Dead Hot: A Dakota Mystery

By M.K. Coker

It's not just the sun's rays beaming down...

After losing a brutal election, Sheriff Karen Mehaffey and her uncle, Detective Marek Okerlund, are headed from South Dakota to New Mexico for a long delayed vacation and job hunt.

Marek hopes to reunite with his old homicide partner in Albuquerque, while Karen looks to resume her former career as a dispatcher. But when Marek's young daughter goes unexpectedly mute when their plane lands in the city of her mother's death, all plans are put on hold.

Dispirited, they'd barely arrived at their motel when a man dies on their doorstep, proclaiming himself the victim of radiation poisoning. Crazy? Perhaps. But with his last words, the man snares their attention: he asks them to tell Karen's father back in South Dakota that he's sorry... but for what?

Fated for a busman's holiday, Karen and Marek find themselves entangled in a case hotter than the New Mexico sun.

DEAD HOT is a character-driven police procedural. Sixth in series. Word Count: 70,000. Occasional profanity. Minimal gore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.K. Coker
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370352838

M.K. Coker

M.K. Coker grew up on a river bluff in southeastern South Dakota. Part of the Dakota diaspora, the author has lived in half a dozen states, including New Mexico, but returns to the prairie at every opportunity.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Knock, knock.

Who’s there? Sheriff Karen Okerlund Mehaffey muttered as she stood in the connecting doorway of the shared suite at the Old Town Motel.

Marek Okerlund, her half-uncle and part-time detective, didn’t laugh. Not even a huff, the Dakota equivalent. He didn’t even glance at the still-quivering outside door.

She didn’t blame him. Neither of them had anticipated that Marek’s seven-year-old daughter would go mute the moment they stepped off the plane in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for a vacation-slash-job-hunt. They’d both thought Becca had grown out of that stage of her grief over losing her mother a couple of years back.

Stupid, stupid not to see it coming. Albuquerque was where it had all happened.

So despite the beauty of the Sandia Mountains looming over the city as their plane had glided down in lazy circles from a cloudless sky that couldn’t get any bluer, they all just wanted to head back to the plains of Reunion, South Dakota. Unfortunately, Karen had lost her election bid and, come November, her job.

No way was she going to stay in Reunion with the new sheriff, Bob Baby Bunting, running things—right into the ground. But New Mexico wasn’t looking like a good place to run off to, unlike when Marek ran off from Reunion over two decades ago.

Their unwanted visitor knocked again. But Marek’s attention was on his daughter, who sat huddled on the bed, almost catatonic.

Karen moved into Marek’s room. Manager? she wondered.

Something fell against the door with a loud thud.

Karen strode over, ready to give the idiot what-for, and yanked open the door. What the…? A man—or at least his bald head, which was, thankfully, attached—fell into the room. As she reached down, he managed to crawl back out, just enough to get on his haunches, then sprawl back out onto the asphalt.

A white man—Anglo, she reminded herself—with bloodshot eyes looked up at her. Drunk or ill? Okerlund?

Her jaw came unhinged. How…?

With a shaking hand, he pointed at the Eda County sheriff’s jacket she’d left hanging on a hook in the rental car. The early flight had left Sioux Falls in the nippy darkness of an October morning, but once in Albuquerque, she’d shed it. The jacket did not, however, bear her maiden name.

Marek came up behind her, and the man relaxed—slightly. Okerlund.

She turned on her detective, looking into those distinctive pale-blue eyes. If this is one of your old APD buddies’ idea of a joke, Marek…

Arne… son?

That had her turning back. No, I’m Arne’s daughter. Marek’s his half-brother. Other than the eyes, Marek didn’t look like an Okerlund, what with his Slavic-slanted cheekbones currently covered with dark stubble from a goatee run wild. Granted, other than the blonde hair currently pulled back into a neat ponytail, she didn’t look much like an Okerlund, either. Who are you?

But the man just shook his head. No time. Must… listen… please. Important.

Though the air itself was almost cool, without a shred of humidity, he must be roasting on the asphalt in the direct sun. His button-down blue collared shirt was soaked with sweat, the acrid smell making her nose wrinkle. She reached down to pull him up, but he waved his arms.

No… don’t touch me… burning man…

She dropped her hand. I know you’re burning up. The sun is extreme here.

Tell… Arne… sorry.

She’d dearly love to know why this stranger felt compelled to apologize to her father—who’d never traveled more than a state away from South Dakota—but now wasn’t the time. Listen, whoever you are, you need attention. We can call somebody if you give me a number.

He lifted his hand. Kiva. Look… in… Nambé. Ask Ian Lucks. Home. He gasped. Stake.

Focusing on what little she understood, she pulled out her cell phone. Whoever Ian Lucks is, or wherever his home is, I need a number.

No… don’t understand. I’m… gone. Must… listen… danger.

An ancient Toyota Corolla puttered by, slowed, then screeched to a halt. A young Hispanic woman vaulted out of the driver’s side. Oh my God! What happened to Dr. Foss? Did somebody hit him? No wonder he didn’t show.

Relieved that the cavalry had arrived, Karen stepped back. Show?

An older Anglo woman had emerged from the passenger’s side—a strawberry blonde who wore a floppy hat and dusty hiking boots and carried her stocky frame with ease. Lowell was supposed to moderate a session on access to cultural sites, and he wasn’t answering his phone. I know he had some kind of food poisoning last week, but he said he’d be all right. The organizers got nervous and sent us to… As she approached him, the man made a warding-off gesture with what looked to be the last of his strength.

"Pull… low… knee’um."

Then his hand fell, his eyes rolled back, and he stilled. Marek started to kneel, perhaps to check for a pulse or to administer CPR, but the young woman grabbed his arm. She fell on her butt as she tried to scramble back from the fallen man.

"Get back. Everyone, get back. Don’t touch him. I mean it."

Why? came the incredulous demand in surround sound.

Her eyes wide, she said, He’s radioactive.

CHAPTER 2

Karen blinked. Twice. Excuse me?

The young woman repeated the same incomprehensible term that the fallen man had.

Had they inadvertently booked themselves into a crazy convention? "Pull what?"

Our legs? Marek suggested. He’d stilled but not backed away from where he crouched, so Karen didn’t move, either, though faint memories of Cold War posters and concrete bomb shelters with yellow-and-black hazard signs made her twitchy. Wasn’t New Mexico where the nuclear age had been born?

No, it’s a radioactive isotope. Polonium-210. The young woman’s confidence waivered. At least… if he meant what he said. Right, Ann?

Her Anglo companion let out a big breath. Jacqui, be reasonable. Lowell’s obviously delirious… and now he’s passed out. He needs medical attention. Look, has anybody called 911 yet?

Karen made the call. It was a jolt to hear a professional ask her in calm tones, slightly accented to her Dakotan ear, what the emergency was. She’d gotten used to Tammy Nylander’s more informal style. Since Karen had spent much of her own career as a dispatcher, she answered in equally calm tones, giving brief and precise answers as to their location and condition of the unconscious man. I’m afraid that we haven’t been able to touch him. Radiation may be involved. Yes, that’s what I said. Radiation. He said polonium before he… passed out. No, he does not smell like alcohol. He’s a… She cocked an eyebrow at Jacqui, who supplied the answer. A scientist.

The dispatcher paused, then keys clattered. Please stay on the scene until the emergency response team has arrived. Only a faint tremor in her voice betrayed the dispatcher as she assured Karen, All necessary precautions will be taken.

Satisfied, Karen disconnected. She’d barely pocketed her phone when she heard the sirens. In Reunion, help was often too little, too late, especially in the far reaches of Eda County.

A black-and-white pulled up first, followed closely by an ambulance. Marek rose from Lowell Foss’s side and backed away as two EMTs rushed over. As more sirens split the air, Ann and Jacqui hopped into their car and moved it to allow for more room for the first responders. Gawkers stuck their heads out from motel rooms and surrounding businesses.

Obviously deciding that his part in the drama was done, Marek went back into the motel room to deal with his daughter.

He was right, Karen decided. Whether Foss was radioactive or not was no longer in their hands. And wasn’t that a relief. The EMTs lifted the man onto the gurney with gloved hands, as if he were infectious, which she supposed might not be too big of a stretch. They looked grim but focused as they loaded him into the ambulance, which took off seconds later with an escort of several more black-and-whites.

And just like that, the scene looked as if nothing had happened—nothing but the body-shaped outline of sweat, which would soon dissipate in the sun. Well, that and the two early-twenties cops of opposite sexes who looked to be wearing their body weight in paraphernalia—and chips on their shoulders.

The male, whose nametag read Sullivan, jutted his chin at Karen. You the one who called 911?

She hooked her thumbs into her jeans pockets and looked down at him, resisting the urge to drawl like John Wayne. That’s right.

The female, named Roybal, pulled out a notepad. You reported a radioactive incident.

No, I reported what the victim reported.

Victim? Sullivan asked with a curled lip. Where are you from? Hollywood?

Or Bollywood, Roybal muttered. Name?

Karen wasn’t feeling the love in this city of blue-blue skies. Mehaffey, Karen, Sheriff.

Without looking up, the woman asked, Would Sheriff be your middle name or your maiden name?

That would be my title.

Roybal snapped shut her notepad. You looking for a ride to the loony bin, sister?

If any of her men had talked to a witness that way, they would be out on their ear in a flash. I am not your sister, and I am not loony. She paused as a hazmat team pulled up. The man that was just hauled away in the ambulance may well be, but I—

Ann returned with Jacqui in tow. "Lowell is not loony. At least, no more than any other scientist."

Sullivan looked unimpressed with the cavalry and turned back to Karen. Friends of yours? He stepped into the sweat-puddle. We’ve got plenty of room in the paddy wagon.

She’d dearly like to send these two to Baby Bunting: they were peas in a pod. And as all of her roster was set to quit when he took office, he would need warm bodies, if not brains. You might want to step back.

Instead, Sullivan stepped forward. You don’t want to talk that way to a cop, lady.

Another cop—taller, bigger, and grizzled—strode over. He’d been watching a member of the hazmat team pull out some kind of monitor. What’s the problem here, officers?

Sir. The two young cops stiffened like the rookies they undoubtedly were. Uncooperative witness.

Is that so? He looked around before his gaze fell on Karen. Then his eyes widened slightly as his gaze rose about a foot—actually, eight inches—over her six-one. Well, well, well. If it isn’t the beast himself.

Karen didn’t have to turn to know Marek had come up behind her in the open door of the motel room. Beast? That had to burn. She took a mental note of the name: Arellano.

Looking smug, Sullivan retrieved his Taser from his belt. Do we take them in, sir?

As if considering that, Arellano dropped his gaze to look back at her. You being uncooperative, Sheriff?

Sullivan snorted. She’s no more a sheriff than I’m the King of Siam.

With a crinkling around the eyes, Arellano waved at the jacket displayed in the rental car window. Then you’d better turn in your badge for a crown, Sullivan. Rule number one: be observant. Rule number two: be polite.

Pot calling kettle. Karen jerked her thumb backward. You called him a beast.

Arellano smiled. "No, I called him the Beast. Affectionately."

When she looked back, she saw Marek’s Slavic-slanted cheeks had reddened. Long story.

The rookies deflated. You know him, sir?

Hell, yes. Trained him.

You tried.

Arellano sighed. You questioning my work, Okerlund?

Never. Sir.

Arellano waved a hand. Detectives outrank mere training officers.

The rookies deflated a bit more—at least until a monitor began clicking.

A hazmat tech whistled as he hunched down next to the asphalt. Dios! That’s hot!

Roybal rolled her eyes. Brilliant, hotshot.

"No, no, I mean, radioactive. Hot diggity dog. We’ve got ourselves an incident!"

With an oath, Sullivan launched himself off the sweat-soaked asphalt and began hopping as he toed off his shoes. Then he rushed into the shade of the overhang to keep his feet from burning through thin black socks.

The tech laughed. Relax, rook, you’re not going to fry.

"You relax. We’re talking freaking radiation here." Without the sneer, Sullivan looked about ten years younger—like a Boy Scout whose snazzy and sleek pinewood derby race car had been beaten out by a plain block of wood with wheels.

Roybal clenched her fingers around the tail end of her thick braid. My hair will fall out.

Get a grip. The tech got to his feet. We’re not talking Chernobyl here. We’re talking small-scale contamination. Very low level. I’m not sure what we’ve got, but it’s barely registering.

Pushing away from the wall of the motel where she’d slumped, Jacqui said, Polonium, that’s what Dr. Foss said. You’d be picking up what was leached out from sweat, assuming that radiation detector is working correctly. Polonium is an alpha emitter, not gamma like Chernobyl. It has to be inhaled or ingested to cause harm. She looked at the stocking-footed cop. Or through a cut.

Karen bit her lip as Sullivan hopped back into his shoes. She’d like to say, I told you so and pat herself on the back for staying cool. Truth was, though, that she hadn’t moved because she’d been torn between grabbing Marek and Becca and heading back to South Dakota on the next plane or remaining forever stuck in the motel room. She turned to Jacqui. Then why did you freak out?

Though the dusky skin hid the blush well, Karen could see the chagrin. It’s contagious. At the alarm on her audience’s faces, she quickly amended, Fear, I mean. And, yes, touching him might cause some contamination. But at this level, you’d get far more radiation from flying in an airplane or x-rays. Much more. As for Dr. Foss, it all depends on how much… She shook her head. I just don’t understand. How could this happen?

Ann cleared her throat. "We don’t know yet what happened. Nothing has actually been confirmed. He may have been exposed to low levels before he came to Albuquerque. Lowell is—"

But whatever Lowell was would have to wait, because Arellano, who’d moved away to take a call, returned. All trace of amiability had disappeared. Your scientist was DOA. As Jacqui and Ann gasped in shock, he turned to them and gentled his voice. I am sorry for your loss. Are you family?

No, Jacqui said faintly. Her gaze darted to Ann and away. Just… um… colleagues.

Behind Karen, Marek asked in the subsonic rumble that tickled her ears, Cause of death?

Morgue has him. They’ll determine. Minutes later, a raft of crime scene techs joined the hazmat team. More cops pulled up to divert traffic.

Starting to feel claustrophobic, Karen just wanted to divert back to South Dakota and start looking seriously at opportunities in Sioux Falls. Albuquerque was a washout. She already had on offer in Sioux Falls as a negotiator and trainer with the police department. Realistically, it was the best option, getting her out of Bunting’s jurisdiction but within striking distance of her father—and the daughter she’d given up over two decades ago and was only starting to get to know.

A bright red 1960s-era Chevy Impala with yellow flames running down the sides rocketed in and nearly singed three crime scene techs, who took the near-death experience in stride. She squinted at the car as the light ricocheted off the shiny front grille. What the hell happened to that guy’s spring coils? The wheel wells must be nearly touching the tires.

Not the springs. Hydraulics. It’s designed that way. Marek nodded at the man who jumped out—a wiry Hispanic with a scrap of mustache. Lowrider.

Was that a name, she wondered, or a tag?

Man and car, Marek answered her silent question.

The man’s dark eyes flicked up with the corners of his mouth. Highrider. He smoothed a hand down his blazer, which bulged slightly. Should’ve known you’d bring trouble with you. He punched Marek in the arm, dramatically shook his hand as if he’d broken it, then dipped his shades to give Karen a once-over. You would be…

She tucked her tongue in her cheek. Trouble.

White teeth flashed. You’d be Mehaffey then.

And you’d be…

More trouble, Marek supplied. Karen, meet my old partner, Sergeant Manny Trujillo. Homicide. He rides a desk these days.

If that’s a desk, I want one, she said, her eyes still on the prize.

Trujillo hooted with laughter. I like this one. She’s got taste. But he traced his short mustache with a fidgety finger as the hazmat crew began erecting barriers. I still take a spin on a case when needed. Not sure about this one, though. Are we all going to start glowing in the dark?

That’s a myth. Radiation isn’t visible to the human eye. Jacqui’s own were red rimmed. I can’t believe Dr. Foss is gone. Like… right in front of us.

With an efficiency that Karen could only admire, the smooth-talking Manny Trujillo comforted the two women, got their agreement to give statements, and escorted them into the back of a black-and-white. He knocked on the driver’s-side door. Take them to separate interview rooms, get them whatever they need, and we’ll be along soon.

Karen frowned as Manny went to his car. "The royal we?"

Well, the King of Siam here isn’t going. The look in Arellano’s eyes boded ill for Sullivan and Roybal. Arellano walked them away from the scene and began talking in a low voice—but given the reaction, his words stung like a whip.

Manny returned and held out a brand-new leather wallet to Marek.

Frowning, he took it. What’s this?

Your badge. I told you I kept it on ice for you. You can pick up a gun later. We’re going to the morgue.

CHAPTER 3

Marek just stared at his old partner. I can’t. Becca…

We’ll take her to the gallery on the way. Wife’s been itching to take her under her wing, see the artist at work, snap her up early.

If only it were that easy. Marek’s gut still churned at the look on his daughter’s face when she’d realized, truly realized, where they’d landed. The drive in the rental car had even passed the concrete arroyo where Becca had been trapped in her car seat while her mother slowly bled to death. She’s… mute. Again.

Coming back to Albuquerque had been a no-good, very bad decision.

Oh, man. I’m sorry. Manny tilted his head. But maybe she needs the distraction. And so, bro, do you.

I could look after her, Karen offered, though she didn’t sound thrilled with the possibility. Not that she didn’t like his daughter—she did, and vice versa—but Becca’s current state was dicey. He wasn’t sure how to handle the situation himself. Yes, he’d dealt with it before, but he’d done so by packing up and leaving Albuquerque for the little town in southeastern South Dakota that he’d sworn he would never return to. Time and distance seemed to have done the trick—that and giving his daughter the gift of supporting her art.

Manny broke the impasse by stepping forward, forcing Marek to move back into the motel room. "Let me talk to la niña."

Becca sat huddled against the headboard of the bed. Though nothing changed in Manny’s beaming face, his honey-brown eyes drooped with sadness. "About time you got here, chiquita. You gonna give your Uncle Manny a hug? Rather than wait to find out, Manny scooped her up into a bear hug, gave her a smacking kiss, and plopped her down on his lap. We’ve got big plans, Aunt Bonita and me. Gallery. Cookout. We’ve even got a balloon ride lined up. And I’ve got a present for you, too. You know, I heard how you liked my retablos so much you have them hanging on your bedroom wall."

Marek barely resisted the urge to conk his erstwhile partner on the head with a blunt instrument. The subject of those retablos—or at least the faces painted on the Madonna and child—were Becca’s mother and stillborn brother. And, as always, the very thought of that loss stabbed Marek anew. What was he thinking, coming back here?

Becca sniffed but nodded.

"Well, you can pick out any retablo in Aunt Bonita’s gallery for your very own while we take care of business. What do you say?"

Sneaky bastard. Becca all but pulled Manny out to the car. They had to delay slightly to move the booster seat into the Chevy while Manny made a quick call to his wife. But even that reminder didn’t dim his daughter’s enthusiasm—though it didn’t loosen her tongue. Then again, Manny kept up a steady stream of patter until they pulled up at the Concha-Trujillo Gallery on Romero.

Marek had rarely been at the pretty little gallery filled with everything from high-end paintings to tourist kitsch. All the socializing that he and Val had done together with the Trujillos had been in neutral territory, usually involving a grill.