’s mind the validity of his move. Joely, his sister, thought he was crazy. “You’d sacrifice your seniority for a dog?”
Even after all these years, she didn’t have a clue what Czar meant to him. They were a team. Twenty-four seven. They ate together, slept together and worked together. They were brothers, friends, partners and in a way—parent and child. Czar was intelligent, and Ben sometimes joked that his dog was smarter than any of his friends. In truth, Czar was his only true friend. It hadn’t been hard to choose Czar over seniority.
In Bullion, they might have a chance to make a difference again. Santa Ignacio’s murder toll was approaching the level of bigger cities like Oakland and L.A. Drugs were rampant. It was easy for a cop to feel overwhelmed, outnumbered and burnt out. Here, Ben hoped to create a legacy that would honor Czar.
And he wasn’t about to see his new beginning screwed up by a story hound. He didn’t trust the press. He didn’t know any reporters personally, but he’d heard plenty of horror stories—all of which ended with the cop getting screwed. He hoped his obvious little ploy of moving up the interview time worked. He’d avoid this interview for as long as possible.
He was just reaching down for the canvas duffel bag containing the bite suit when a little, where’s-the-fire, red sports car sped into the parking lot. Its tires coughed up a cloud of dust as the driver slammed on the brakes. A woman dressed in formfitting, indigo-blue jeans, white leather tennis shoes and a long-sleeve denim shirt decorated with embroidered American flags leaped from the car as though the seat cushion was on fire. She paused to lean over the side left open by the T-top, and grabbed a small leather backpack that looked like something his fifteen-year-old niece might carry; then she dashed toward him.
Obviously, she was worried about being late and didn’t want him to bail, and understandably, she couldn’t know how dangerous it was to run up to a canine officer when his dog was standing beside him, ready to defend him to the death. Blood and lawsuits flashed before his eyes, but for the life of him, he couldn’t react. His mouth dropped open as though he might give Czar a command, but all that came out was a sharp little puff of air.
“Hi. You must be Mondo…I mean, Officer Jacobs. I’m Jill Martin.” Her words tumbled over him like kernels of candy corn at Halloween, sweet and yummy, but lacking in substance. When he didn’t shake the outstretched hand she offered, she dropped to both knees on the grass—throat level for Czar—and held out the same hand. “And you must be Czar.”
Finally, Ben got back some element of control. He reached for Czar’s leash at the same moment Czar went for the slim, pale limb offered up so innocently. Ben was about to throw a body block, when he saw the hand pet his dog’s head. Czar’s broomlike tail swished back and forth sonorously.
Czar was behaving as though he’d just found an old friend. Ben wasn’t sure who to be mad at: her for running up to a police dog, Czar for being uncharacteristically friendly or himself for acting like a mute idiot.
Her. She was the rep
orter.
“Never run up to a police dog,” he ordered in his very best I-am-the-law-and-you-will-do-what-I-say voice.
“Why? Will he lick me to death?” she joked, looking up at him. Ben couldn’t see her eyes, which were hidden by dark glasses, squarish in design with a tie-dyed croaky, but he had no trouble interpreting her grin.
He held back a sigh. The cocky ones were the very worst. They had no idea what they were getting into when they pitted themselves against a trained police dog. He’d seen grown men try to take down a dog and come away with a bloody arm to show for all their bravado.
Ben gave a low command to Czar. The dog backed off from his newfound friend and took his place at Ben’s side. The reporter pulled her glasses down on her nose, winked at Czar, then rose.
She was tall, but not as tall as Ben had first thought. She just carried herself with natural grace and straight posture as though she might have been a model. She was pretty enough to model, with fresh, sort of Scandinavian features and reddish-blond hair scraped back into a thick ponytail. Little wind wisps curled about her face. She looked young.
Without intending to, he asked, “Are you old enough to do this?”
“How old do you have to be?” she returned, her tone filled with mirth. “I’m five years younger than you.”
“How do you know how old I am?”
She grinned and crossed her arms, drawing Ben’s gaze to the gentle swell of her bosom. “I do my homework. You’re thirty-six. Czar is ten. You arrived here eight days ago, although you were officially hired in August. You had to finish out your commitment to the Santa Ignacio force. You bought the old Turner house, which before it was the Turner house was the Mobrick house. I know a lot about the house. More, in fact, than I know about you. What would you like to tell me?”
Ben was getting that tongue-tied feeling again. He couldn’t explain it. He felt as stupid as a schoolboy on his first day at a new school talking to the homecoming queen.
“Were you homecoming queen?” Who is running my mouth?
She laughed. A bright, happy sound that caught at his chest somewhere under his flack vest. “Lord, no. Much as my mother prayed for that glorious honor, it wasn’t meant to be. I was far too radical. I was busy reading The Women’s Room and rallying support for the Equal Rights Amendment and writing scathing editorials for the school paper. Real geek stuff.
“I did try out for cheerleader in eighth grade because my mother begged me to, but thank God, they found six other willing sacrificial lambs who could yell without screeching. Don’t ever ask me to yell. It’s ugly, isn’t it, Jamal?” She shuddered theatrically and looked toward the photographer who was just lowering his camera.
“Yep. Don’t ask her to sing, either.”
She stuck out her pretty, pink tongue at him.
Whipping off her sunglasses so they hung by the colorful strap just below the V of her open neckline, she gave Ben a serious look. Her eyes were greenish-brown with maybe a little gray thrown in. “So, what’s the agenda? Why’d you move up the time? Hoping I’d be late?”
Ben didn’t embarrass easily and he knew his face wasn’t showing any change of color, still he had a feeling she knew that had been his intent. “I have an early roster call to meet everyone. My schedule’s been hit and miss this week.”
“I can imagine. New town, new problems. You’ll settle in real fast, though. Bullion is gonna be a piece of cake compared to Santa Ignacio.”
Ben weighed his words, knowing they could be used against him. “Czar and I are looking forward to the challenge.”
“What challenge?”
“It’s always a challenge getting adjusted to a new area and learning what kind of crime to be on the lookout for, where a city’s strong points lie and where its weaknesses are.” She’d extracted a slim, wire-bound notebook from her purse, along with a mustard-colored pencil. Cupping the cardboard-backed notepad in her palm, she scribbled something, glancing around while she wrote.
“Sergeant Simms says you will be the founding pair in what he hopes will grow to be a four-unit canine division.” She paused and looked at him, then at Czar. “Every time he says that, I have this picture of you two spawning little baby dogs and cops. Not a pretty picture.”
Ben tried not to laugh. It wasn’t something that came easily to him and he usually had no trouble controlling it, but when she gave him an impish grin, he hooted.
He was saved from having to reply by the arrival of another police car and a huge, yellow, boatlike Cadillac.
“Oh look, Jamal. The mayor’s here. Hide the liquor.”
Ben bit down on the inside of his lower lip. That seemed to do the trick. He automatically reached down to stroke Czar’s head and reassure him the people approaching were friends not potential suspects. He whispered a soothing word of encouragement.
“Are you speaking Dog?” Jill Martin whispered, leaning toward him.
“German. The dogs are imported from Germany and are initially trained in German. It seemed easier to retrain the cops than the dogs. And by using German commands, the average citizen can’t give a dog a command.”
“Would he follow my command if I knew any German?”
“Probably not, but it might be enough to throw him off stride or distract him. Most dogs are attuned to their handler’s voice and respond only to him.”
“If you were wounded or incapacitated, who would he respond to?”
“I can answer that,” Sergeant Simms said, joining them. “When I was scouting the market for our canine unit, I took part in several training sessions and a couple of patrols. One dog and handler that looked particularly promising were involved in a gang fracas. The officer was wounded and unconscious. The dog wouldn’t let the paramedics near, they had to shoot the dog to get to the officer.”
Ben was watching her. Her eyes filled with moisture, turning the ambivalent color into a limpid shade of green. Her chin lifted; she blinked rapidly and looked away.
“Didn’t kill him, did they? Damn dogs cost a frickin’ fortune,” Mayor Bud Francis said, sauntering up to join the group. He was a small man, under five foot seven even with his built-up shoes. To make up for his size, he talked in a loud, booming voice.
Ben liked to make up his own mind about people and usually gave himself time to assess a person but he didn’t need a second glance to peg Bud Francis. Family name, inherited wealth and a serious drinking problem. A combination Ben knew all too well—thanks to his father—a functional alcoholic who could hide his addiction from the world, but not his family.
Czar—apparently sensing Ben’s disquiet—flattened his ears and pressed close to Ben’s leg.
Jill Martin suddenly did that dropping-to-her-knees-thing again and pressed her face close to Czar’s. “He looks like a bear when he does that. Look how cute he is, Jamal. Did you get a picture of that?”
This was Ben’s worst nightmare. Czar was totally trustworthy in public unless he was picking up on Ben’s feelings, which at the moment were slightly askew.
“I think we’d better get this show on the road.” He jerked on Czar’s leash and gave him the one-word command to jump into the back of the Blazer. Czar cleared the tailgate gracefully, and plopped down, apparently sensing his master’s need to have him out of the way.
Ben faced his commanding officer. “I would like to go on record protesting the idea of using Ms. Martin in the bite suit. It’s always best to use someone who is familiar with the dogs and knows how to react defensively. And the best defense—the only defense—is to lie still once you’re down.”
Ben talked loud enough for everyone to hear. He used his most official tone. He didn’t want to take the fall for what most likely would happen. She’d get hurt, and the department would blame him and Czar.
Jill Martin approached him slowly—the exact opposite of how she’d approached his ferocious police dog. “Would you go over each step of the training procedure and tell me what to expect and what to do? I don’t want to get hu
rt nor do I want to do anything that could compromise the department or reflect badly on your program.”
That was a very generous and unexpected sentiment on her part, but Ben didn’t believe her. She might not want to be the cause of any problems, but she’d sure as hell write about them if they came up.
He pulled the forty-pound suit from the bag and described what she could expect to feel. “The most important thing to remember is to lie still once he has apprehended you. The dogs are taught to apprehend and guard. He will circle you until I get there, but if you move he’ll pounce on you. So you don’t get up and run again.”
She never looked directly at him; she was taking notes and examining the padded suit. “Will he attack from behind?”
“He doesn’t attack. People have this distorted Hollywood image of trained killers who go for the jugular. Sort of lethal weapons with fur. These dogs use their speed, their bite power and their looks to intimidate and hold a suspect until the foot patrol can make the arrest. If a suspect is fleeing and the dog has made visual contact, he will chase that suspect, pulling him down to stop him if necessary but it’s not a random attack.”
She was still taking notes, so he continued. “I’d honestly prefer you to do your story with the two of us on patrol. You could see Czar bully his way through a gang of thugs with his sheer presence then play with a group of school-kids. He’s gentle and respectful and playful with people, but he knows his job and how to do it.”
Ben took a deep breath and waited for someone to say something.
“I’ll take those kind of pictures, too, but couldn’t we get at least one shot of Jill being tackled?” the photographer said, a wry grin on his face. “You don’t know how happy it would make some of the people back at the paper. I already have requests for four eight-by-tens.”
Jill swatted him with her notepad. “You just wait, Mosely. My next batch of cookies will have a special treasure in one, just for you. Won’t they, Czar?”
Wonders Never Cease (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 2
