escaping from her bun and stuck them to the warm skin of her cheeks and neck. With the nubby concrete of the patio still warm beneath her feet, she glanced up at the sky and tried to gauge how long they had before nightfall. While Trixie sniffed the perimeter of the yard and the big German shepherd loped along behind her little buddy, Rosemary walked to the edge of her in-ground pool and dipped her toes into the water. As tempting as it might be to cool off in the pool, she hated to be out after dark. Besides, Duchess and Trixie had been on their own for most of the day and deserved a little one-on-one attention. A few games of fetch and tug-of-war before bedtime would do just as much to help her forget these restless urges to prod the truth from her brother, rail against the fear and loneliness that plagued nearly every waking moment and live her life like a normal person again.
Laughing as Duchess barked at a rabbit in the Dinkles’ backyard garden, startling Trixie with her deep woof and setting off a not-to-be-messed-with barking from the smaller dog, Rosemary opened the storage unit at the edge of the patio where she kept pool and outdoor pet supplies. One of the shelves was dedicated to a sack of birdseed, grooming brushes and a stash of dog toys.
She pulled out the tennis ball Duchess loved to chase and gave it a good toss, watching the dogs trip over each other in their eagerness to retrieve the faded yellow orb. Then she reached inside for one of Trixie’s squeaky toys and gasped.
The last rays of sunlight hitting the nape of her neck could have been shards of wintry ice as she snatched her hand away from the gruesome display inside.
“I don’t understand why this is happening,” she whispered through her tight throat.
But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the tiny stuffed animal—tan and curly coated like her sweet little Trixie—hanging from a noose fashioned out of twine from the cabinet’s top shelf. Nor could she ignore the typed message pinned to the polyester material.
I know what you did.
You don’t deserve to be rewarded.
You can’t escape justice.
Who would...? Why would...?
Duchess dropped the slobbery ball at her feet, and the dogs buffeted her back and forth, eager for her to throw it again. When she didn’t immediately respond, the German shepherd rose up on her hind legs to help herself to another toy inside the cabinet, and Rosemary snapped out of her shock.
“Down, girl. Get down.” Rosemary pushed the black-and-tan dog aside and closed the cabinet doors. Then she latched onto Duchess’s collar and swung her gaze around the yard.
Was someone watching her right now? Was some sicko out there getting off on just how terrified he could make her feel?
She led the dogs to the side gate with her to check the front of the house. No doubt picking up on her alarm, Trixie barked at nothing in particular. At least, nothing Rosemary could make out. She saw regular, light evening traffic out on the street, with all the cars driving slowly past because of the kids playing nearby. The Keiths had gone inside. There was no visible movement in the Dinkle house next door.
Rosemary’s breath burned in her throat. This had gone beyond excusing those calls as some drunk who’d read her name in the paper. Somebody wanted her scared? He’d succeeded.
“Duchess, heel. Trixie?” The German shepherd fell into step beside Rosemary as she scooped up the poodle. “No one’s going to hurt you, baby.”
She checked the separate entrance that led to the basement apartment where Stephen had lived when he’d gotten older. Good. Bolted tight. Then she took the dogs inside the kitchen and locked both the screen and steel doors behind her before punching in the code to reset the alarm. She flipped on the patio light, gave the dogs each her own rawhide chew and walked straight through to the front door, turning on every light inside and out.
Verifying for a second time that every room of the house was empty, Rosemary returned to the kitchen to brew a pot of green tea and fill a glass of ice to pour it over.
Her hands were shaking too hard to hold on to the frosty glass by the time she’d curled up on the library sofa with the dogs at her feet and the lights blazing. She should turn on the TV, read a book, sort through another box of papers and family mementos that had become her summer project, or get ready for bed and pretend she had any shot at sleeping now.
Rosemary deliberated each option for several moments before springing to her feet and circling around behind the large walnut desk that had been her father’s. She opened the bottom drawer and pushed aside a box of photographs to unlock her father’s old Army pistol from its metal box. It had been years since he’d taken her and Stephen target shooting out at a cousin’s farm in the country, so she couldn’t even be sure the thing still worked, much less remember exactly how to clean and load it. Still, it offered some measure of protection besides Duchess and Trixie. She pulled out the gun, magazine and a box of bullets and set them on top of the desk.
Then, even if they thought she was some sad, lonely spinster desperate for attention, she took a long swallow of her iced tea, picked up the phone and called KCPD to report the latest threat.
Detective Max Krolikowski was a soldier by training. He was mission oriented. Dinkin’ around on a wild-goose chase to see if some woman had talked to some guy about a crime that had occurred ages ago, just in case somebody somewhere could shed some new light on the unsolved case he and his partner from KCPD’s Cold Case Squad were investigating, was not his idea of a good time.
Especially not today.
Max stepped on the accelerator of his ’72 Chevy Chevelle, fisting his hand around the steering wheel in an effort to squeeze out the images of bits and pieces of fallen comrades in a remote desert village. He fought off the more troubling memory of prying a pistol out of a good man’s dead hand.
He should be in a bar someplace getting drunk, or at Mount Washington Cemetery, allowing himself to weep over the grave of Army Captain James Stecher. Max and his team had rescued Jimmy from the insurgents’ camp where he and two other NCOs been held hostage and tortured for seven days, but a part of Jimmy had never truly made it home. Eight years ago today, he’d put his gun in his mouth and ended the nightmares and survivor’s guilt that had haunted him since their homecoming.
Max had found the body, left the Army and gone back to school to become a cop all within a year. Getting bad guys off the streets went a ways toward making his world right again. Following up on some remote, random possibility of a lead on the anniversary of Jimmy’s senseless suicide did not.
“Whoa, brother.” The voice of his partner, Trent Dixon, sitting in the passenger seat across from him, thankfully interrupted his dark thoughts. “We’re not on a high-speed chase here. Slow it down before some uniform pulls us over.”
Max rolled his eyes behind his wraparound sunglasses but lifted his foot. A little. He snickered around the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. “Tell me again why we’re drivin’ out to visit this whack job Rosie March? She’s hardly a reliable witness. Murder suspects generally aren’t.”
Tall, Dark and Hard to Rile chuckled. “Because her brother—a convicted killer with motive for killing Richard Bratcher—is our best lead to solving Bratcher’s murder, and he’s not talking to us. But he is talking to his sister. At least, she’s the only person who visits him regularly. Maybe we can get
