Deadly Pursuit
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Dana Mentink
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22
One
Murder. The word rattled through Madison’s mind along with the outrage. She was driving fast—too fast. Rocks struck the fenders with angry thunks. When the twenty-seven-year-old reporter made the dusty turn that was to take her the final five miles into the hole-in-the-wall town of Desert Valley in northwestern Arizona, her irritation contributed to her lead foot on the gas pedal.
The shooting of a K-9 trainer was just a small piece of the madness in Desert Valley. Homicide, the unsolved attempted murder of a prominent citizen, suspicious cases gone cold. She itched to investigate, but her editor was unmoved by her ambition, sticking her with a story about how the crime spree was hurting business in the area. Other seasoned reporters were working the big cases, and she got stuck with a business story.
Business? When there was a killer roaming loose, or possibly more than one? She felt the familiar hitch in her breathing. Madison knew a thing or two about killers. One might even say it was in her DNA.
Focus, Madison. The most recent slaying, of police-dog master trainer Veronica Earnshaw, had rated a few headlines. On top of that, Marian Foxcroft, wealthy Desert Valley benefactress, lay in a coma after being attacked in her home. But those big stories had been assigned to the senior reporters who’d already wrapped their pieces and left town.
She flipped on her tape recorder. “And what about the deaths on the night of the police fund-raiser dance? A cop’s wife is murdered one year, and then a few years later, rookie Mike Riverton falls down a flight of stairs. And then another rookie, Brian Miller, dies in a fire? All on the night of the dance? Someone should look into that.” She flicked the recorder off and tossed it on the seat in disgust. And that someone should be me. No one had more motivation to look into the deaths than she. After all, I am the daughter of a murderer, she thought with a shiver.
But newly hired reporters with a hundred bucks in their bank accounts and a rent check coming due couldn’t afford to lose their jobs. Besides, she was desperate to put down some roots in Tuckerville, her new home some forty-five minutes away from Desert Valley. She wanted to get used to a rural life for a change, and ideally her sister would stay for a good long while. It was the only way they could learn to love their way past the hurt.
Pebbles pinged as she pressed the accelerator. Midday sun blazed onto the windshield, dazzling her. A split second later, everything changed. One moment there was nothing but shrub-lined asphalt ahead and the next, a fawn-colored bloodhound wearing a heavy leather collar shot across the road, followed by a police officer who halted in the bushes, startled, intense sapphire-blue eyes opened wide.
She had only a moment to register that he was very fit, very tall and more than a little irritated as she slammed on the brakes to avoid the dog. Then the tires squealed, and she skidded off the road and through a screen of shrubbery, bumping to a stop amid a pile of rocks. She sat, heart thumping, panting, nerves jangling from the mad jostling.
The officer ran to the car. “Are you all right?”
She blinked and nodded. He opened the door for her and she got out, noting both her flat front tire and his hair, the color of the desert sand. “I’m okay, but my tire’s another story.”
He called out, and the bloodhound loped from the trees, coming to an ungainly stop next to the officer.
“Your dog?”
“Yes. I’m very sorry, ma’am. Every once in a while, Hawk gets this wild notion, forgets he is a police dog and takes off. I think it has something to do with squirrels. He’s certain they’re mocking him.” He shot an exasperated look at his canine. “Looks like we’re gonna need more training.” Hawk slurped a tongue along the officer’s pant leg.
“Knock it off, dog,” he said.
There was an enticing, familiar scent clinging to the officer.
“I think he tastes garlic,” she said with a smile.
He flushed red. “Oh, man. I smell like garlic? Earlier I was trying to figure out my mom’s recipe for beef stew. I’ve showered and everything, but the scent gets into your pores.”
“Won’t your mom give you the recipe?”
“No. She says once I learn it, I won’t come around as much.”
They both laughed.
The big-bodied bloodhound sat heavily on the ground, staring at her through the fleshy folds of his face. Police dog or not, he was adorable, and his handler was not hard to look at, either. The guy should have been on a police recruitment poster or something.
Hawk gave her a scolding look, as if she had somehow gotten between him and his rodent nemesis.
“Is he a puppy?”
“Two years old, but from what I can see, he’s got plenty of puppy left in him. He’s managed to destroy two pairs of work boots, a cupboard door and the backseat of my truck. And what is this?” He bent closer, picking a scrap of material from Hawk’s lip. “This better not be a piece of the backseat again, dog.”
Hawk did not look the least bit contrite. He shook his head, jowls flapping. Madison giggled. “Not your typical police dog?”
“Just a bloodhound. They’re not patrol dogs, really more specialized for tracking and trailing. Maybe I should have requested a nice German shepherd. They don’t eat backseats.” Hawk yawned, and James chuckled. “We didn’t become partners until a couple of months ago. Just graduated from the K-9 training center in Desert Valley, and we’re assigned here temporarily.”
“I heard. You and four other rookies with their K-9s. Marian Foxcroft paid for you all to be assigned to Desert Valley until you solve the murder of Veronica Earnshaw. She was the police-dog master trainer, right?”
“You’re well informed.”
“I like to keep apprised.”
The officer sighed, taking in the flattened front tire. “Anyway, we were doing a search, and he’s still learning. He’s determined, but he takes off once in a while and breaks the rules. Hawk wins the prize for having to take the most retraining courses.”
“I guess I could use some retraining, too. I was going too fast.”
“Yes, you were, now that you mention it,” he said with a grin. “It’s thirty-five along this stretch. You from out of town?”
“Not far out. I live in Tuckerville with my sister.” At least, if their disagreement from the night before hadn’t driven Kate away. Things are getting better, Mads. Remember that. After years of estrangement, desperation had finally driven Kate back. “She got a job in Desert Valley just yesterday.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Good for her. Not much work around here to be had.”
He was right. Kate had combed Tuckerville and all the nearby towns until she’d finally landed a job, which gave Madison an even greater motivation to help solve the crime spree here in the tiny town. Kate might not want the close relationship that Madison craved, but Madison intended to do what she could for her only sibling, one way or another. At least the town where she worked would be safer if she could help nab a few killers. You’ll thank me later, Kate.
“So, Officer, are you going to give me a ticket?”
He shot her a rueful grin. “In view of the fact that my dog was misbehaving, I say we call it a draw.” He extended a hand. “James Harrison.”
“Madison Coles,” she said, noting that his eyes were such an intense blue they seemed lit from the inside, like sunlight playing through stained glass. His palms were strong and warm, tough enough to indicate he worked with his hands when he wasn’t on duty—or maybe the calluses were from hauling on a leash all day. And the faint scent of garlic was more enticing than any cologne. “That sounds fair to me.” She went to the trunk and fished out a lug wrench.
“Let me change that tire for you,” he said, taking the tool from her hands and hefting the spare from the trunk.
“I can do it,” she said quickly. Take care of yourself, Mads.
But he was already crouched over, easily detaching the lug nuts. “I’ve never let a lady change her own flat, and I’m not about to now.”
“Thanks,” she said. She hadn’t expected to find chivalry in this desert nowhere. It both pleased her and kicked up some anxiety. He’s a cop, Mads. Perfectly okay to let him change your tire. “What were you searching for, anyway?”
“Just following a hunch.”
The trees behind them were thick with tangled branches, the perfect place for someone to hide. A killer, perhaps?
“So, you’re following a lead on Veronica Earnshaw’s murder? Or maybe the attack on Marian Foxcroft?”
He frowned. “We’re all doing our best.”
“You must be making progress. You’ve got a lot of extra rookies assigned to this town, not to mention the dogs.”
He knelt to remove the tire. “Yes, that’s true. The town is practically crawling with K-9s until we’re reassigned elsewhere.” There was a touch of cynicism in his voice. “Why are you so interested?”
She shrugged. “Who isn’t? Murders and a bludgeoning attack in a small town like this? How is the investigation going?”
He paused in the act of wrestling on the spare. “Slowly.”
“In your opinion, is the Earnshaw case linked to what happened to Marian Foxcroft?”
He didn’t answer.
She pressed on eagerly. “And those deaths on the night of the police fund-raiser. Officer Ryder Hayes’s wife was murdered, and two other deaths were ruled accidental. What’s your take on it?”
He kept his eyes on the tire this time, and she drank in his strong profile, noting that his full mouth was now drawn into a tight line. “Why is this beginning to sound like an interview?”
She ignored the question. “Murders, assaults. What is going on in this town?”
They were interrupted by the arrival of another car. This time an older officer got out, late thirties with thinning hair and a gaunt look about him except for his well-padded waist. Hawk greeted him with a flapping of his enormous ears. He scratched the dog’s fleshy jowls, earning a lick, which he wiped from his cheek.
“Hey, James. Afternoon, ma’am,” the officer said.
“This is Officer Ken Bucks,” James said by way of introduction. “Madison Coles.”
Bucks eyed her and the car. “Got some trouble? Shall I call for a tow?”
“I’m taking care of it,” James said. “Just needs the spare put on.”
Bucks quirked an eyebrow. “Madison Coles. I know that name.” His eyes shifted in thought, sparking when he’d made some connection. “You might want to let her change her own tire.”
James shot him a look. “Why?”
Officer Bucks raised his chin at James. “She’s another reporter, Canyon County Gazette. Carrie said she’s called three times this week.”
Great. Now she’d get the cold shoulder from these two cops. Carrie Dunleavy, the Desert Valley Police Department secretary, hadn’t given her any information Madison hadn’t read herself in her own employer’s newspaper. Was the secretary even passing along her messages to the chief and officers? Probably.
“I wouldn’t have had to call so much if one of you had bothered to return my messages.”
“We’re a small town,” Bucks said. “We like to respect the privacy of our citizens and play things close to the vest, and we’ve had our fill of reporters nosing around in police business. Isn’t that right, Officer Harrison?”
The change in James’s expression from the moment the other cop outed her as a reporter was dramatic. It was as if someone closed the shutters, cutting off all the light from his expression. “You’re a reporter?”
She nodded.
He finished the tire and stood. “Should be good to go now. Sorry for the trouble.” There was none of the previous warmth in his voice. He handed her a business card. “I’ll pay to get you another spare since the accident was my fault.”
He summoned the dog, and they walked toward his car, which she now spotted some twenty feet up the road. Bucks remained behind, next to Madison.
“Wait. Can I ask you a few questions?” she called to James.
“No, ma’am,” he threw over his shoulder.
“Why not?” she asked his departing back.
“Because he doesn’t like reporters,” Bucks said, removing a stick of gum from a pack in his pocket and folding it into his mouth. “And he’s got a good reason, since a reporter ruined his family.”
Ruined his family? Ironic, since a reporter had saved hers, though her sister didn’t see it that way. She straightened her shoulders. “Well, how about you, Officer Bucks? I’m actually just here to write a story about how crime has affected local businesses. Would you be willing to answer a few questions? Just for background information?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with a grin. “I would not. Enjoy your stay in Desert Valley.” With a tip of his hat, he returned to his car, smacking his gum.
“I’m going to be in town writing a story whether you cooperate or not,” she called to him.
Bucks gave her a sardonic salute, eased into his driver’s seat and pulled away.
She stared after them. Both officers clearly did not want a reporter poking around, but that wasn’t anything new. They could throw up all the roadblocks they wanted. There was a story here, bigger than the failing businesses in Desert Valley, and she was going to find out what it was, with or without police cooperation. Sure, she’d write the business piece, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep her ears open for something more significant. Instincts prickling, she got back into her car and drove the rest of the way to Desert Valley.
James turned onto the narrow paved road, allowing his breathing to return to normal. So she was a reporter. So what? He’d met plenty of them recently. Only natural that journalists would start flocking around where there was a potential for a juicy story. Reporters. They were all the same, vultures who reworked the facts to suit their fancy, like the one who’d smeared his brother in the papers, condemning him in the public eye for a rape he didn’t commit. He realized his jaw was clenched as usual whenever he thought about his brother. Take a breath.
Madison was doing her job, and he was going to do his. Deep down in his gut, he knew the real reason he was upset was that he’d been enjoying her company, chatting easily about cooking and canines, while something had been poking at him. Her red hair and easy smile reminded him of his teen crush, Paige, a girl who had fractured his family, a viper he had let into the nest. That was a long time ago.
A movement in the shadows beside the road made him tense. James’s pulse ticked up. Was it the dog they’d been searching for? Marco, the police K-9 German shepherd puppy, had gone missing from the training yard the night Veronica Earnshaw was murdered. How in the world could a puppy stay lost for so long? A few weeks ago, a witness had reported seeing someone on a bicycle pick up what looked like a small dog and ride off with it. But it was dark, and the witness couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman on the bike or even if the little dog was definitely the missing puppy—easy to spot with a circular mark on his head. A ground squirrel raced out from behind some bushes and dashed across the street. Not Marco.
He continued up the road, passing a row of small houses on his way into town. He was surprised when Charlie Greer raced down his driveway, arms flailing, white hair mussed.
“Someone’s busted into my yard,” Charlie said, his plaid shirt stained with axle grease. “Gone now, though.”
James got out, Hawk following.
The baying of several dogs caught Hawk’s attention, and he lumbered over to the fenced front yard, adding his own noise to the mix, tail wagging. James smiled as Hawk shoved his big nose through the fence to greet the dogs, including a German shepherd puppy named Stormy that Charlie had acquired recently.
“How’s your new dog getting along?”
Charlie’s face softened, and he looked years younger. “Swimmingly, but that ain’t what I wanted to tell you.”
James dutifully followed Charlie to his backyard, which was surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence.
“Found it just now when I got home.” The bolt on the gate had been cut through, and someone had entered the yard. The back door to the house was still shut up tight. There was no sign the intruder had gone any farther. James tensed. What would induce someone to break into Charlie’s backyard? The man lived modestly, fixing cars when he could to supplement his Social Security benefits. There was not much on the premises that could be fenced or sold. “Why didn’t the dogs raise a ruckus?”
“Probably did,” Charlie said. “I was out buying some spark plugs. Musta just happened because the dogs were milling around, and most of ’em hadn’t gotten out yet through the busted gate. I put ’em in the side yard, and then I saw you.”
James nodded. “I’ll take a look in the woods. Stay here.”
He called to Hawk and let the dog sniff around where the person must have been standing to cut the bolt. Hawk nosed eagerly, electrified to be starting off on a possible search. With no scent item to track, it would be up to the dog to catch any odor particles left in the air or soil. Unlikely that he’d find anything, but Hawk was always eager to try.
He clipped Hawk to a fifteen-foot lead, and they took off into the thick canopy of pines. Hawk stuck to a narrow trail that bisected the woods, paralleling a dry creek bed. They hiked for about ten minutes. James was ready to call off the search when suddenly, the dog stiffened, let loose with an ear-splitting howl and plunged ahead. James put a hand on his gun and followed, fending off the slap of low branches. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would be hiding in these woods, but he’d learned one thing in the long hours of training with Hawk and the deceased Veronica Earnshaw: trust the dog. With noses that could detect scent a thousand times better than humans, bloodhounds were master trackers. Truly, Hawk was a nose with a dog attached.
Hawk let out another spine-jarring howl.
James saw the heavy branch being swung at his head a second before it hit him. He was able to raise an arm to fend off the blow, but it sent him off balance, and he fell hard on his back. There was a sound of running feet. Hawk darted after the fleeing figure for a few yards, then turned and raced back at his fallen handler’s command. James heard a car engine, his hopes for a capture vanishing.
Hawk shoved his wrinkled jowls close and slurped a fat pink tongue over James’s forehead.
James sat up. Hawk continued to lick him until he waved him off.
“All right, you big lug. I’m okay. I just fell. That’s all.” He got to his feet, brushing pine needles from his uniform pants.
As he and Hawk trekked back to Greer’s place, he wondered who would be brazen enough to break into his yard in broad daylight.
The striking reporter’s words came back to him.
What is going on in this town?
