Special Crimes Team Series: Box Set

By Aya Walksfar

The Special Crimes Team Series Books 1 - 4

The governor creates the Special Crimes Team--SCaT--a unit of eight misfit cops headed by Lieutenant Michael Williams--a cop known to bend the rules; and hot-tempered Sergeant Nita Slowater. This team is mandated to solve the worst of the worse cases in the State of Washington--cases that make veteran cops question their choice of career. These eight disparate people must set aside their differences and find a way to work together.
Special Crimes Team is a unique series that takes you into the heads and hearts of cops, criminals and victims. This is what Detective Suzanne Eviston of Everett, Washington says about Sketch of a Murder, Book 1: “Loving the book! Especially the killer talking in first person...great!

Sketch of a Murder, Book 1:
The Avenger wants more than blood. Wealthy men accused of sex crimes are tortured to death. Time is running out for SCaT to catch this cold-blooded killer before an innocent man dies!

Street Harvest, Book 2:
Two men gruesomely murderer, their homes and offices ransacked; a young girl’s body discarded in a dumpster; a young boy strangled and found floating face down in Puget Sound; street kids disappearing. Psychic Jaimie Wolfwalker, prepared to do whatever it takes to rescue the missing children--the law be damned--collides with Sergeant Nita Slowater and SCaT. Nine dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in the desperate search for clues. While every day more children go missing.
Old Woman Gone, Book 3:
Eighty-five year old Merlie Greene is kidnapped. Was she taken by rabid fundamentalist Christians because she is a witch, or is her disappearance linked to the fifteen-year-old murder of her only granddaughter? Or does she possess an ancient artifact people are willing to kill to own? Nothing is certain, except that the old woman will die if SCaT fails to rescue her.

Backlash, Book 4:
Success can be deadly, if you’re a woman. The governor’s best friend, Ellen Delaney, kidnapped; photos of her chained and beaten are posted on Facebook while a serial rapist stalks successful womenon the streets of Seattle. The only clues--a BDSM club, a ladies’ only gym, old secrets, and a crime committed thirteen years ago. SCaT must stop a cunning and evil mind before more women die, including Ellen Delaney

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aya Walksfar
• Release date: Dec 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310862908

Aya Walksfar

Born on the wrong side of life,I learned to make myself invisible, to be so quiet that no one noticed me in the shadows. My illiterate grandfather, and nearly illiterate grandmother valued books and education; consequently, they coaxed a Carnegie Librarian to teach me to read and write by age six.When I was nine years old, my grandfather was murdered; the killer never apprehended. Writing allowed me to deal with my anger and grief by changing the ending of that particular reality: I wrote murder stories.I published my first poem and my first journalistic articles around the age of fourteen. It was a time of countrywide unrest and riots.After that, I never stopped writing--poems, articles, short stories, novels.Good Intentions (first edition), a literary novel, received the Alice B. Reader Award for Excellence in 2002.Sketch of a Murder and Street Harvest have made Amazon's Top 100 Bestseller's Lists several times.

Book preview

Prologue

On the final day of his life, Dr. James Benning sat at his usual table near the west wall of O’Toole’s Bar and Eatery on Fifteenth. It was eight o’clock on the evening of April 29th. He forked up the last of his New York cheesecake, topped with real strawberries and hand-whipped cream, then leaned back in the brown, padded leather booth, and sighed contentedly as he sipped his coffee. Pure Kona coffee flown in from Hawaii.

It’s over. Ding-dong the bitch is dead, and I’m finally free! He smiled, stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and strutted out of the restaurant. He took a deep breath of the warm night air and strode toward the lot where he’d parked his BMW.

Now to shut up that bitch, Christina Ryan. Really burned her ass that no one could prove I was anywhere near Carkeek Park when Rebecca was beaten. Stupid bitch would still be alive if she’d gotten the abortion, like I told her.

He spotted the white paper stuck under his windshield wiper while still four stalls from his vehicle. Damn solicitors. Should be a law to keep them from sticking papers on other people’s cars, he muttered. When he got to his car, though, he realized the white paper was a business-size envelope. Frowning, he pulled it from beneath the wiper blade.

Meet me at Carkeek Park. You know the place. The same place that you left Rebecca bleeding and dying. Alone. At midnight. I have something that belongs to you. How much do you think the tabloids would pay for the scoop of the year? Mayoral Candidate Murders Ex-Wife.

CR

***

The half moon threw watery, silver light on the black ribbon of the packed dirt path. Head up, shoulders back, Benning entered a tunnel formed by newly leaved trees.

Snap!

His steps dragged to a halt. Head tilted, he listened. A twig. That was just a twig breaking. But... Brows furrowed, he turned in a slow circle.

Big-leaf maples loomed overhead, shaggy with small ferns sprouting like wayward clumps of hair in the bends of moss-covered tree arms. Tall bushes grew profusely along the path. More ferns, some three feet tall, grew in wild profusion among the trees.

Nothing. Probably a dog stepping on a dry twig. Enough dogs and twigs around here!

Pace a little faster, he walked a few feet when he heard it. A rustling. Like someone sneaking through the bushes next to the trail. He stopped, peering from one side to the other along the pathway. Okay, bitch, come on out. Quit playing your fucking head games.

The pale green needles of a conifer entwined with the darker green needles of Douglas firs. He stared for a long minute, trying to see through clumps of wiry-limbed bushes heavy with white berries.

Nothing. He gave a half-hearted shrug and then spun with military sharpness, quickly moving out again. A squirrel. It’s only the rustling of a gray squirrel.

Bitch probably won’t show. Wait until I get a hold of her, she’s going to wish she’d never gotten involved, he threatened in an undertone.

A breeze soughed through the trees, young leaves whispered to each other. Somewhere a truck roared to life. The rumbling of its engine, muted by the thick vegetation, sounded far away. A shiver ran down his spine.

Alone.

He’d never felt quite so isolated. Almost there. Just around that curve then I’ll see if she shows. I want this done. Fucking bitch better show. Unconsciously he hunched his shoulders. Embarrassed by his own weakness, he began to turn to look behind him.

Out of the shroud of night, a solid piece of maple limb slammed into the side of his head.

***

Every Tuesday at six am, personal headlamp firmly strapped in place, Professor Lucy Holliswood jogged through Carkeek Park on one of the lesser-used paths. On this day, her pale cone of light flashed over something...something at the side of the path.

She had jogged this same route every morning for ten years on her way to The Happy Bean, her favorite coffee shop, just up the street from Art’s Supermarket. In all that time she had never seen so much as a discarded paper cup. She slowed to a near stop, peering at the dark object. What the...? A black leather loafer, toe perfectly aligned with the edge of the packed dirt of the path. Although the thickness of the salmonberry and Oso berry bushes obstructed her line of sight, she thought she saw...a pair of light-colored pants?

She crept forward. The second shoe, a long stride behind the first one, looked as if the owner had vanished mid-stride. A half-step farther along on the ground she found a pair of beige slacks neatly laid out. The dirt around them had been carefully brushed free of twigs and leaves. Crease still perfect, but ruined by the dirt on one knee as if the wearer had fallen.

Where in the Sam Hill is the man who owns these clothes? They certainly aren’t what the homeless men wear. And why would anyone lay them out like this, so neatly?

She pushed forward, arm held up to deflect the slapping branches. Her mother’s voice whispered in her mind, "Someday, Lucy, that curiosity of yers is gonna gitcha in trouble."

Above the slacks, a white shirt laid flat, arms crossed neatly over the buttoned up front. An expensive-looking, pale gray tie lay on the ground above the shirt. The tip of the tie, lying an inch above the collar of the shirt, drew her eyes. Her eyes followed the straight line of the stretched out tie.

She barely captured the scream with her knuckles as she scrambled backwards.

Chapter 1

Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team, stood in front of the cork-covered wall, wishing that government offices hadn’t been mandated to keep their air conditioners turned on low. Sweat trickled down his collar, exponentially increasing his irritation. Snatching a balled up handkerchief from his hip pocket, he wiped the back of his neck and stuffed it away. A scan of the room had him shaking his head. Why, in the name of all that was sane, did he let Governor Marleton talk him into heading the Special Crimes Team? He should’ve just taken his retirement after that last ballyhoo with his captain. He gave those thoughts a hard shove and faced the room. With a solid clap of his hands, he drew everyone’s attention. Okay folks, let’s get with it. Grab a chair.

The four men and one woman, who had been milling around the room, mostly avoiding each other, wandered over to the long, laminate-topped table set in the center of the large conference room, and settled on the wooden chairs. The linoleum tiles squeaked as they shifted the chairs to face the front.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall behind him and scowled. Slowater was late. No sense waiting. He’d begun speaking when the door swung open. Everyone twisted to watch the newcomer.

Sergeant Nita Slowater wasn’t hard to look at with her raven-black, shoulder-length hair swinging as she rushed in with a laptop case slung over her right shoulder, and a stainless steel travel mug in her left hand. Her light gray suit jacket hung open, periodically exposing a shoulder holster. Her dark gray cotton blouse nicely accented the jacket and the light gray slacks that had a knife-sharp crease. The cuffs of the slacks touched the tops of highly polished, black tie-ups. Damn woman made him feel like a slob.

Well-built woman with probably not an ounce of fat on her, he guessed her height to be around five-ten, but her energy made it seem like she took up more space. She set the coffee mug on the table in front of the end chair closest to the cork-covered wall. Lowering the laptop case gently to the floor, she said, Sorry I’m late...

He crossed thick arms over his burly chest. From the first day he’d met her at the governor’s office, he’d known she was going to be a pain in the ass. His deep voice rumbled, This isn’t high school where you can bust into class late and no one cares.

Not yet seated, she swung around to face him. Hazel eyes set in a light brown face stared back at him. She clasped her hands behind her and spread her feet, back straight, chin elevated. Sergeant Nita Slowater reporting, Sir! she snapped. Eyes never wavering from his face, she said, Shit happens, Sir! Sorry for being late, Sir! Somehow she made sir sound like an insult.

He dropped his arms to prop his hands on his hips. "Listen, Sergeant, I don’t know, and I don’t care, why you were assigned to this unit, but everyone here will adhere to certain standards. One of those standards is being on time every morning for the 0800 hours briefing. Do I make myself clear?"

Eyes narrowed, she held his gaze instead of dropping hers. After several seconds, she inhaled deeply and slowly released it—exactly like his daughter, Amber, used to do when she was really pissed, but trying not to show it.

In a neutral tone, she said, Yes, Sir. Very clear, Sir.

He kept his gaze locked on hers for a bit longer before he gave a downward jerk of his chin then refocused his attention on the room in general. Listen up folks, our killer has racked up a retired Congressman, a wealthy contributor to the governor’s campaign, and a doctor-turned-mayoral-candidate. His eyes roamed over the gathered faces.

In addition to Slowater, I have two detectives, two uniforms, and a computer geek. Great! Three police departments haven’t been able to catch this maniac. So how do we stop this killer? Pray he trips over his shoelaces and breaks his damn neck?

He let his focus go general again and continued talking. Detective Albert, I want you and Detective O’Hara to talk to the ME, Dr. Hutchinson, and then review all of the evidence found by the crime scene techs at this latest murder. Officer Rodriquez and Officer Mulder, grab the hard-copy files and start writing down every little thing that is similar in all three cases. You can start with the obvious things like all three men were gagged with a red bandana. Get busy.

He strode across the room toward the door. Sergeant, my office. Mr. Arneau, my office. He heard their shoes quietly slapping the tiled floor of the hallway behind him. The office they stepped into was situated at the front of a ten-story, downtown building and boasted a large window with a view of Third Avenue.

He stepped to the far side of the dented, gray metal desk and sat on an old desk chair with a requisite strip of duct tape on the split seat. It protested his weight with a loud squeak. A manila folder lay on a corner of the desk. He pulled it close and flipped it open. Mr. Arneau, I understand you are more than just a computer maintenance man. You’re some kind of computer expert?

Hands shoved in the rear pockets of his jeans, the twenty-two year old nodded. Long, ash-blond hair flopped in his face. Yep, that’s me.

The lieutenant slapped the folder closed and lifted his eyes. "Let’s get one thing clear, Mister Arneau. This is a police unit. Proper protocol will be observed."

Ronald Arneau tilted his head, his blue eyes slightly amused. "I’m not a cop. I’m a civilian. I have no desire to be a cop. These past two days I have updated all of your laptops. I have shown all of your people how to access the online Team Room and how to add files to it. I can write any program you need. I can locate and search databases. I can even hack into secure databases, as long as I don’t wind up in trouble because of it. But, I am not a cop."

Lieutenant Williams leaned back and the chair squealed. He ignored the noise, linked his hands behind his head and studied the youngest member of SCaT. Why were you stuck in this godforsaken unit, Mr. Arneau?

The young man gave a cocky grin, showing off straight, white teeth. I hacked the governor’s computer because she bragged that her firewall couldn’t be breached. It was here or jail.

The chair thunked forward. Forearms braced on the edge of the desk, he leaned toward Arneau and in a measured voice, said, That is still the choice. If you want to remain here, and free, you will follow proper protocols. You will address people politely, by title and name. Do I make myself clear?

The young man’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek bulged. When he spoke it sounded as if his teeth were still clamped together. Yes, Sir.

Good. I want you to take the information that Officers Rodriquez and Mulder find, and the information that Detectives Albert and O’Hara discover, and write a program to link all the similarities and to highlight all the differences in these three cases. Maybe we can find the pattern that ties all of these men together.

Yes, Sir. Anything else, Sir? Arneau’s nostrils flared as he glared at his superior.

Lieutenant Williams gave a half-shake of his head. No, that’ll do for now. Report on your progress at tomorrow’s briefing, unless you find something interesting.

Sergeant Slowater kept her eyes on the young man as he spun on his heel and stomped out the door, shutting it hard enough to be barely on this side of slamming it. She turned toward the lieutenant, lips pursed. Seems you have quite the talent for pissing off your team members, Lieutenant.

He shrugged and waved a hand at the scratched-up wooden chair next to his desk. Have a seat. Governor Marleton designated you as the second-in-command of our merry little band, so there are things we need to talk about, and we have a case to discuss. Unless you’re fond of the idea of being shit-canned from the force.

Chapter 2

Sergeant Nita Slowater stared from her fifth floor office window at the busy, late-morning sidewalk along Third Avenue. Private office, not as large as the lieutenant’s, still damn nice, and it even has a window. Should feel like a promotion, but it’s really just a short step from being fired.

Smartest political move the Governor has ever made, though. Create a special unit to solve these murders and very neatly get out of the line of fire if they can’t be solved. Worst-case scenario: I get fired. I can always get a PI license. Who the hell am I kidding? I wouldn’t know what to be if I wasn’t a cop.

At 1100 hours a bus rumbled to the curb. Nita’s musings were interrupted as Molly the Pack Lady—dressed in a man’s long-sleeved, blue dress shirt that was tucked neatly into baggy, gray sweat pants—hobbled off. Unlike other homeless women in Seattle, Molly didn’t haul around bulging, black plastic garbage bags, nor did she push a stolen grocery cart. Instead, a bulky, aluminum-framed backpack rode her stooped shoulders. The backpack had earned Molly the title of Pack Lady from the city’s bus drivers. Nita tried guessing the backpack’s original color, but the material was so worn and stained that her best guess was charcoal gray or midnight blue. Most likely, it was neither.

As the crowded bus bulled its way back into the morning’s snarling traffic, she watched Molly dodge and slide a path around the suited men and women who scurried along like cockroaches caught in sudden light. When she went down later she would find the elderly woman perched on the building’s concrete window ledge above the air grate in the sidewalk. The old woman would exude a faint hint of lavender shampoo and Dove soap. Sometimes she wondered how a homeless woman could afford such luxuries, but then Molly wasn’t a typical homeless person.

Molly had reached out to her. To her! She hadn’t been in the city much more than two, godawful weeks but had already been wondering how she would survive this assignment until she could get transferred out. It’d happened on the day she’d finally decided to let go, let go and walk away. It was her own damn fault she’d wound up in the Siberia of law enforcement, but she couldn’t hack it.

That day as she hustled along the sidewalk, head down, Molly had called to her. Her head had popped up, surprised at the interruption to her thoughts. With a thin brown hand, Molly waved her over to the wide window ledge where she sat.

Not in a mood to be sociable, but she’d been brought up to respect elderly people, she had walked over and stared at the sketchpad in Molly’s hands. Then she’d begun laughing. That was the first day she asked Molly out to breakfast. Now she would hate to imagine having to give up that bit of time with the elderly artist.

She turned away from the window. They would be going for breakfast before long. Right now there were reports to finish.

Promptly at 1130 hours she strode from the cool lobby of the government building. The swaying blanket of acrid exhaust fumes that lay over the corridor of the street slapped her across the face. A dry cough tickled the back of her throat. Oh, the joys of city living. I’ve always been a small town girl. I hate this place! If it wasn’t for Molly, I’d feel so damn disconnected that I’d be like a helium balloon floating around in the stratosphere. She rubbed stinging eyes, swerved to the right, and walked over to Molly.

Legs bent, the hardboard back of the sketchpad propped against her bony knees, Molly’s hand danced across the page, leaving a trail of meticulous pencil strokes. The elderly artist glanced up and flipped her pad closed. Miz Nita, how air ye?

I’m starving and, really, when are you going to call me Nita?

She ducked her head. Ol’ Molly wouldn’ feel right.

Okay. I’ll quit messing with you. Maybe in another six months or so it’ll happen. You ready to hit the road?

Molly clambered stiffly off the ledge, stowed the pad in her backpack, and smiled. Yellowish-white teeth, with surprisingly few gaps, gleamed in a kind face the color of walnuts. Ol’ Molly’s surely hungry, too. Skinny arm slipped through the padded strap, she lifted, grunting at the weight.

Sure you don’t want me to carry that for you? She caught herself reaching for the pack, as she had done every morning for almost four weeks now. For a moment, she wondered what she’d do when the team could actually go on a five-day rather than a seven-day schedule. Would she still come down here on the weekends to have breakfast with Molly? No sense worrying about the troubles that aren’t here yet when there's trouble aplenty sitting there begging for attention, Chelsea’s grandmother used to say. When Chelsea died, she’d not only lost her best friend, but she’d also lost the only grandmother she’d ever known. She pushed those thoughts away as Molly shook her cap of frizzy gray hair and gave her standard reply. Thank ye kindly, but ol’ Molly can manage.

Nita took the lead, cleaving a path through the surge of pedestrians flowing around them. A couple of blocks down the street she clicked the keypad to unlock her 1998 Subaru Forester. By the time she slid under the car’s steering wheel, Molly had deposited her pack on the backseat, climbed in the front, and clicked her seatbelt around her thin body.

She nosed out of the Pay ‘N Park’s driveway, slipping between the rear bumper of a silver Jaguar and the front bumper of a brown UPS van. What were you working on this morning? The right-turn signal click-clicked as she angled the car up the steep grade of James Street and towards the I-5 on-ramp.

The old woman stared out the windshield. Ol’ Molly’s been drawin’ a vision of Hell.

She merged onto I-5. Doesn’t sound like a fun project.

No, ma’am, it ain’t. But it gots to be done.

The low roar of too many vehicles straining in too small a space filled the car as Nita blended into the northbound traffic. A white Sprinter, its boxy shape painted with the goofy grins of retrievers and labs below the words ‘Doggy Bus,’ crept along in front of them. How do you feel about pancakes?

Molly’s grin crinkled the corners of her dark eyes. They’s be mighty fine.

Thought we’d take off on 85th and go over to that IHOP on Highway 99. She eased her speed up, anxious to get to the restaurant.

***

It was close to 1230 hours when she swerved the car smoothly to the curb. Molly struggled out, groaning a bit as she unbent from the passenger seat. You still having trouble with the arthritis in your knees, Molly?

The older woman grimaced. Um-hm. They ain’t bad as they was, though.

I’ll pick up some Aspercreme or Bengay and bring it tomorrow morning.

Molly shut the front door of the vehicle and pulled open the rear door. She wrestled her pack out and shouldered it before she bent over, looking in the open window. No, thank ye. Ol’ Molly’s been takin’ a pine needle tonic Granny use to make.

Hand braced on the seat back, she leaned across towards the window. Why won’t you let me help you a little? Exasperation sharpened her words.

Molly smiled. Ol’ Molly ‘preciates the time ye give ‘er.

She shoved herself upright. Okay, Molly. I have to respect your wishes. Meet the same time tomorrow? I found a little restaurant up on Capitol Hill. They have the best grits and gravy I have ever tasted. Want to try that?

They be real grits an’ bacon grease gravy?

You bet.

Ol’ Molly be likin’ that. Now doncha forget what ol’ Molly said.

She rubbed the back of her neck and gave a heavy sigh. I’ll try to remember, but I’m telling you, Lieutenant Williams is a sexist asshole. He won’t listen to a thing I say.

Ol’ Molly’s been knowin’ the lieutenant from the streets. He be a good man who’s had some sorrows. Ye keep on doin’ yer job an’ it be all right.

I’ll give it my best.

The old woman gave her a radiant smile. Yer best be plenty good ‘nuf. See ye in the mornin’. She stepped up onto the sidewalk.

She watched Molly shuffle along Third Avenue, the sun brightening even the dirty concrete. How in God’s name did that poor old woman ever wind up on the streets of Seattle? She reminds me so much of Chelsea’s grandma. I should go see her one of these days, but I just can’t face her knowing it’s my fault what happened to Chelsea. Forcefully pushing such thoughts from her mind, she slid into traffic.

Chapter 3

Nita brushed a strand of sweaty hair from her face as she punched the elevator button for the fifth floor. Sunday morning and what am I doing? Going to work. At least we don’t do briefings on weekends. Good thing my social life is as dead as King Tut. I’d work 24/7 if it’d get this case wrapped up and get me transferred out of this unit of losers. Wonder what the others did to wind up in SCaT? Not my business. All I have to do is hang on until we close this case.

She stepped into her office. Though the laptops and cell phones provided for their unit were top-of-the-line, the governor hadn’t popped for fancy furnishings. Consequently, the offices boasted dented metal desks, old black file cabinets, and rickety chairs. She’d bought her own ergonomic desk chair. The rest of the stuff she could live with regardless of dents, scratched paint, and cranky locks.

As she off-loaded her laptop and took the first sip of her hazelnut latte, through her open door she heard a phone ring across the hall. Sounded like it was in the lieutenant’s office. Hip propped on the corner of her neat desk, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be any use sitting down. She sipped her coffee and watched the doorway.

A couple of minutes later Lieutenant Williams popped his head in, a half-eaten Snickers bar in one hand. She arched an eyebrow in his direction. Please tell me that was a break in the case.

He took a bite of the candy bar, and talked around the chocolate-coated caramel. That was the case breaking us. We’ll take my car. You can phone the others on the way. He spun and hurried down the corridor with long strides, his rubber-heeled shoes squeaking against the tile floor.

She grabbed her coffee, locked the door and jogged after him, catching up as the elevator doors dinged open. They stepped in, the doors slid shut, and she poked the button labeled lobby.

The building’s lobby, with its high ceilings and abundance of light, gave the sense of stepping into a bright, airy space. As the lieutenant made fast tracks towards the revolving door, she hustled to keep up. Gary, the weekend’s eight-to-four security guard, lifted a hand from where he sat behind the half-moon information desk. She lifted a hand in return before she slipped into the revolving door. The rubber strips at the bottom of the glass doors shushed as she pushed against it. She always felt like she was entering a section of transparent grapefruit. She hit the sidewalk a step behind the lieutenant but quickly caught up. Side-by-side, they moved at the same brisk clip.

He pulled a balled up handkerchief out of his hip pocket and swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. She could sympathize, though she’d never tell him that. At a few minutes past 0800 the temperature already topped seventy humid degrees and kept climbing.

He stuffed the handkerchief away. Why can’t we have a normal, cool Seattle spring?

Global warming.

He slanted a disgruntled look at her. No such animal.

Of course he’d say that. She let it go, not even glancing his way. No use getting into a senseless argument. They found enough to argue about without adding to the list.

When they reached his car, he unlocked the passenger door first. This baby was made before keypads and air conditioning came with every car. I don’t mind not having the keypads, they’re just something else to break, but I sure wouldn’t mind air conditioning.

She swung the heavy door open. By the time he slid behind the wheel, she had already secured her lap belt. Be glad you’re here in Washington with no AC. Heard the people in Denver, Colorado are suffering through a hundred and five degree temperatures. With no relief in the forecast.

She fought the urge to close her eyes when he darted into the choppy flow of downtown traffic. Better to die seeing it coming. Only one horn blared at him. She didn’t think he even heard it. A couple of blocks later he signaled a right turn and headed up James Street hill to pick up I-5 North.

Where we heading?

Bellingham. He goosed the car, squeezing into an opening between two big rigs with less than a feather’s space between vehicles.

Damn! You’re going to give me gray hair. What’s up in Bellingham?

A corpse. If Dawn Samira’s intel is solid, and I’m betting it is.

"Samira? You mean that Seattle Times reporter?"

None other.

She flinched as he swerved in front of a Hummer. What does she have to do with us going to Bellingham?

If she hadn't been looking at him, she would have missed the unease that flickered across his face. Our killer contacted Dawn.

What do you mean? she asked and then she realized that he’d called the reporter by her first name. Wonder what the hell that means?

"There was a letter from him in her mail slot at the Times’ office, mixed in with her usual stuff. No one knows how it got there."

This is the first time I’ve ever heard him sound worried. Why is he worried about Samira? As a reporter, she is undoubtedly used to wallowing with the hogs.

When he didn't say anything more she turned to gaze out the passenger side window while she finished her latte. The further north they drove, the more trees graced the sharply rising hillsides. She loved trees. Had always loved them. There was something soothing about watching them blur past.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the highway and maneuvering through Bellingham's streets, she cringed as he wrestled the ungainly Malibu into a curbside spot between a Hummer and a mid-range Chevy truck.

As they emerged from the car, she spotted a woman standing outside the yellow crime scene tape. A five-foot nothing blonde bomb that was roughly two seconds from explosion, if the hand waving and the foot stomping at the patrol officer told a true tale. Must be the reporter. They always act like the police should fall over their own feet giving them access to crime scenes. Arrogant asses. Nita kept her voice bland when she said, Appears the reporter beat us here.

Figured she was on the road when she called. He shook his head and briskly strode across the quiet street towards the modest one-story house. Might as well get this over with.

She kept pace right up until Dawn Samira stepped directly into his path. He stopped. Not wanting to deal with a reporter, Nita stepped to the side as the woman homed in on the lieutenant.

Hey, Mike, what’s this? These guys won’t even allow me to shoot the outside of the house! Hasn’t anyone told them I’m one of the good guys? And where were they when their history teacher discussed the First Amendment?

He spread his hands. Come on, Dawn, give us a break. We just got here and we’ve got a crime scene to work.

Nita crossed her arms. This should be funny. She’s standing nose to chest with him, but damn if she still doesn’t come off as formidable.

An angry blush rushed into the reporter’s pale cheeks. "You wouldn’t have this heads-up if I hadn’t shared. Let’s see some quid pro quo or maybe next time I’ll get to the crime scene and do my photos before I phone you."

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, yeah. Remember who you’re talking to. You wouldn’t compromise a crime scene for the story of the century.

Intrigued, Nita watched the two more closely.

The reporter leaned towards the lieutenant, legs spread wide like she meant to do battle. Don’t count on it.

Stay outside the crime scene tape, don’t hassle the boys in blue, and we’ll work something out.

Oh, I can’t wait. The reporter batted her eyes at him. Hands fisted on her hips, she asked in a too-sweet voice, Will it be the same deal that we had when you were investigating the Bellafair case?

Okay, what is with these two? They have a thing going or what? By now, he should’ve had her cut down to such a small size that she’d need a stepladder to reach the toilet seat.

Not my fault. She couldn’t believe the lieutenant was apologizing to a reporter! You know the captain did that.

Nita frowned as Dawn glanced away. Didn’t help me no matter who was responsible.

He waited until she raised her eyes. Did you bring the letter?

She smirked. I might be blonde, but I’m not dumb.

He laid a big hand lightly on the reporter’s shoulder. Let us process the scene, then I promise I’ll walk you through for some shots.

So you can dictate what I shoot? Dawn interrupted as she shrugged his hand off and pulled herself tall.

He offered a casual lift of his shoulders. That or nothing.

She crossed her arms under her small breasts and glared. Okay, I’ll accept some...some suggestions on my shots.

Good. When you finish the shots, we’ll talk. Meanwhile, figure out a place to meet.

Nita stared at her superior. Why is he being so damn agreeable with that woman? She’s a reporter for God’s sake! Reporters are not a cop’s friend!

Agreed, as long as I don’t get there and find a crowd. If I do, the reporter warned, I might turn around and walk out and go with what the letter gives me.

He stuck his hands in his front pockets and tilted his head. Remember I said you could pick the meeting place. He was silent a moment before asking in a casual voice, What exactly was in that letter?

The same question plagued Nita. She sharpened her attention.

Lips pressed together, Dawn gave him a ‘you’re-kidding’ look. Uh-uh. I don’t know how you play poker, but when I play I don’t let my opponents look at my hand.

Thought I’d ask. He chuckled as he ducked under the yellow tape.

With a quick look at the reporter, Nita followed him up the sidewalk to the crime scene.

***

Glad to be out of the house and away from the stench of blood, Nita said, I’ll wait here by the gate while you walk her through, Lieutenant.

He grunted in acknowledgement before leading Dawn up the walkway.

Briefly, she wondered why the reporter wasn’t squawking about the body being loaded up before she got to see it. She shrugged the thought away and settled her back against the wooden post for a long wait.

In less than ten minutes she spotted the two of them walking out of the front door, across the wood porch, and down the steps. A clear trail of smashed grass marked their pathway as they cut through the lawn.

She noted their progress towards her and pushed off the post to stand straight. That woman’s mouth never stops moving.

Samira tilted her face up at Lieutenant Williams. He shortened his stride to accommodate her. Her hands waved, her head bobbed and cocked this way and that way, her upper body twisted towards him as she made an abbreviated slash with one hand.

As they drew close, the reporter veered away. Okay Mike, give me a call. With an absent-minded wave she hustled up the sidewalk, cutting through the handful of lookers gathered as close to the yellow tape as the uniforms allowed.

Nita squinted after her. Why didn’t she stop to talk to those people?

Because she already knows more than them and us put together. She shifted her gaze to the lieutenant in time to see him make the kind of scrunched up face kids pulled when sucking on Sweet ‘n Sour candies. Let’s go.

The cars that had crowded the narrow street of older houses were gone now. People who worked jobs away from home had left for the day. She wondered if they had been curious about the official presence, or if they had been too preoccupied with their own lives to pay much attention.

At the Malibu, he unlocked her car door first. As she swung it open a blast of hot air rushed out to greet her. Gingerly, she slid onto the seat. The black vinyl seat cover burned her through the lightweight material of her beige slacks. She wiggled around and got used to the uncomfortable heat. Once she got her window rolled down, she leaned her head against the seat.

Damn! He suddenly exclaimed. She jerked her head up in time to see him yank his hand off the overheated steering wheel. He started the car then tentatively grasped the steering wheel again.

She laid her head back and closed her eyes, not wanting to witness the chaos he caused as he negotiated the heavier afternoon traffic through Bellingham's unfamiliar streets.

When the car picked up speed she opened her eyes. She wondered how good his insurance was as he wove his way into the insanely fast flow of I-5 southbound traffic, heading for Seattle. He settled into the middle lane, cruising along at sixty-five miles an hour, five miles an hour over the speed limit she noticed, and edging upward.

She was wondering what he would do if he got stopped by a state trooper for speeding when he startled her out of her musings. Dawn’ll call your cell phone around 1630 hours today to set up a meeting place and time to discuss the Henry case with you.

What do you mean, ‘with me’? She shot upright, the seatbelt tightening firmly across her lap.

His jaw hardened, though he didn’t take his focus from the road. Just what I said.

Uh-uh. No way! She felt heat rising up the back of her neck. Her pulse throbbed.

That was an order, he rumbled, his chin jutted out as he glanced her way. Not a request.

I don’t do politics and I don’t play ‘meet-the-press.’ She yanked on the snug lap belt and shifted her body away from him.

He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. What’s such a big deal about this, Sergeant Slowater?

Body stiff, she swung around to face him. What’s such a big deal? Do you know why I got exiled to SCaT?

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. Governor Marleton didn’t think I needed that kind of information at this time.

I’ll tell you why—I slugged a fucking reporter and knocked him on his skinny, white ass.

Full lips pressed into a tight line, he shot a look her way. Seriously? Knocking the shit out of one reporter would not have gotten you reassigned to SCaT. Well, not unless he was the son of the governor or a congressman.

She crossed her arms and frowned. May not have been the only thing, she mumbled and looked out the windshield, but it was certainly the final thing.

"Yeah, well...we’ve all got those final things on our records. He cut around two semi-trucks struggling uphill then swerved back in front of the lead one without signaling. Who was the reporter?"

A peek in the side mirror and she thought the rig might kiss the rear bumper of the Malibu, but the car surged ahead. "Ralph Staub. Owner and reporter for Today’s Times and Crimes." She turned her face toward him, searching for...she wasn’t sure what she was searching for in his face.

Staub... Momentarily, his head swung her way. Heavy, black brows crunched together in puzzlement. Were you part of the team that stormed that Mount Vernon warehouse?

Her mouth twisted in a grimace. It wasn’t a clean raid.

I heard an undercover man was found dead when the doors got busted open.

For a second, she closed her eyes then the images on the back of her lids forced them open again. Yeah. My best friend, Ed.

He scratched his jaw, fingers rasping against his five o’clock shadow. What happened?

She redirected her attention to the side window, watched the trees and bushes flash past. The memory hit her in the chest like someone hammering on a punching bag.

In the pre-dawn hours of that February morning, a drizzle of cold rain had weaseled its way down the back of her Kevlar vest as she waited for the go command. She’d been in the second wave to spread out through the blackness of the sprawling warehouse. Flashlight beams bounced off of stacks of boxes, pallets of crates. Barrels took up one large, roped off area. She recalled thinking how easy it would be for a sniper to pick them off. Only the first wave had night vision goggles; everyone else was pinpointed with flashlights.

Static nearly made the terse commands coming over her radio unintelligible. No need to answer. The office door loomed ahead of her, its pebbled glass bouncing the light into glittering fragments. The darkness looming all around them gobbled it up like a hungry beast. Head low, she reached over and twisted the knob. Locked.

Her partner, Ricky Day, held his gun in the ready position and tilted his head at the door. She nodded back. He swung in front of the door and kicked. The wooden jamb splintered. The door flew open, slammed against the wall hard enough to crack the glass in the upper half of it.

Even facing straight ahead she could feel the lieutenant stealing quick looks at her. The smells of that day wafted up from her memory. Technicolored pictures in her mind ran on fast-forward in an infinite loop, complete with surround-sound. Over and over. The coppery smell of Ed's blood. The sour smell of a rookie puking. The echoing of the empty warehouse—empty except for Ed's body still strapped to a battered wood chair in the main office.

The words clawed their way up her throat. Those bastards tortured him. Cut out his eyes. Sliced off his lips and tongue and hacked off both ears.

Shit! The curse exploded from him.

Her eyes darted toward him. Staring at his face, she felt the tie between them. Cops. In spite of their differences, they were cops. Staub printed an exposé the day before—pretty much told them that one of our people was on the inside. No one could prove how he got his information, but the FBI agent working with us disappeared during the raid. Silence pooled between them. She refocused her gaze on the roadside racing past the side window.

Miles later they ran into Seattle's normal late afternoon gridlock. Taillights flickered. They coasted to a stop. Heat wavered up from the asphalt and mixed with the ghostly gray wisps of exhaust from the car in front of them.

Dawn’s not like that. His words hung in the stuffy air as the car crawled along.

She didn’t look at him. They’re all like that, sharks without a conscience. All they care about is the blood, and they don’t really care whose blood it is.

His quiet voice pulled her attention to him. He rubbed his hand back and forth over his hair as he insisted, Dawn isn’t like that. I can vouch for her.

Oh, really? With a yank on the seatbelt to loosen it, she scooted around to face him. "Exactly how do you know that? And why in hell don’t you liaison with her? Or at least follow protocol and have the reporter get her news from the governor’s PR man?"

Listen, I have a gut feeling that this won’t be the only letter Dawn gets from this maniac. If we want her to funnel that information to us then we need to give her something in return.

"Oh, I am so sure the governor would be all over this. Not. I was told we were under strict orders to go through the PR guy. And, there are legal procedures to deal with people, even reporters, who withhold critical information about ongoing cases."

"Damn it, Sergeant! This is my team, not the governor’s. I will run it as I see fit. I say we liaison with Dawn. If you have a problem with that go cry on Governor Marleton’s shoulder."

Lips tight, eyes squinched nearly closed, she gritted from between clenched teeth, I don’t know if you care about getting off this shit team, or not, but I do! Thumbing my nose at the governor’s edict isn’t the way to get a transfer.

Maybe not, but we need Dawn’s cooperation. She’s getting information direct from the killer. And governor, or not, I don’t let anyone dictate how I run my cases.

Comprehension lit her eyes. That’s why you got stuck with SCaT! You bucked the rules one time too many, didn’t you?

He sighed and rubbed a hand over the top of his head. Listen, I’ll take the flak from the governor. Make sure she knows you were against this idea, if it comes to that.

Yeah, right. She turned to face forward and crossed her arms.

What do you want from me? A signed statement?

I don’t want anything from you, or anyone else, I just want to do my job.

Long minutes passed as they crept along, the traffic gridlock stretching as far as they could see. So, she cleared her throat, watched him. You didn’t say how you knew she wasn’t like the other reporters.

His hand massaged the back of his thick neck. How I know is irrelevant.

She studied his profile. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.

"Trust me. It is irrelevant. As to your other question, why I’m not Dawn’s contact, well, let’s just say some folks in certain quarters might expect that."

Oh, really? She eyed him and waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

Listen, I’ll make you a deal.

I’m listening.

You be liaison with Dawn. You make whatever agreement with her that you feel is necessary. You decide what to tell her. I’ll back you one hundred percent. If, at any time, you feel she might compromise our investigation, you can shut down the pipeline and we’ll go all hardcore on her.

The sun’s rays burst through the side window, dusting his midnight skin with golden light. The effect was unusual and beautiful.

A reporter we have some control over? One who’s getting more information about our killer than we are. Novel idea. Won’t work. Still, if it did... All I want to do is catch this asshole. We’re going to keep dinking around until some poor bastard who doesn’t deserve it dies. Maybe it’s worth a shot if it’ll give us a handle on this maniac.

In a deliberate tone, she said, I’ll give it a try. A shadow fell over the car as an eighteen-wheeler drifted up next to them, blocking the light. What about the other reporters?

Don’t worry about them. His full lips settled into a firm line. Dawn and I will take care of them.

She studied his profile. The strong chin set, heavy brows brooding over his eyes. The governor is going to have a premium mad-dog fit.

He shrugged his broad shoulders.

You’ve done this before, fed her information about an ongoing case. The accusation held no heat. Wonder what other rules he’s bent?

He glanced over. The PR people feed information to the newspapers all the time, sometimes without regard to what it’ll do to our investigation. Sometimes just to keep the press off some politician’s ass. There are times when it’s important to work with the reporters for the right reasons. And like I said, Dawn isn’t your typical reporter.

Chapter 4

How can I have a closet full of clothes and still be unable to find anything to wear? Nita threw her hands up and continued to grumble. Leave it to a reporter to pick someplace like Nell’s on Greenlake for our meeting. Hope she doesn’t expect SCaT to pick up the tab for her dinner. Hangers clattered as she flipped through slacks and matching jackets, white shirts and pastel blouses that looked far more utilitarian than fancy. "Damn it! I’m not going on a date. This is a business meeting with a reporter! Why should I care what I wear as long as I look professional?

It’s the place. Whoever heard of a business meeting at a fancy white-linen-tablecloths place where you’d take an important date? Not that I would know since I haven’t had a date in fifty forevers! She mumbled as she frantically riffled through her clothes.

Enough of this! I ate beans for a week to buy professional looking clothes. If Ms. Dawn Samira doesn’t like what I’m wearing too damn bad! She snatched a pair of black slacks and a royal blue silk blouse from the closet. The blouse would hang nicely over the waistband of the slacks, concealing the Lady Smith and Wesson she carried in a back-of-the-pants holster. Black flats, comfortable even if they aren’t dressy. She confirmed out loud.

After a record-breaking shower, she slipped into her clothes. Since parking around Greenlake was always at a premium, she decided her Honda motorcycle would be easier to park than her Subaru.

I-5, empty after the glut of off-work commuters had dissipated, stretched out ahead of her with only a handful of cars sharing the multi-lane roadway. She kicked the bike up to the sixty-mile-per-hour speed limit, reveling in the feel of the wind snapping the sleeves of her blouse, tingling her skin, and whipping the cuffs of her slacks around her ankles. Free! On the bike, she flew without wings, but even eagles eventually reached their destination and settled among the treetops. She reached Nell’s and parked the bike in a skinny slot between a monster SUV and a newer four-door sedan.

Hustling across the crowded restaurant, she stopped at the table and glanced at her watch. You did say to meet at eight this evening, didn’t you, Ms. Samira?

Dawn gave her a gracious smile.

In that instance, as her thin lips morphed into friendliness, it seemed to Nita that the deep-summer blue of her eyes became warmer. A hint of laugh lines, bracketing her eyes and mouth, magically appeared. She’s going to be one of those women who look better as they age.

Thank you for taking time to meet with me, Sergeant Slowater. No, you aren’t late. I have a habit of being early. Please, have a seat. She waved a manicured hand with beautifully shaped nails at the chair across from her. You may call me Dawn. I don’t feel old enough for the Ms., yet.

You can call me Sergeant Slowater. She said as she pulled out a chair and sat down.

Dawn’s smile faded a bit as she dipped her head in acknowledgement as the waiter arrived. He placed menus in front of the women then stood with his finger poised over an electronic order pad. Would you like to hear about the specials?

Coffee with cream and sugar. And as far as I’m concerned, you can skip the spiel. Nita said in a business-like tone.

Coffee, black for me, please. Dawn tilted her face toward the young man. After I peruse the menu, I’ll let you know if I want something explained. Thank you.

A firm believer that appearances presented clues to a person’s hidden agenda, Nita carefully studied the woman across the table. The first two buttons of the ivory blouse were undone, revealing a small piece of scrimshaw etched with a cougar, hanging from a thin silver chain. Long, ash-blonde hair was pulled back to show off tiny pearl, post earrings that complemented the necklace. She was the image of a woman enjoying dinner with a friend. Dawn’s appearance told her nothing about the reporter’s real agenda.

By the time the waiter returned with their coffees, the women were prepared to order.

As soon as he left, Nita asked, Why are we meeting here? I can see why we need to avoid both of our offices, since we are keeping our association quiet, but why here?

She let her eyes touch on Nita. Did you approve of my article on Roland Henry’s murder? I barely got it in on time.

She spread the linen napkin on her lap. Anonymous tip, murder of an accused rapist. Possible connection to a Seattle murder. Everything vague. Yeah, that worked for me. The teaspoon felt dainty in her hand as she stirred her coffee. You haven’t answered my question. Why are we meeting here?

Dawn quirked an eyebrow, gave her a mischievous grin. Micky D’s was too noisy.

Face arranged in inscrutable lines, Nita shot her a ‘get-real’ look.

That was supposed to be a joke, to lighten up the mood. She sipped her coffee.

I’m working. I don’t joke when I work. The coffee was hot and strong. A pleasant surprise, she thought as she took a drink.

Dawn rolled her eyes. Oh, for heaven’s sakes, is there a law against enjoying a nice meal while we discuss business?

I suppose not. She looped an arm over the back of her chair while she openly studied the reporter. What’s your relationship with Lieutenant Williams?

Why is that any of your business? The words sliced through the gentle hum of conversations all around them.

Nita pursed her lips. I like to know what kind of situation I’m walking into. That makes it my business.

Dawn locked gazes with her. The only relationship you need to worry about is the one you and I forge.

She removed her arm from the chair and cradled her coffee cup between her hands. What kind of relationship do you envision between a cop and a reporter? Her words carried a taint of bitterness, but she didn’t care.

Before Dawn replied the waiter arrived with plates of food. She flipped her napkin open and laid it across her lap. As the food was set in front of them, she said, Perhaps, we can forego this discussion for the time being in favor of simply enjoying our meal?

Nita moved her coffee cup to one side. The waiter set a plate of lasagna in front of her as she dipped her chin in agreement. We can pick this up after dinner.

As they ate, she wondered if Dawn was always so quiet during meals. It seemed incongruous with the woman she’d been at the crime scene. Whatever. She certainly welcomed not having to deal with senseless chatter while she ate. Cops and reporters didn’t talk; they sparred.

Finally, pushing her cup to one side, she said, Dinner’s over. Good food, by the way. We’ve paid our bills, left the tips. She nodded at the money under the saltshaker. Can we get down to business, now?

Dawn moved her water glass to the left of her coffee cup and raised her eyes. What’s your grudge against reporters, Sergeant? We’re simply doing our jobs, the same as you.

Nita surged forward. Forearms braced on the table, she spit out, "Want to know what I’ve got against reporters? My best friend’s murder, that’s the job one of your colleagues did earlier this year! Eyes slitted, she stretched further across the table, continuing her tirade in a barely audible voice. Those were the exact words your colleague used, too: I’m just doing my job." As fast as it had come, the anger drained away. She settled against the chair, dropped her chin to her chest, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

With a butterfly’s light touch, Dawn’s fingertips brushed her hand that still lay on the white tablecloth. I’m sorry for your loss, truly I am. I’ve...I’ve lost people I loved. I know how it hurts. But, I am not responsible for the actions of other people. I can only answer for my own.

With a tired sigh, Nita opened her eyes, dropped her hand. Yeah. Well, you asked. Silence settled around them. The murmur of other people’s conversations and the tinkling of silverware against good china sounded far away.

Elbows propped on the table, Dawn folded her hands and rested her chin on them. Do you enjoy the outdoors?

A question in her eyes, Nita regarded the other woman. What does that have to do with the reason for this meeting?

With a graceful push away from the table, Dawn stood. I enjoy walking, especially after a heavy meal. We can talk as we walk around Greenlake. Without waiting for a reply she wove a path between the tables.

A definite desire to throttle the woman speared through Nita as she followed.

Twilight softened the edges of the buildings lining the sidewalk. Headlights, like glowing cat eyes, raced along the two-lane road that separated Greenlake from the businesses standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Dawn led the way as they jogged across the street and into the city park. A swath of manicured grass rolled towards the still waters. Nita shortened her stride as they stepped onto the broad asphalt path that followed an irregular oval line around the lake.

What in hell is this woman playing at? She slanted a look at Dawn. The other woman appeared to be deep in her own thoughts.

Sorry about dragging you out here. Dawn waved a hand as if to encompass the entire park. I can’t stand to be cooped up sometimes.

She surprised herself when she answered. I get that way at times. As they walked, she scanned her surroundings. A couple of mothers with a stroller and a toddler on a bike ambled along ahead of them. She could hear the shushing of roller-blades overtaking them. An older couple, maybe Asian, spoke to each other in a staccato pattern of foreign sounds as they passed. Two boys, the waistbands of their jeans bagging almost to their knees, duck-walked a few feet ahead of them. Look Dawn, I’m a cop. You’re a reporter. Why don’t you tell me how you envision a cop and a reporter working together?

They passed a wooden dock jutting into the darkening water and a closed concession stand before she answered. We share. I tell you what I find out. You tell me what you know and what you find out.

Mouth drawing into a stubborn line, Nita stared straight ahead. Not going to happen.

Hand gripping her forearm, Dawn pulled her to a stop. She wanted to yank her arm away, and barely suppressed the movement into a firm pull.

When Nita half turned to face her, she glared up at the cop. You appear unwilling to hammer out any kind of mutually satisfying arrangement. Tell me, Sergeant Slowater, why did you bother to show up at this meeting?

Telling herself to calm down, she inhaled and released it slowly before she answered. I’m here because I am trying to keep an important investigation from being compromised by reckless reporting.

Lips a thin slash, Dawn never dropped her eyes from the cop’s face. Like you, Sergeant, I am attempting to do my job. Regardless of what you think of me, or of my profession, I am not reckless. I do, however, believe the public has the right to know that a killer is stalking Seattle streets.

The public has the right to know. Staub’s words when he defended his decision to publish the exposé that got Ed murdered.

Anger rushed through Nita like a fire’s backdraft burn. Hot and dangerous. In a harsh voice, hands balled into fists and held rigidly at her side, she said, The public does not need this investigation compromised. We don’t need to be inundated with phone calls from every crazy who wants ten minutes of official attention and every neighbor who holds a grudge and wants the man next door to be guilty of something, anything. And the public does not need copycat killers.

Dawn waited until a big, black dog—some kind of lab mix—pulled his owner past them and into the gathering evening before she replied. I agree with you. There has to be a balance between informing the public and protecting an investigation. I certainly don’t want to do anything that would prolong this killer’s spree, nor do I wish to see him walk away a free man because I somehow compromised your investigation.

The initial rush of relief left her gasping. There has to be a ‘but,’ a loophole that’ll rationalize her actions when she reports whatever the hell she wants to report and our investigation be damned.

Dawn jerked her chin towards a bench near the lake. Can we sit down?

Yeah, sure. As they made their way towards the wood-slatted bench, she noted the tall, sharp-bladed grass growing in