Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  She was young for a police chief, although a place like Desparre probably didn’t get a lot of crime. It was the sort of town where people came to disappear. Usually, those people weren’t dangerous. They were running from a tragedy in their lives or from someone who meant them harm. Hiding out in the vast Alaskan wilderness, in somewhere like Desparre, which rarely rated mention on a map, would be a good option.

  Keara probably didn’t see much crime of this scale. When a tiny town like Desparre—or Luna—faced a threat, they often didn’t have the resources to handle it. Their police forces were small, too; their training often less than ideal.

  But Alaska could be tough. With the constant threat of natural dangers, like blizzards or avalanches, frostbite or even wild animals, the people here learned to get tough, too, or get out, Jax had discovered.

  Until six months ago Jax had lived in DC, working on the FBI’s Rapid Deployment Team. Victim Specialists on that team worked a three-year term responding to mass casualties all over the country. When his time was up, Jax had been more than burnt out. Working as a private therapist for trauma victims had been intense in its own way, but it couldn’t compare to the sheer volume of victims he could see in a single day, at a single site, with the FBI.

  Moving to the Anchorage field office had felt like his chance to slow down. A chance to relax in Alaska’s wild open spaces instead of DC’s city center. He’d just finished training the puppy he’d found abandoned and scared, teaching her to work with victims. Coming to Alaska had felt like the right time to get her started as an official FBI dog.

  He was the first Victim Specialist in the Anchorage office. Although they’d been unsure what to do with him initially, that had changed fast, putting him and Patches in high demand. Still, he hadn’t been to any mass casualty events in Alaska until today.

  Shaking off his exhaustion, Jax turned away from Keara Hernandez’s retreating form as two agents jogged his way.

  Ben Nez was a couple of years older than Jax’s thirty-eight, with years of experience working in Alaska, since he’d spent most of his FBI career here—and before that, a good chunk of his life. His partner, Anderson Lync, was four years younger than Jax, and the office’s designated “FNG.” As Ben had explained it the first time Jax heard the term, Anderson was the “effing new guy.” Because even though Anderson had been at Anchorage six months longer than Jax, they only gave agents the FNG designation, not mere Victim Specialists.

  “We’ve got seven dead,” Ben announced without preamble.

  Anderson knelt down and pet Patches, probably as much to comfort himself as to be friendly. The younger agent looked worn out, his normally perfectly styled blond hair sticking up, exhaustion leaving half-moons under his eyes.

  “Six died at the scene, one more at the hospital,” Ben continued, speaking rapid-fire like he’d been mainlining coffee all day.

  Or maybe after more than a decade with the Bureau, an agent just gained the ability to set aside the horror and exhaustion and be fueled simply by the desire to find those responsible. Whether it was getting numb after seeing a huge volume of tragedy or knowing from experience that pushing through was the only way to find answers, Jax wasn’t sure.

  “Twelve others are being treated in the hospital, and some are critical. Given the location choice...” Ben paused to gesture around them meaningfully, and Jax realized how serene this park must have been before the bomb. “We’re probably looking at an intended target—or maybe targets—rather than someone trying to create fear or make some kind of statement. We’ll need to get a lot deeper in this investigation to be sure, though. What have you heard from the victims, Jax?”

  “Not much about a possible motive.” Besides Akna and her mom, he’d spoken to a pair of locals who’d come by to see for themselves if it was really true, the parents of a victim who’d already been transported to the hospital and a handful of people who’d been near the park when the bomb exploded. Then he’d fielded calls from various family members asking for updates on the case’s progress and collected as many details as he could about the victims so he could follow up with them personally. “So far all I’m hearing is shock. No mention of anyone with enemies. But right now my focus is getting them help.”

  “What about the soccer game?” Ben asked, not sounding surprised.

  Normally, when Jax got called to a scene, he’d go with the investigators to interview victims, not do it himself. But often information came out when victims or family members were talking to Jax about details they didn’t think were important or had forgotten to mention to the agents. Sometimes, it was one of those small details that led them to the perpetrator.

  “It was posted on some kind of online community board.” Jax repeated what Akna had told him. “Sounds pretty last-minute, but we can pull it up and check the time stamp.”

  “I already did,” Anderson said, standing up, while Patches scooted over to Ben, and the veteran agent took his turn petting her.

  What most agents didn’t realize was that while the therapy dogs were there for the victims, they helped the investigators cope, too.

  Anderson pulled out his phone and scrolled through notes, his lips moving silently until he finally said, “Eight a.m. About half an hour before the game started and an hour before the bomb went off.”

  “Not much time for someone to plant it if they were targeting one of the players,” Ben mused. “Not to mention that not everyone who responded used their real names. Some of them are just screen names. Unfortunately, the guy who posted the idea about the game, Aiden DeMarco, died at the scene.”

  “But not all of the players were killed,” Anderson said. “Maybe the bomber was going after one of the other people at the park. Or even someone who was supposed to be here, but left once they saw a game in progress.”

  Ben nodded slowly. “Or they’d been targeting one of the soccer players and they planted it quickly when they learned that person would be here this morning. That game drastically increased the number of people who were hurt or killed today.”

  “Was the bomb on a timer?” Jax asked. “Or did someone set it off remotely?”

  “Looks like it was set off remotely,” Ben replied. “Probably with a cell phone, but we’ll know more after the lab techs get their hands on it. We sent it to the lab six hours ago. Hopefully, we’ll have the answer tomorrow. In the meantime...” He stared meaningfully at Jax.

  “You want me to come with you to the hospital? See if any of the victims saw anything?”

  “The fresher it is in their minds, usually the better,” Anderson said.

  “No problem,” Jax agreed, even though he knew that was only partially true. Sure, memories faded over time. But with trauma, the mind could block out pieces. Sometimes, those details only returned later.

  He gave Patches an encouraging smile. “Want to go help some more people?”

  Woof!

  Ben jerked slightly at Patches’s enthusiastic reply, but Anderson just smiled. “She handles this part of it better than any of us.”

  “Kind of,” Jax replied, but Ben and Anderson were already heading toward the SUV.

  The truth was, dogs were susceptible to depression from this kind of work, too. They needed breaks, just like people did. But there was no denying that Patches loved cheering people up. Right now she was staring at him expectantly, then glancing toward the SUV, knowing she had more work to do.

  He smiled at her, then lifted his arm, directing it toward the vehicle. “Okay, Patches, let’s go.”

  The hospital was going to be his next stop anyway. He ignored the growl of his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since the quick sandwich he’d grabbed four hours ago. He had hours left before his day would be over.

  Hopefully, one of the victims at the hospital would have answers that would get them closer to the bomber. Because if Anderson was right and the intended tar
get of the bomb hadn’t been on scene, would the bomber try again?

  * * *

  AFTER SEVEN LONG years alone, the memories shouldn’t have been so close to the surface.

  Keara stared into the whiskey she’d ordered hours ago, but had barely touched. The amber liquid reflected back a distorted version of the hand under her chin, a hand that had once worn a thin gold band, no diamond to get in the way on the job.

  She hadn’t had such a vivid flashback to Juan’s murder in years. The bomb scene was nothing like her husband’s murder. The thick jagged slice across her husband’s neck, the blood pooled underneath him, the crickets chirping happily in the background. Her scream echoing through the tiny yard, making a neighbor call the police, because she was too traumatized to move. Too shocked to do her own job because she’d known with a single look that he was already gone. And she’d never even suspected there was a threat.

  When the investigation began, she’d been told repeatedly to stay out of it. It was her husband, but it wasn’t her case. She’d understood that, believed in her fellow detectives, believed Juan would get justice. But a year later the case had gone cold, the detectives insisting they’d done all they could, that they’d loved him, too. In that moment she’d known she couldn’t stay. Not with the Houston PD, not in the life she and Juan had built together. Not if she wanted to be able to move forward.

  It’s over, Keara reminded herself, squeezing the whiskey glass but not lifting it to her lips. She’d made her choice when she moved to Alaska. Let go or drown in it. Those had been her options six years ago and she’d picked let go.

  At least she thought she had.

  Except here she was, failing to do her job because of the past. Pushing the whiskey away from her, Keara glanced around the old-fashioned bar on the outskirts of Luna. Between the claustrophobic closeness of the booths jammed together and the heater turned up to battle the chill that slid underneath the ill-fitting door, the air was stuffy and beer-scented. She’d chosen it because she’d wanted to be alone in a room full of people, rather than truly alone in her vehicle and then her house.

  Although it was nearly twice the size of tiny Desparre—in terms of population, if not geography—there weren’t many options late at night in Luna. She’d hoped a quiet booth and a short glass of whiskey would calm her nerves. Instead, she’d choked on the only sip of whiskey she’d taken. And there was nothing quiet about this bar.

  Since moving to Alaska, she’d become a loner. It was a trait many of her citizens shared, for myriad reasons. For her, it was partly because of her job. A chief of police didn’t fraternize with colleagues or civilians too much. Especially not a female chief of police who was new to Alaska and wanted to be taken seriously.

  The rest of it, of course, was Juan. Although people in Desparre usually let you keep your secrets—because they often had their own they didn’t want to open up about—real friendship dictated honesty. After living here for six years, Keara still wasn’t sure if she was ready for honesty.

  Now she glanced around the bar, wondering if all the small decisions she’d made to isolate herself had brought her right back to where she’d started. Sinking into grief.

  She needed to go home. But there was something vaguely calming about having people around her, people she didn’t know, who mostly left her alone. The bar was closer to Luna’s lone hotel than it was to downtown. She didn’t recognize anyone, and the snippets of conversation that reached her said most of these people were outsiders.

  There was a group of guys in jeans and T-shirts who’d been drinking since before she’d walked through the door and already hit on her more than once. A loner at the bar drinking soda water and eyeing the hard stuff. And a couple at the other end of the bar who’d jammed their stools as close together as possible while they flirted. She’d bet a week’s pay that none of them had been in Alaska longer than a few days.

  Still, they weren’t immune to what was happening here. In between lewd jokes from the group of drinkers, the alcohol-tainted conversation beside her would shift to the bombing.

  “I heard a couple more died in the hospital.”

  “No one else died, man. But I think one of them had to have a leg amputated because it was blown mostly off in the explosion.”

  “Someone was trying to kill one of those soccer players.”

  “Nah, this is terrorism. You’ll see. They’ll start hitting bigger parks next, take out more people.”

  Only the two men hunkered down near the door sharing a couple of pints looked like locals. One of them periodically patted his friend’s shoulder awkwardly and glared at the out-of-towners. The guy getting the sympathy had red-rimmed eyes, ruddy cheeks and a knocked-over pile of shot glasses beside him.

  She’d recognized the look as soon as she walked into the bar and chosen a seat on the opposite end of the place. Against the wall, where she could see everyone, but she tried to avoid glancing their way. One of them had lost someone they loved tonight. Keara couldn’t bear to hear about it.

  She dragged her gaze away from him and tried to focus on what she needed to do next. It was after eleven, well past the time when the Luna Police Department shut down for the night. But after the bombing—even with the FBI on the case—maybe someone would still be there. She could stop by on her way home, hopefully get some real answers she could share with her officers, with her town.

  Setting aside her whiskey, Keara stood. She wasn’t ready to face the drive up and down the mountain, or the emptiness of her house that she knew would feel more lonely than usual tonight. But she was still the chief of police. And she had people who needed answers.

  “Hey, at least there’s only six dead,” one of the guys at the rowdy table slurred. “Could have been way worse.”

  Before Keara could maneuver free of her booth, the big guy who’d lost someone he loved was up and screaming.

  Then he was diving across the small bar, leading with fists and grief. His punch landed, sending the guy who’d spoken to the floor. Then the guy’s friends jumped on his attacker, and suddenly, everyone seemed to be in the fray. Even the loner at the counter grabbed an abandoned beer bottle off the bar and chucked it. The way he swayed violently when he did it told her that although he’d been drinking soda water since she’d arrived, he’d imbibed plenty of alcohol beforehand.

  Only the couple near the door leaped up and ran out of the bar, away from the fight.

  The bartender reached under the counter and Keara knew what was coming. She tried to get ahead of it, holding up her badge and screaming, “Police. Stop!”

  But the bartender was quick, yanking his shotgun up and over the top of the bar, racking it loudly.

  Keara heard it and flinched, but no one else paid any attention, not even when the bartender yelled, “Stop it or I’ll shoot!”

  “Sir, put the shotgun away!” Keara yelled at him, but the bar had gotten louder.

  One of the men in the group closest to her spotted her badge and yelled, “Cop!”

  Then the group was shifting, a furious mob coming for her fast.

  She backed up, trying to protect her weapon as she pulled out her mace and sprayed it across the group. The noxious fumes spilled back toward her, clogging her throat and making her eyes water.

  The group kept coming, too drunk or unthinking.

  Keara backed up another step, but then her back slammed into something protruding from the wall and there was nowhere left to go. The four men who’d been hitting on her were rushing her from one direction. The two men who’d been grieving got in the mix, too, still going for the drunken group.

  She was about to get overrun by them all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Twelve hospital rooms, filled with pain and fear and disbelief. Twelve victims, trying to recover from burns and deep cuts and in one case, an amputation. Twelve families, furious and scared and feeling helpless
.

  Jax and Patches had visited them all this evening. Some as briefly as five minutes, when the victims or the family didn’t have the energy or inclination to talk to the FBI. Others as long as half an hour, the longest the agents would allow since they wanted to talk to everyone before the night ended.

  Jax glanced at the base of his bed back at his hotel, where Patches had the right idea. Her tongue lolled slightly out of her mouth, her feet periodically twitching in her sleep. As soon as they’d returned to the hotel, she’d hopped up into bed and fallen fast asleep.

  He needed to do the same. But despite being emotionally worn out, he was still hungry, since he hadn’t ever found time for dinner. Part of him was still amped up, feeling the pressure from all directions. A need to help the victims and families move forward. A need to help the investigators get information to find the person responsible.

  Slipping quietly out of the hotel room, he slid on his coat and trudged down the stairs. The hotel didn’t have its own restaurant, and as far as he could tell, the only thing nearby that was open was a bar. He didn’t want a drink, but maybe they’d have food. At this point he’d settle for peanuts.

  He zipped his coat up to his chin and huddled low in it. Springtime in Alaska was beautiful, but it wasn’t warm.

  On his way out, he waved to Ben and Anderson, who were still slumped in the lobby chairs, trading case notes.

  “Where to?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow when Jax answered, “Bar down the road.”

  Jax looked them over, in the same spot he’d left them after they’d returned from the hospital. “Did you two ever eat dinner?”