The Keepers: A Mace Reid K-9 Mystery

By Jeffrey B. Burton

Jeffrey B. Burton's The Keepers is the next installment of the Mace Reid K-9 series, featuring golden retriever cadaver dog Vira and her handler, Mason Reid.

Mason “Mace” Reid lives on the outskirts of Chicago and specializes in human remains detection—that is, he trains dogs to hunt for dead bodies. He calls his pack of cadaver dogs The Finders, and his prize pupil is a golden retriever named Vira.

When Mace Reid and Vira are called in to search Washington Park at three o'clock in the morning, what they find has them running for their very lives. The trail of murder and mayhem Mace and CPD Officer Kippy Gimm have been following leads them to uncover treachery and corruption at the highest level, and their discoveries do not bode well for them . . . nor for the Windy City itself.

The Keepers is an exciting, fast-paced mystery filled with courageous dogs you'll want to root for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781250795861

Jeffrey B. Burton

Novels in Jeffrey B. Burton's critically-acclaimed Mace Reid K-9 mystery series include The Finders, The Keepers, and The Lost. His Agent Drew Cady thrillers include The Chessman, The Lynchpin, and The Eulogist. Jeff lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with his wife, Cindy, an irate Pomeranian named Lucy, and a happy galoot of a Beagle named Milo.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

LAST SUMMER

I spent the bulk of the call with my eyes shut, thinking I was still asleep and in some kind of lucid dream. I may have even called the night sergeant out of the Chicago Police Department’s 12th District Mom before he barked at me to wake the hell up and get my ass to the address he was texting me. He said as soon as I got west of the river, to follow the noise and the glow—the sound and the fury—and that I’d be a damned idiot if I missed it.

I sat up in bed, wiped eye snot off my lashes with both forefingers, and then opened them. Elvira, my golden retriever puppy, stood on the opposite corner of the bed, tail wagging and staring back at me as if she’d been a participant on the call.

No way I’m starting you with a blazing warehouse fire at, I peeked down at my cell phone, three o’clock in the morning, Vira. I’d been training her as a cadaver dog and, considering her age, she’d been showing remarkable ability. And endless enthusiasm. You’re getting there, girl, you really are, but let’s have you and Maggie hold down the fort.

My name is Mason Reid—I go by Mace—and I specialize in human remains detection—that is, I train dogs to hunt for the dead. My HRD pups and I help the authorities—the Chicago Police Department and various sheriffs’ departments—in their searches for the missing and presumed dead. In fact, I’ve knighted Vira and my pack of cadaver dogs The Finders and would have that imprinted on business cards had my kids opposable thumbs in which to hand them out or pockets in which to place them.

It was a quarter to four when I parked my F-150 a couple city blocks shy of the address the sergeant had provided. The streets were littered with fire engines for pumping water and chemical flame-retardants as well as fire trucks for hauling ladders and rescue gear, a line of squad cars, and an ambulance or three idling, empty. There were more flashing lights than on bingo night at Caesars Palace. My wake-up call had informed me that CFD—Chicago Fire Department—had spent a chunk of the night fighting a warehouse blaze in the Fulton River District, which is situated on the border of Chicago’s downtown and considered part of the Near West Side. The area had once been known for transportation and industrial warehousing but had, in recent decades—like many other quarters in the Windy City—turned residential.

Sue, my alpha male of a German shepherd, and Delta Dawn, my farm collie, and I threaded our way around local news vans, cameramen, and huddling reporters as we came upon a white-haired man standing next to a fireman. Both stared fixedly as the crew of firefighters finished hosing down the burned-out warehouse through a haze of smoke and steam, ash and soot.

How long has it been vacant? The fireman, whom I took to be a lieutenant or captain, asked.

Two years, White-hair, whom I took to be the warehouse owner, replied. A company that shipped aluminum rented the spot for twenty years before going under.

You got a homeless problem?

Once a space that size goes empty, he nodded toward the smoldering facility, you’d have to live here around the clock to chase out any transients. White-hair shrugged. I call the cops now and again.

Our trio continued onward with Sue, as always, in the lead and ID’d ourselves through a series of officers acting as sentries. The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air. I found myself blinking the grime from my eyes every couple of seconds, wishing I’d brought along a quart or two of Visine. As we approached I could tell from what remained of the structure—ruins to be more accurate—that the inferno had been devastating. The place resembled old newsreel footage of Berlin in 1945, and I wondered if some kind of electrical or lighting or heating equipment had triggered a flame that soon met with combustible materials.

I spray a protective film on all of my dogs’ feet in order to protect and toughen their pads and paws. I hope the darned stuff works. I wasn’t worried about the hot concrete, as the facility had been doused in an ocean of water. I was more concerned with any smoldering or sharp debris my pups might step on.

Once we’d advanced to the front line, we were instructed to hold our horses as another forty minutes passed until the fire commissioner himself gave the all clear for us to enter and search for human remains in the wreckage of the burned-out facility.

By daybreak, Sue, Delta, and I had worked our way through the scorched remnants of the Fulton River District warehouse. The kids, as though working in unison, had led me to the northeast corner, opposite from where we’d been allowed to enter. It had taken my dogs all of five minutes to weave and wind about the soaked and steaming wreckage, leading me around twisted metal, busted rubble, and blocks. Delta tapped at the wet concrete in front of her with a single paw while Sue just stared back at me—pawing at the ground was beneath him.

I flagged a handful of firemen over and, as they pushed aside the blackened debris, they uncovered charred human remains.

---

I followed the story in the Chicago Tribune. Originally, it was thought to be the work of idiot kids playing with matches or maybe that homeless fellow we’d found tried cooking himself a chicken dinner and, poof, everything went to hell in a handbag. However, a couple days later, the fire commissioner confirmed that accelerants were involved—both on the victim as well as on the floor and walls of the warehouse. It had been intentionally set … arson. And though he’d not been accused or arrested, White-hair—whose real name turned out to be Howard Costa—protested his innocence, Why would I torch my own building? he said to the press. It wouldn’t make sense to burn it down in some kind of insurance scam when I’ve had a ton of offers—developers wanting to spit up even more and more of them goddamned condominiums.

Without intact fingerprints, it took investigators a couple more days to match dental records and DNA to a man by the name of John Averbeck. Turns out Mr. Averbeck was anything but homeless as had initially been surmised. Averbeck was an employment lawyer who’d gone to pick up Chinese carryout for dinner earlier in the week, never to return home or be seen alive again. He’d been reported missing by his wife. As it turned out, the fire hadn’t killed Averbeck. There was no smoke in his lungs. Mr. Averbeck had been stabbed to death and his body dumped in the warehouse prior to it being set ablaze.

In other words, he’d been burned postmortem.

Another week or two passed and, eventually, the Tribune had nothing more to say on the matter of the deceased employment lawyer John Averbeck.

Just another murder in a city of unsolved murders.

PART ONE

THE SPECIAL PROSECUTOR

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.

—Mark Twain

CHAPTER 1

LAST NIGHT

David Siskin wondered why he bothered checking into the Courtyard Marriott on his bimonthly trips to Chicago as he always worked late into the evening at the office suite off North Dearborn. A cot in the copy room would save the business money as well as save Siskin mucho time since booking a room at the Marriott for the equivalent of a lengthy nap didn’t help the bottom line.

And, as a real estate investor, David Siskin was all about the bottom line.

His wife, Cherie, had knighted Siskin a workaholic decades ago, before the two had even tied the knot, but she didn’t mean it in a bad way. Cherie had her book clubs, her quilting classes, her floristry, her fundraising for the Alzheimer’s Association—the disease that first stole her mother’s mind and then her life—as well as a half dozen other public-service hobbies that never registered on Siskin’s radar but kept her busy now that the kids were grown. By contrast, outside of work, Siskin had no hobbies. Sure, he suffered through endless rounds of golf as that was part of the game you played to rub elbows with investors and property financiers, but the actual pastime never took hold of him. However, when Siskin hit middle age and began fretting over the expansion of his midsection, he took up biking. Siskin even dumped a couple grand into a Cannondale CAAD. Siskin’s hobby lasted all of a week. He was biking around Lake Nokomis one beautiful summer evening, enjoying both the exercise as well as life in general—until the debacle. Some hothead in a yellow Corvette laid on the horn and didn’t let up. It startled Siskin, sending him into the curb and from thence ass over teakettle onto the sidewalk. Bruised and bleeding, Siskin glanced up in time to witness the Corvette speed past with a middle finger salute held high out of the driver’s side window.

The road bike had been gathering dust in the garage ever since.

Siskin lived in Minneapolis, had all of his life, and—like loads of other business commuters in the Twin Cities—he took the United Airlines puddle jumper to O’Hare and, two or three days later, took it home again. Siskin’s Chicago partners, venture capitalists one and all, didn’t burn the midnight oil like he did. Siskin’s Chicago partners were more clock-watchers—golf-playing nine-to-fivers.

That didn’t bother Siskin. There were no hard feelings.

Siskin’s Chicago partners did their jobs.

They made money. They invested money.

Rinse. Repeat.

Siskin heard sounds from the outer office and wondered who in hell that could be. Margie, the spinster admin who drenched herself in so much perfume that her fragrance lingered long after she’d exited your office, had waved goodbye hours ago. And the night janitor, Juan or Raul or whatever, had already passed through the office suite with his trash cart and vacuum cleaner and dust wand. Siskin glanced at his Rolex Explorer—a gift from Cherie given about the time of his biking debacle—and figured it was time to head over to the Marriott for his nightly siesta.

It was then a throat cleared and Siskin’s head snapped up.

An impossibly large man filled the doorway of Siskin’s office. The unannounced visitor was not basketball-player tall but appeared to be seven feet in height, possibly aided by the pointed-toed cowboy boots on his feet as well as the black fedora on the top of his head. The unannounced visitor was dressed in a classic black suit, cut well for his size and height. The unannounced visitor also sported an unbuttoned brown raincoat that hung down to his ankles and appeared to contain enough fabric to sail a small skiff to China. The man was a living chiaroscuro, a Goliath of light and shadow, and looked as though he’d just muscled his way out of an old black-and-white Humphrey Bogart movie.

Is this a bad time? the unannounced visitor said.

Siskin hadn’t been this startled since the unfortunate biking incident at Lake Nokomis. The office has been closed for hours.

The unannounced visitor glanced about Siskin’s twenty-fifth-floor office. You don’t say.

Siskin saved and exited the Excel sheet he’d been working on and leaned back in his chair. What can I help you with?

Do you mind if I sit?

Siskin motioned to the guest chair in front of his desk, hoping it was sturdy enough to support the man’s bulk. Mike McCarron flickered through Siskin’s mind. Michael J. McCarron was one of his Chicago business partners and the president of the investment company in which he currently convened with the unannounced visitor. Michael J. McCarron and that Irish sense of humor of his, always ready with an off-color joke, always filling dinner conversation with the high jinks he’d pulled on his wife and children, friends and neighbors, and even some of the raunchier practical jokes he’d pulled during his years at Columbia University. Siskin thought he heard light rustling coming from the outer office and imagined McCarron and one of the other partners hiding behind the door, keeping their chuckles to a minimum after imbibing a single malt or four at a nearby tavern where, evidently, they’d met this guy who looked like a film-noir version of Paul Bunyan and convinced him to participate in some kind of office prank.

So… The unannounced visitor spoke again after cramming his heft into the cushioned armchair. You’re the Jew from Minneapolis?

Yes, Siskin replied, now convinced this stunt was more of McCarron’s tomfoolery, I’m the Jew from Minneapolis.

"My name is Cordov Woods, as in a cord of wood. The big man smiled. I shit you not. My father laughed his ass off every time he introduced me. But everybody calls me Cord."

Siskin definitely heard rustling in the outer office. What can I do for you, Mr. Woods?

"Do you like idioms? You know, a turn of phrase that contains a special meaning?"

Siskin shrugged. I haven’t given them much thought, one way or the other.

I find idioms fascinating—what they mean, how they came into being. And you’ve no doubt heard the one that goes ‘don’t upset the apple cart’?

Siskin nodded.

"It’s basically the same expression as ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ Both idioms generally mean—and pardon my French—don’t fuck with the status quo. Because, if I’m selling apples, I’ve stacked my cart in a tidy structure—an orderly manner—which keeps the merchandise from rolling off the cart and all over the street. Do you see what I mean?"

Siskin nodded again. He felt goose bumps forming, the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle, and he was no longer so certain this encounter was a Michael McCarron–hatched gag at all. He began to suspect that other thing … the one he’d been assured—not assured but promised—would be kept in the strictest of confidence.

So, if I’m out selling my apples, trying to make a decent living for myself and my family, and then some shit-hog comes along and pulls an apple out from where he shouldn’t. And before you can say fuckity-doo-dah, my employer has me chasing runaway apples all over the goddamned street. The unannounced visitor stared at Siskin a long moment. Now why did you have to go and yank that apple off my cart, Mr. Jew from Minneapolis?

It took Siskin a second to speak, but when he did, he spoke fast—a nervous habit that kicked in whenever he came under pressure. This is insane. You had to have checked in with the lobby guards at the main desk. They’ve got cameras all over the building … they even track your card in the elevator at this time of night.

Tell me about it. The big man shrugged. Makes me pine for the olden days. A simpler time. I’ve got several friends, colleagues to be more exact, I’ll never see again unless I visit them at the Stateville Correctional Center. And I ain’t visiting Stateville. Now, all these old colleagues of mine had to do was stay current; just enter the twenty-first century for crying out loud, and they’d have never seen a second inside of SCC. The unannounced visitor who called himself Cord Woods tried leaning back in his chair. However, considering his bulk, there wasn’t much room to maneuver. But to your point, I didn’t come in through the lobby and I didn’t sign in at the guard station. As for cameras and elevator cards and all that jazz—another idiom by the way—I’ve got a world-class IT guy that has my back.

You’ll never get away with this, Siskin spoke again, not so fast this time, now feeling as though he were about to vomit.

"You don’t know Jethro. The guy’s an awful conversationalist—don’t even get me started on the lost art of conversation or I’ll wax on all night—but Jethro’s a true magician, he really is, although he may be somewhat autistic or, what’s that other thing that’s not as bad? Asperger’s syndrome? Jethro’s probably more Asperger’s than autistic, but, bear in mind, I’m no expert, and I doubt Jethro’s ever been tested. You see, as long as Jethro kept fetching daddy’s ice beer from the fridge, his parents didn’t give two shits about any irregular behavior on his part. A sorry state of affairs that was, quite frankly, but they’re both now out of the picture—figuratively and literally—since back when Jethro proved his worth. Dear old dad’s ice-beer days are gone forever. The big man added, I saw to that myself."

What do you want from me? Siskin knew he’d never be able to retrieve his iPhone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, so he inched some fingers toward the desk phone.

First off, I’m not going to hurt you. The unannounced visitor flicked his head toward the outer office. Jethro’s going to town on your network server. And he’ll need your laptop, of course, when he’s done with that. If I were you, I’d just sit back and relax.

Siskin closed his eyes and thought of Cherie. He thought of that crooked smile of hers, and he thought of the kids—the kids who were now adults but would forever be his kids—and he knew that sitting back and relaxing was out of the question. Siskin seized the phone off the cradle, pressed the number nine with a forefinger, but that was as far as he got before the unannounced visitor towered above him, guest chair flying backward into the wall.

I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you. The giant who called himself Cordov Woods kicked at Siskin’s desk with a boot, sending desk, phone, laptop, yellow notepad, and a couple of Mont Blanc pens soaring across the room.

There was now nothing between the two men.

But I am going to kill you.

CHAPTER 2

That was the year that was, that was

And I am the was of time

Vira and I made our way toward the northwest side of Chicago. Vira sat in the passenger seat of my F-150, her face outside the window, soaking in the sun of another beautiful April morning. We listened to my smartphone as it slid about the dashboard and cranked The Was of Time—a Grammy winner from decades back. I caught myself singing along with the chorus I somehow knew by heart.

File me a memory

And put me in your past

File me a memory

Never meant to last

The song continued playing for another minute. I grew melancholy and blinked back moist eyes.

That was the year that was, that was

And I am the was of time

That was the year that was, that was

You left me far behind

Throughout the separation and eventual divorce from my wife, Mickie, and in the immediate aftermath—or aftershocks as it felt like at the time—no matter what station I had the radio tuned to, a one-hit wonder song would come on and knock me on my ass. I’d be minding my own damned business, maybe even having a mediocre day, and then I’d take a right hook to the chin by Seasons in the Sun. Then, a day or two later, I’d take a shiv to the guts from Brandy. Then, I’d be driving home with a bag of tacos for dinner and In a Big Country would come on and dropkick me in the seeds.

However, the one that tore out my guts and tossed them back in my face was The Was of Time by Jonny Whiting and The U-Turns. Whiting’s theme, as far as I could decipher, was how time wasn’t necessarily linear but more reliably measured in intensity of feeling and, as such, even if I lived to be a hundred, Mickie’s leaving—her kicking of me to the curb—would always be first and foremost in my mind … my reality … my cross to bear.

Freaking music.

Of course, per Officer Kippy Gimm’s hushed phone call, that very same Jonny Whiting of Jonny Whiting and The U-Turns now lay dead on the tile floor in the kitchen of his Avondale condominium, evidently battered to death with his own electric guitar.

I grabbed my iPhone, tapped a few times at my Maps app so it could zero in on the address Kippy had provided, and tossed it back on the dashboard so the voice could wave us in like an air traffic controller. Kippy worked out of the 17th District—Albany Park—on North Pulaski. Her and her partner, Officer Dave Wabiszewski—or Wabs if you’d managed to advance to his inner circle—had been dispatched to Whiting’s address after a hysterical 911 call from the singer’s condominium manager and immediately discovered that the condo’s manager had every right to dial 911 and had every right to be hysterical.

Jonny Whiting was quite dead.

The singer-songwriter grew up a north-sider—local boy makes good—and moved back to his old stomping grounds after a couple decades of making music in New York City. He’d bought a top-floor condo off Addison Street, overlooking the north branch of the Chicago River. Whiting had been back five years and set up his nest in Avondale as part of Chicago’s process of renovating deteriorated neighborhoods per the influx of more well-to-do residents—gentrification I heard a newscaster once term

Reviews for The Keepers

[nbmars · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Mason “Mace” Reid, in his late twenties, specializes in training and guiding dogs for human remains detection. These “cadaver dogs,” as Mace explains, can find human remains in the ruins of an earthquake or a fire or a building collapse as well as inside a shallow grave. But one of Mace’s five dogs, a golden retriever named Vira, has an additional ability. When Vira encounters a dead body at a crime scene, she also picks up the scents left behind by the killers. She then reacts aggressively when encountering the guilty party, a person often unknown before Vira’s identification.This is why Mace’s police friend, Kippy Gimm, tries to get Mace and Vira to accompany her and her partner, Dave Wabiszewski (“Wabs”), to homicide investigations. While they suspect Vira’s skill won’t hold up in court, it provides enough information for the cops to go after whoever Vira has pointed out.When Vira “fingered” some high-up figures in the Chicago power establishment in a recent string of gruesome murders, the team of Mace, Kippy and Wabs knew they faced a significant challenge. Who were they to go up against “The Keepers”?“The Keepers” was the name given by (fictional) Mayor Carter Weeks of Chicago to the corrupt politicians, bureaucrats, mobsters, and their cronies in Chicago that “kept the populace of the Windy City down” and subservient. Mayor Weeks had run on a platform of reform, to root out the Keepers and bring integrity and accountability back to the city. Alas, he had an uphill job.Mace, Kippy and Wabs had to find someone to trust in “the Corruption Capital of America” to help bring the guilty to justice. They had to do it quickly and quietly, because these truly bad people were determined that no one prevent them from carrying out their unsavory agendas.The tension becomes almost unbearable as the race between good and evil comes to a head and the story gets well and truly scary.Evaluation: My husband, who spent most of his life in Chicago, appreciated all the references to places in the city, which he deemed quite accurate (unlike in one of his favorite shows, Chicago P.D.). And of course he enjoyed watching when I read the book (after he did) and I had to stop and scream at several junctures. This gritty thriller will appeal to those who love good crime stories, especially those full of facts and trivia about the art of forensics.

[cathyskye · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Jeffrey Burton's second Mace Reid K-9 mystery is fast-paced and filled with tension and suspense as readers try to outguess Mace and Kippy. Are they asking for help from the right people, or are they walking right into a trap? This aspect of The Keepers certainly kept me turning the pages even though I usually knew when they were headed right for that trap. Of course, the biggest draw to this book and series for me is the canine one. The fact that Mace names his dogs after songs is endearing. His dogs are Elvira, Delta Dawn, the rambunctious puppy Billie Joe, Maggie May, and the alpha male named Sue. (Johnny Cash, anyone?) Probably the thing I love most about Mace's relationship with his dogs is that he listens to them. There's another series set in Los Angeles that I'm tiring of even though the stories are really good. Why am I tiring of them? Because every time the man's dog alerts him to danger, the man ignores him (and usually gets beaten up). Idiot! There's none of that stupidity here.If you're in the mood for engaging, fast-paced stories filled with talented working dogs and the human who trains and works with them, find yourself the two books in this series, The Finders and The Keepers. I'm looking forward to Mace and Vira's next assignment. (Review copy courtesy of the publisher and Net Galley)

[hcnewton · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.---WHAT'S THE KEEPERS ABOUT?While at a police station wrapping up a case he'd helped Chicago Police to wrap up, Mace and his golden retriever, Vira, are brought along on an urgent call, the man in charge of the State Attorney's Special Prosecution Office went missing at a park around midnight.It doesn't take long for Vira to find his body. Not long after that, while Mace is waiting to be sent home, Vira's almost impossible/might-as-well-be-supernatural abilities give Mace a reason to believe that he knows the Attorney's killer.And Mace regrets that instantly—the man responsible isn't anyone Mace, or his police friends, want to cross. But they have no choice—which leads to them being on the run, fighting some of the more powerful men in Chicago just to survive, much less get anywhere to finding his killer.RETURNING CHARACTERSIn The Finders, there were two uniformed officers and two police detectives involved with Mace and the investigation. This time out, it's pretty much just the two uniformed officers—Kippy Gimm and her partner Dave Wabiszewski. It's not often (at least not often enough) that non-detective officers get the focus, and it's a refreshing change of pace.Also, while readers had enough exposure to all the police characters to be satisfied, it's nicer this time to not have your attention split and the reader can really get to know these characters better and form a closer emotional bond. If memory serves, we met Kippy before we met Mace last year, but we didn't get that much time with Wabs. It's good to have that changed.OHH, A NEW DOGMace has added another dog to his pack, a three-month-old bloodhound named Billie Joe. Billie Joe isn't good for much more than comic relief at the moment, but I'm sure within a book or two, Mace'll have him trained enough that he can carry his own weight. In the meantime, he's fun to chuckle at.There's an extended comedic break at the beginning of Chapter 21 that is great on its own—but it comes at just the right time in the book to give a little breather as the tension mounts and just before it shifts into a new gear. It's just Mace talking to his dogs, pretty much the same way that anyone with pets has done regularly. I could rea 3-4 more of those each book and it wouldn't get tired.In the meantime, I'll just reread that scene occasionally.THE KILLERThat's not really the best heading for this section, because there are a few killers running through these pages—and as some are acting on orders from others, who really gets that label? Anyway, I wanted to say a little about the individual who is immediately responsible for most of the deaths in the book—this isn't a spoiler really, we meet him in Chapter 1.He is large, frightening, brutal, and efficient. He's also a very chatty guy who has a lot to say about the English language. This side of Justified's Boyd Crowder, you're not going to find a criminal as chatty as this guy. I enjoyed his little talks about English idioms more than I should have. If this guy isn't one of your favorite baddies of the year, you should rethink things.Best of all? He's not a serial killer. I was a little afraid that after The FInders this series would be Mace and His Dogs vs. Various Serial Killers. Now that it's clear that Mace and the dogs will be dealing with a variety of criminals, I'm a bit more positive about the series as a whole.SO, WHAT DID I THINK ABOUT THE KEEPERS?At the same time I was reading this, I was listening to an audiobook (nonfiction) about Capone and Ness during Prohibition. Listening to a thoroughly researched account of corruption in Chicago politics while reading a novel about corrupt Chicago officials, really makes the fictional feel more reality-based. I'm not saying everyone needs to go out and grab a book about Capone and Ness to fully appreciate this, I'm just saying being reminded that things may not have changed that much in almost a century adds a little something to the experience.I loved this, I really did. I remembered liking last year's debut, I remembered most of the bigger plot points, the dogs, and so on—and remembered really enjoying the book. In less than one chapter of Mace's first-person narration, I remembered just how much I like him and his voice. I kicked myself for forgetting that part—Mace is a great protagonist for this alone.When I wrote about The Finders last year, I said: It's possible that I'm rating this a little higher than it deserves. If I was being entirely objective, I'd probably take off a half or maybe a full star from my rating. But this isn't an objective piece, or an objective rating—this is about how much I enjoyed this, how it appealed to me, entertained me and made me want to read on. For that, it scored really high for me.I'm not saying that this year—this is a superior novel that I enjoyed as much, if not more—I was again entertained and couldn't wait to find out what happened. I'm giving this the same rating without apology or disclaimer.It was tense, it was funny, it was horrifying (on a couple of occasions), and my jaw hit the floor a few times. I still can't believe a few of the choices that Burton made, even with a few days' worth of thought. He does some risky things, swinging for the fences with this—and they absolutely worked.You don't need to have read The Finders to appreciate The Keepers for what it is—great Crime Fiction with a strong central protagonist, some great supporting characters, and a fantastic opponent. Oh, yeah, and a bunch of great dogs. More than enough reasons to take this recommendation and run to your nearest library/bookseller with it.

[kmartin802_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Mace Reid is a twenty-something who trains cadaver dogs and is frequently hired by the Chicago Police Force. One of his dogs - golden retriever Vira - is something special. Besides being able to find dead bodies, she can also find the scent of the person who made them dead which has come in handy on some occasions. Mace is recently divorced but is beginning a new relationship with Officer Kippy Gimm who is determined to become a detective. She calls Mace in when one of his idols, one-hit-wonder Jonny Whiting, is found beaten to death in his condo. Mace and Vira manage to get in under the guise of Vira being a drug sniffing dog when she catches the scent of Jonny's killer. Kippy, her partner Wabs, and Mace begin an investigation to discover the murderer and Vira comes through.Meanwhile, another series of murders are taking place in Chicago which include an investor in from Minneapolis and the head of a Police group dealing with organized crime. Mace in called in to try to locate the cop and does manage to find him. Vira also gets a scent of the killer and alerts when the Police Commissioner and his driver arrive at the scene. But finding evidence to convict a Police Commissioner without becoming a casualty themselves really tests the ability of Kippy, Wabs, and Mace and his dogs.This was a real page turner that I really enjoyed. It was fast-paced and action-packed. I like Mace who isn't the smartest or the bravest guy in the room but who is completely devoted to his dogs and their welfare. I liked his growing relationship with Kippy. I liked that, while most of the story is from Mace's point-of-view, Kippy does get some point-of-view time too.

[jfe16 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Review of Uncorrected Digital GalleyThe Finders are Mason Reid’s cadaver dogs and golden retriever Vira is the prize pupil who has a surprising, unique skill. When Mace and Vira search Chicago’s Washington Park in the wee hours of the morning, they find much more than the body they’d anticipated they would locate. Now their lives are in jeopardy and the corrupted trail of murder and mayhem leads them through the city to an unexpected source that threatens Mace, the dogs, his police department friends, and the Windy City itself. As surprising revelations place Mace and the dogs in danger, will they find a way to make things right without sacrificing themselves?Second in the Mace Reid K-9 mystery series, “The Keepers” is a solid addition to the series that also works well as a stand-alone. Filled with well-developed, realistic characters and a strong sense of place, the action-packed story pulls the reader in from the beginning of the narrative and keeps the suspense ramped up as the story unfolds. The complex plot takes several unexpected twists and turns, with bits of humor serving as a counterpoint to the grittiness, keeping the complex tale entertaining and the readers involved in the unfolding story. And while there’s no mystery as to who’s doing the killing, there’s plenty of suspense in the larger story of who is pulling all the strings. But as exciting as the mystery surrounding the murders may be, the true heart of this story is the relationship between Mace and the dogs. Sue, Delta Dawn, Maggie May, Elvira, and Bill . . . Mace’s “kids” . . . are all well-drawn, vital characters, each playing an important role in the telling of this tale. They are, by turns, smart, brave, and instinctive. The relationship between the dogs and their people is truly heart-warming. Readers are sure to find much to appreciate here; they will find it difficult to set this one aside before turning the final page. This book deserves a place on everyone’s must-read list.Highly recommended.I received a free copy of this eBook from St. Martin’s Press / Minotaur Books and NetGalley #TheKeepers #NetGalley

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

murder-investigation, not-quite-horror, verbal-humor, dogs, law-enforcement, the-mob, corruption, suspense*****Mace Reid trains and works with cadaver dogs. Neither he nor his family of dogs wear a badge nor police protective gear and they work alongside Chicago PD, not for it. It is not vital to have read the first in series. Here the bodies have been brutally destroyed both before and after death and there is no doubt in the reader's mind about who the murderer is, only about who hired him, but that is also revealed. Far reaching corruption is discovered at the root of it all, but the threats to Mace, his dogs, and the CPD officers he works with are just too scary. Lots of suspense, plot twists, and more. Good work!I requested and received a free ebook copy from St. Martin's Press/Minotaur Books via NetGalley. Thank you!If anyone is interested in a nonfiction view of cadaver dogs try No Stone Unturned: The True Story of the World's Premier Forensic Investigatorsby Steve Jackson (print January 1, 2002, audio May 04, 2015)