Murder. The word rattled through Madison’s mind along with the outrage. She was driving fast—too fast. Rocks struck the fenders with angry thunks. When the twenty-seven-year-old reporter made the dusty turn that was to take her the final five miles into the hole-in-the-wall town of Desert Valley in northwestern Arizona, her irritation contributed to her lead foot on the gas pedal.
The shooting of a K-9 trainer was just a small piece of the madness in Desert Valley. Homicide, the unsolved attempted murder of a prominent citizen, suspicious cases gone cold. She itched to investigate, but her editor was unmoved by her ambition, sticking her with a story about how the crime spree was hurting business in the area. Other seasoned reporters were working the big cases, and she got stuck with a business story.
Business? When there was a killer roaming loose, or possibly more than one? She felt the familiar hitch in her breathing. Madison knew a thing or two about killers. One might even say it was in her DNA.
Focus, Madison. The most recent slaying, of police-dog master trainer Veronica Earnshaw, had rated a few headlines. On top of that, Marian Foxcroft, wealthy Desert Valley benefactress, lay in a coma after being attacked in her home. But those big stories had been assigned to the senior reporters who’d already wrapped their pieces and left town.
She flipped on her tape recorder. “And what about the deaths on the night of the police fund-raiser dance? A cop’s wife is murdered one year, and then a few years later, rookie Mike Riverton falls down a flight of stairs. And then another rookie, Brian Miller, dies in a fire? All on the night of the dance? Someone should look into that.” She flicked the recorder off and tossed it on the seat in disgust. And that someone should be me. No one had more motivation to look into the deaths than she. After all, I am the daughter of a murderer, she thought with a shiver.
But newly hired reporters with a hundred bucks in their bank accounts and a rent check coming due couldn’t afford to lose their jobs. Besides, she was desperate to put down some roots in Tuckerville, her new home some forty-five minutes away from Desert Valley. She wanted to get used to a rural life for a change, and ideally her sister would stay for a good long while. It was the only way they could learn to love their way past the hurt.
Pebbles pinged as she pressed the accelerator. Midday sun blazed onto the windshield, dazzling her. A split second later, everything changed. One moment there was nothing but shrub-lined asphalt ahead and the next, a fawn-colored bloodhound wearing a heavy leather collar shot across the road, followed by a police officer who halted in the bushes, startled, intense sapphire-blue eyes opened wide.
She had only a moment to register that he was very fit, very tall and more than a little irritated as she slammed on the brakes to avoid the dog. Then the tires squealed, and she skidded off the road and through a screen of shrubbery, bumping to a stop amid a pile of rocks. She sat, heart thumping, panting, nerves jangling from the mad jostling.
The officer ran to the car. “Are you all right?”
She blinked and nodded. He opened the door for her and she got out, noting both her flat front tire and his hair, the color of the desert sand. “I’m okay, but my tire’s another story.”
He called out, and the bloodhound loped from the trees, coming to an ungainly stop next to the officer.
“Your dog?”
“Yes. I’m very sorry, ma’am. Every once in a while, Hawk gets this wild notion, forgets he is a police dog and takes off. I think it has something to do with squirrels. He’s certain they’re mocking him.” He shot an exasperated look at his canine. “Looks like we’re gonna need more training.” Hawk slurped a tongue along the officer’s pant leg.
“Knock it off, dog,” he said.
There was an enticing, familiar scent clinging to the officer.
“I think he tastes garlic,” she said with a smile.
He flushed red. “Oh, man. I smell like garlic? Earlier I was trying to figure out my mom’s recipe for beef stew. I’ve showered and everything, but the scent gets into your pores.”
“Won’t your mom give you the recipe?”
“No. She says once I learn it, I won’t come around as much.”
They both laughed.
The big-bodied bloodhound sat heavily on the ground, staring at her through the fleshy folds of his face. Police dog or not, he was adorable, and his handler was not hard to look at, either. The guy should have been on a police recruitment poster or something.
Hawk gave her a scolding look, as if she had somehow gotten between him and his rodent nemesis.
“Is he a puppy?”
“Two years old, but from what I can see, he’s got plenty of puppy left in him. He’s managed to destroy two pairs of work boots, a cupboard door and the backseat of my truck. And what is this?” He bent closer, picking a scrap of material from Hawk’s lip. “This better not be a piece of the backseat again, dog.”
Hawk did not look the least bit contrite. He shook his head, jowls flapping. Madison giggled. “Not your typical police dog?”
“Just a bloodhound. They’re not patrol dogs, really more specialized for tracking and trailing. Maybe I should have requested a nice German shepherd. They don’t eat backseats.” Hawk yawned, and James chuckled. “We didn’t become partners until a couple of months ago. Just graduated from the K-9
