by Dana Mentink
James didn’t answer. She stayed in the doorway while he did a quick search.
“Everything’s okay,” he said.
Far from it, Madison thought, but she didn’t say so. “Thank you. Good night, James.”
He hesitated on the porch step. The night was clear and spangled with emerging stars. The porch light silhouetted his muscled frame. “You know, you’re right. My advice isn’t worth much, considering the mess I’ve made of my own life. Here,” he said, taking a chain from around his neck. The metal twinkled in the dim light. “I think you could use this.”
“What’s this?”
“Something my mom gave me when I hit bottom.”
“I can’t...”
He waved off her protest and turned to go, Hawk following.
“But...”
“See you in the morning.”
She closed the door softly behind him.
Suddenly exhausted by all that had happened, she flopped into a worn padded rocker. Her head throbbed and her eyes ached as she held the chain James had given her up to the lamplight. A small square tag glimmered, still warm from lying against James’s chest, and she held it closer to make out the words.
Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.
—Isaiah 43:19
A way in the wilderness? A fresh life welling up, free for the taking? An enticing thought, and she savored it like a mouthful of a rare delicacy. What would it be like to truly cut herself loose from her past? With a man like James? The thought scared her.
Don’t dwell in the past? She wasn’t. She intended to march squarely into the future, alone and striding on her own two feet. A successful career, a building relationship with her sister and the knowledge that God had given her the strength to do it on her own was all she needed.
She opened the little drawer on the lamp stand, dropped the necklace inside and slid it closed.
Eight
Sunlight blazed through a gap in the curtains the next morning, waking Madison from a deep sleep. Surprised to find it was after ten, she took a shower, noting that her head was not aching as badly as it had been the previous evening. Revived, she pulled on her jeans from the day before and a top the hospital had given her, grateful that her sister had promised to bring her a bag of fresh clothes on her way to work in the afternoon.
Two cups of instant coffee and a quick perusal of her laptop renewed her purpose. She intended to interview the owner of the hardware store, Bill Baxter, and to track down Albert Jennings, who ran a construction business at the edge of town. It was good to be hard at work. It kept other thoughts at bay, at least for a while.
Memories of last night’s confession prodded her. Why had she unburdened herself to James Harrison? She recalled the pity in his eyes as he’d listened to her tale of woe. Now he saw her as some kind of damaged goods whom he needed to pack off to church for fixing. Her cheeks burned.
Just get your story. You don’t need church, or James, or anyone.
There was a text from her sister. How’s your head?
It thrilled her, this little bit of contact.
Hard as ever, she texted back.
On my way to town. Coffee with Sterling before shift. Will drop your clothes. Talk to you soon.
Coffee with Sterling? Tamping down the worry in her stomach, she grabbed her bag and headed out, careful to lock the door behind her, determined not to wait for James to return. She blinked against the morning sunlight, startled to see Officer Ken Bucks leaning against the side of his police car, sipping coffee from a to-go cup and finishing the last bite of a muffin. He nodded and smiled at her.
“What are you doing here?”
He took another sip. “Harrison needed someone to keep an eye on you when he went to church. I volunteered. I’ll drive you to the station.”
James was farming out her babysitting now? Cheeks burning and unable to figure a way out of the situation, she plopped herself into the passenger seat, crammed next to the radio console, the computer and the shotgun. It was a newer car than James’s, without the faint scent of dog.
“So how’s the story coming?” Bucks said. “Heard you were writing about local business and crime.”
“Yes. I’m going to interview Bill Baxter and Albert Jennings today.”
He nodded. “Good men. Bill’s gonna be working over at the grange hall today, helping with some repairs before the police dance Thursday night.”
The police dance? Her instincts prickled. Her desire to pursue a meaty story flared to the surface. “Do you believe all the deaths on the night of the fund-raiser are coincidence?”
His eyes widened. “What do you know about that?”
“Three deaths. All on the same night, different years. One murder. One accidental fire. A fall down the stairs.”
“Things happen,” he said, eyes fixed on the road. “Life’s funny that way.”
“But you think there’s more to it, don’t you?”
“Couple of cops think so. James is one of them, and Whitney Godwin’s been working that angle. She was close to Brian Miller, the rookie who died in the fire at his house.”
“Close to him? Were they in a relationship?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Not important. Like I said, we’ve got a plan in place.”
A plan? Struck by a sudden thought, she pulled out a manila folder from her bag. It contained pictures she’d taken from the internet of the two officers killed on the night of the ball. Mike Riverton and Brian Miller, handsome in their formal new recruit pictures. What was it? It hit her then, the detail that had been dancing on the periphery of her mind for so long. Both men were big, strapping, blue-eyed blond rookies. Like James. Something cold slithered in her belly. “Officer Bucks, are the cops expecting something to happen this year? Do they think another rookie will be harmed?”
His lips formed a tight line. “I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Ms. Coles, but if there is a killer who gets his jollies by murdering cops on the night of the fund-raiser, we’ll get him.”
“How?”
He sat back and offered her a genial smile. “Sorry, but it’s not good policy to go around telling reporters about police business.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Help?” he scoffed. “Don’t even try that line on me. It might be working on James, but I’ve been around longer than he has.”
James? Did Bucks think James was starting to like her? He was sorely mistaken. “It’s not a line.”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to help. You want to sell newspapers.”
“Isn’t it possible I want to do both?”
“Possible, but not likely. The press was never any kind of friend to law enforcement. You’re there to exploit, to place blame and stir up discontent.”
“That’s stereotyping. Just like saying what cops do all day is swill coffee and eat doughnuts.”
A flash of anger hardened his face. Then he laughed. “Okay, well, I guess I deserved that. I like the way you don’t back down. Reminds me of my ex-wife. She’d never let me get away with hypocrisy, either. Man. I miss that woman.”
“Are you divorced?”
“Yeah. She left me, and I deserved it. I always had to be the top dog, and that doesn’t make for a good marriage. I even miss the arguing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you just stick to your business story, okay?”
And stay away from the real police work. Madison remained quiet, her mind whirling. Again she looked at the photos in her lap. Riverton. Miller. Was there going to be another murder this year? Another handsome, blond, blue-eyed victim?
We’ve got a plan i
n place.
Did that mean they were setting up a police sting? Staging the perfect opportunity for the killer to show his hand so they could catch the suspect, if there was one?
She intended to have a conversation with a certain blond rookie as soon as she got to the station.
* * *
James pulled Hawk away from the tray of cookies Carrie was arranging on the break room table. The office secretary pushed her glasses up her nose and patted Hawk indulgently.
“Don’t worry,” she stage-whispered. “I’ll slip you a cookie later when James isn’t looking.”
Hawk licked her hand, making her laugh.
“That’s a big pile of cookies,” James said. “Did we hire another bunch of rookies you need to feed?”
“We’ve got some volunteers coming in today to work on decorations for the fund-raiser. I figured it would be nice to treat them, too.”
“What would we do without you?” he teased.
She straightened her shoulders. “You’d all fall apart, I’m sure.”
He grinned. “Probably true, but we’d all be a couple of pounds lighter. Are you going to the ball, Carrie?”
She sighed. “Stag, if at all.”
He felt sorry for the tall, gangly woman. She really was a cornerstone of the department who did her work without many kudos. It wasn’t easy fielding all of the calls from concerned citizens and the press in the face of Veronica’s recent murder. “You know, if I wasn’t supposed to be dateless for this thing as a precaution, we could go together.”
Carrie picked up a cookie. “Really? That’s a very nice offer, but I don’t need a pity date.”
It was the second time he’d been accused of pitying a woman. Madison’s anguished face flashed through his memory. “Not a pity offer. Just a friendly one.”
“You’re a nice guy, James,” she said.
Too bad everyone doesn’t think so. “Anyway, maybe this will be the year we find out for sure.”
“So you’re the bait?” came a voice from the door.
He turned to see Madison standing there, arms folded across her chest.
“Madison, this is Carrie Dunleavy, DVPD secretary.”
Carrie gave her a smile. “Would you like some cookies? They’re oatmeal raisin, and the coffee’s fresh. Help yourself. I’ve got to get my laptop for the briefing.” She gave Hawk another pat and left.
“Well?” Madison asked. “Is that the plan to find out if there really is a rookie killer at large? You’re going to act as bait?”
He tried to read the emotion behind her flat tone. “I’m not going to answer that. It’s police business.”
Her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “So you do think there’s a serial murderer in this town, just like I said before?”
And if she thought he would admit that to a reporter, she was mistaken. “I’ve got a briefing. Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
The chief had already started when James took a seat in the back of the briefing room. Carrie was there with her laptop, ready to take notes. Jones didn’t have much to add that James didn’t already know. Marian Foxcroft was still in a coma, and there had been no progress locating the missing German shepherd puppy that went missing the night of Earnshaw’s murder.
Puppy. The word reminded him of his encounter at Charlie Greer’s. There had been other break-ins around town, all at houses with puppies. “I think we’re on the right track,” he said. “Veronica’s killer is likely searching for our missing K-9 puppy.”
“For what purpose?” Dennis Marlton asked with a belly laugh. “Is he afraid Marco will ID him?”
James ignored his laughter. “It’s got to be connected. Earnshaw was a dog trainer. She was microchipping three donated puppies when she was killed. Two were chipped. One puppy is missing. Since the murder, houses with puppies are being broken into. No one has seen the missing puppy anywhere. Too many coincidences.”
“Harrison, you’ve got other dogs to trail, so to speak,” Jones said. “Fund-raiser’s coming up this week, and now we’ve got Myron Falkner on the loose, gunning for your reporter.”
“She’s not my reporter.”
More laughter, which he tried his best to ignore. He filled them in on his suspicion that Falkner worked for Bruce King.
“All right. Let’s run that idea down and see where it leads us, but there are plenty of cops here to share the load.”
“I agree that it’s too much to have you act as bait on the night of the dance and work the Falkner case, too,” Ryder Hayes said, with his yellow lab, Titus, sitting at his feet. James knew Ryder didn’t believe the coroner’s ruling of accidental death, either. Two rookie cops dead from suspicious circumstances, both on the night of the police dance. Mike Riverton, an expert climber, dead supposedly from a fall down a flight of stairs. And Brian Miller, a man whose family perished in a house fire when he was a teen, leaving a candle burning that started a deadly fire. It made no sense to James. The only link they had—and it was a shaky one—was that both cops were blond and blue-eyed. He’d volunteered to be the blond-haired, blue-eyed bait to see if they could draw out the killer, if there really was one.
Fellow rookie Ellen Foxcroft helped herself to a cup of coffee. “He’s right. We’ve got to get a handle on things here, to bring this town back to what it used to be.” Ellen was the only rookie who had grown up in Desert Valley. He figured that since her mother, Marian, was the one who arranged for them all to stay here and was now in a coma from another unsolved attack, Ellen’s opinion carried weight.
“We have to go through with it,” James insisted. “It’s the only way to know if we’re dealing with a serial killer or a set of bizarre accidental deaths.” He hesitated, looking at Ryder. “I’m sorry, Ryder. I didn’t mean to include Melanie’s murder. Of course, she...”
Ryder held up a hand. “I understand what you meant. Melanie’s death is the only one of the three that was a clear-cut homicide,” he said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean the other two weren’t related murders dressed up as accidents.”
James held his breath. Ryder was the most respected officer on the force, and he had a definite personal interest in the police-dance deaths. His wife’s shooting had left him grief stricken, the lone parent to his little girl. The ache of a cop not being able to solve his own wife’s murder must have been nearly intolerable. If Ryder said the sting should be dropped, the chief would make it an order.
Come on, Ryder. Let me act as bait. Let’s find out once and for all if there’s a serial killer in Desert Valley.
“Do you think you can handle it, rookie?” Ryder asked, skewering James with a look.
“Yes, sir. I know I can.”
Ryder nodded. “Then I say we lay a trap and see what falls in, if anything.”
Jones agreed, and James felt like pumping a fist in the air. Maybe now they would have the big break they’d been looking for. The chief dismissed his staff, and everyone stood. Veins pulsing with excitement, James went to find Madison.
She was not in the break room.
“I passed her in the hallway a few moments ago,” Carrie said. “She was on her way to get into a taxi. I tried to tell her to wait for you, but she rushed out.”
Muttering under his breath, he snapped around and headed for the parking lot.
“I know you’re supposed to be guarding her, but if it’s any help, she does seem like the type who can take care of herself,” Carrie called.
If he hadn’t seen her almost killed twice, he probably would have agreed.
“Come on, Hawk,” he said. “Let’s chase her down before she gets into any more trouble.”
* * *
Madison slid into the backseat of the taxi, thoroughly relieved to be out of the police station. Word had gotten around that she was a vile reporter. Being
mistrusted by everyone was fine—she didn’t trust them, either—but it was the wasted time that bugged her. If she had to stay in this town for a few more days, she wanted to make the most out of it, have the story wrapped by the time she drove back home.
She had the driver let her out at Albert Jennings’s construction company, handed over the fare and told him she’d call for a return ride when she was done. She intended to start at the construction property and work her way back to the hardware store. Her stomach grumbled until she remembered she’d stowed a cookie in her pocket from the police break room. As she munched, she pictured Uncle Ray, who’d shared some sage advice.
“A qualified reporter never passes up a good story or free food.”
She would call him, she decided. Tonight. The story would be mostly done by then. It would be good to hear his raspy voice, his country and Western music blaring in the background. And then a visit when she returned to Tuckerville, maybe a barbecue. The thought cheered her. She was not as alone as she felt, not with her sister thawing out and her Uncle Ray nearby. That’s family, she thought, or what passed for her cobbled-together family. She tucked the remaining half of the cookie into her pocket for later, in typical Uncle Ray fashion.
The construction company was based on a sprawling lot that doubled as a lumberyard, stacked high with planks and bundles of sheetrock. The place was bustling with forklifts moving materials from the yard to waiting trucks, and employees wearing hard hats shouting to one another and talking on radios. She found Jennings in a trailer he used for his office. He was on the phone, his back to the open door. He was nearing sixty, she guessed, with wide shoulders, a well-padded waist and a battered watch on his plump wrist.
“I don’t know,” he snapped into the phone. “He’s never satisfied. He’s draining the well dry and expecting to still drink from it. I told him yesterday that I was finished. I threatened to spill the beans about the whole thing.” He grunted. “Let him try. I’m done.”
Curiosity burning, Madison tapped on the door frame. “Hello?”
Jennings whirled around, his pale, fleshy face turning pink. “Call you later,” he growled into the phone. Rubbing a hand over his thick mustache, he stared at her.
