An Eye for Danger (3 page)

I waited out his dominance routine, not wanting him to believe he could bully me in kind. Sure, I could've given Petosa directions, stayed behind the wall of cops—I could've stayed home for that matter. Nowhere felt safer than behind those four walls, and the last thing I needed was to land in the middle of another investigation. But the detective didn't have to rub my nose in it.

Home seemed miles away now. Still my blood pumped. I could run a marathon from all the excitement, yet my stomach twisted and my nerves started splintering. If I'd made it past my safety zone, I could damn well survive one arrogant cop, I convinced myself.

Bending, I stretched my muscles to expunge my anxieties, relax my breathing, ease my heart rate.

And came face to face with blood canvassing my legs. Embedded in my fingernails. The stain of death everywhere. The rancid scent of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I squeezed my eyes shut and a blinding light flashed through my mind, the thrust of a searing backdraft slammed my chest. Sirens wailed in my ears, fumes from the smoldering car seats choked my lungs. The night my fiancé exploded into flames came roaring back to life.

The air thinned, my balance waned. My hand slapped onto the ground to keep me from landing face-first. The fallout I'd expected at Great Hill finally caught up with me. And rammed like a freight train. "It's not real," I repeated in a whisper. Still adrenaline surged hotter than coffee through my veins.

Experience told me I couldn't halt the spinning or shed the consuming desperation to flee. Pure, engrossing panic.
Not real, damn it
. My mouth watered, and I wanted desperately to expel breakfast, so I fought to fix my eyes on something solid. Like the detective's buttery shoes.

"You mean the blonde with chocolate eyes, athletic build, bitchy dog?" said the detective. "She's standing right in front of—whoa."

I stood too fast and grabbed for dead air. My head spun off its axis, turning me sideways. I was slipping, slipping...

Please, God, don't let me pass out in front of the detective.

McCarthy held my arms. "Lean into me, I've got you." He urged me to sit, and I relented, my knees buckling easily as he lowered me to the ground. "Take a couple deep breaths. That's good. Let's get your name."

"Julie," I whispered, blinking to stop the park from blurring further. "Julie Larson."

"Get an officer over here," he yelled over his shoulder to men I couldn't see. The detective crouched beside me, his hand between my shoulder blades. "Just breathe, Julie. Are you on any medications, any drugs?"

"No. For God's sake, no." But maybe I'd rethink those antidepressants. "Just a little winded."

Blood pulsed down my arms and legs, and I swallowed the coffee remnants seeping into my mouth. Little did the detective know the sight of his shoes reminded me I wanted to throw up, a gift that probably wouldn't match his fashion sense, so I aimed my sights on the horizon, where a billowing blue windbreaker hurried across the lawn.

"How about family, someone I can call for you."

"No. Nobody," I said, lowering my gaze.

When the young man neared, I could see a toolbox twice his width squeezed under his stick arm and that his NYPD baseball cap was too big for his shaved, bony skull. An infant's cough could knock him over.

The detective spoke in cooling tones now that he had an audience. "Officer Houston will stay with you. He'll collect a little evidence, and then he'll find an officer to drive you to the station for a full interview. You okay without me?"

"I'm sure I'll manage." I must have looked shocked at Detective McCarthy's concern, but what I wanted was for him to remove his hand from my elbow.

"You just seem a little shaky. Wouldn't want you to think I was abandoning you."

"I said I'm fine, Detective."

"Like the lady said." With a nod, he released me to Houston's care, blocking the sun as he rose. "This is Houston's first field assignment, so please be patient. And please, call me Stone." He offered one of those arrogant two-finger salutes before he jogged up the hill.

Immediately I regretted my gruff manners. Attentive, authoritative, safe. Handsome. Only an idiot of a single, heterosexual woman would bark at such a man.

Houston turned his back to me, revealing the gold CSU letters on his windbreaker as he crouched over the wide jaws of his toolbox. Crime Scene Unit, I assumed. Keeping his distance, he stared sheepishly at Max, who'd splayed on the lawn, panting and wagging his tail so it swept over the short, icy grass.

"He's not going to bite you," I said.

"I'm more of a cat person," Houston whispered, as if Max would attack him over the slight. He eyed Max while he quietly shook out a clear-plastic bag, the kind I used for last-night's lasagna leftovers. "Your shoes first, if that's okay with him."

A sharp whistle came from above. Stone waved from the crest of the hill and spoke into his brick, his voice coming over Houston's radio a microsecond later. "Forget collection, Houston. Send her up. ASAP."

Houston sighed at his open toolbox, like he was missing a chance to play with toys.

"Duty calls." I smiled at him, eager to escape his shrinking violet persona, and headed up the hill, calling Max to my side.

At the top of Great Hill, I choked back the nagging tension to run home and kept moving toward the crime scene. If I could help capture the thugs, perhaps no one else would get hurt. And that was a sacrifice, if not a repayment, worth making.

I found Stone hunkered above the puddle, pivoting his head as he followed the trail of muddy prints—the echoes of my feet and Max's paws trailing blood—then turning his head to view the nearby mound of leaves. He mumbled to Petosa something about Goliath, and I laughed to myself to think of Bear Man's latest moniker.

After several minutes of his silent pondering, Stone turned and nodded to me, clearly aware I'd been waiting. "I need you to show us what you saw, Miss Larson. If you'll step this way. Secure the dog, please." He looked me over, a mix of pleasure and criticism showing in his face. "I assume you have a leash."

Biting my lip, I shrugged. He shook his head and glanced to Petosa, clearly annoyed but hopefully too preoccupied with his crime scene to write me a fat ticket. From his pocket he pulled blue booties, the kind they use in hospitals and Army medic tents that weren't already soaked in blood.

"Can't have you contaminating my scene any further." He came to my side and bent to slip them over my shoes as the half-dozen other cops watched.

Max growled, and I snapped my finger to shush him.

"Or your dog," added Stone with a wary eye on Max.

"You can try putting booties on him, if you like." I smirked when Stone gave me a double-take.
Go ahead, I dare you.

"We could try the handcuffs," he replied.

I kept my lips sealed and lifted my foot. My balance wavered, however, and I grabbed the detective's shoulder. A grin teased his lips, so I withdrew my hand. "Let's just get this over with, shall we," I grumbled.

"Like the lady said." He rose within inches of my face, and I could smell his breath mint. "But let me know if it gets to be too much. You've seen a lot for one day. For a civilian."

"I'm not going to pieces on you, Detective." I swallowed hard. I'd run with bigger, tougher boys than cocky detectives.

As I reached for Max's collar, he bolted toward the mound of leaves. "Max, stop."

"Secure the damn dog," yelled Stone, as I lunged after Max.

By the time I reached him, he'd latched onto a solid object in the leaf pile, growling and twisting like it was a pull-toy, so Petosa was shy to inject his bare fingers to grab Max's collar.

"Drop it," I snapped and withdrew Max before Petosa landed a heel-kick to his ribs.

"You oughta muzzle that thing," said Petosa.

My mouth opened to give Petosa, uniform or not, a big slice of Larson pie. That's when I saw the hairy arm Max had flung by the sleeve, causing the attached body to shake free of its leafy cloak. The man's skin was cement gray. I knew first-hand that color, had printed photos of such bodies, won awards for them, for God's sake. I could only assume the man's identity: Tony, the third guy the thugs had argued over. The man whose blood had painted my legs.

My stomach quivered and I backed away. And bumped right into a brick wall. Stone's chest.

"Didn't want you to see that." Stone's large hands braced my shoulders and slowly turned me from the scene. He walked me a few steps away, Max trailing us, Stone's arm protectively curled over my shoulders. "We can stop, if you need to rest."

"No, I'm good. I'm ready," I said, tightening onto Max's collar. Damn it, I'd seen bodies before. Whole bodies, parts of bodies, pieces I could barely discern to be human. I could handle a simple murder scene, and without a damn panic attack, or fainting spell, or reckless dog.

"Clear the scene," Stone yelled, and I jumped at the sharpness of his tone.

His men hustled out of his way like nervous children. Their footsteps sounded like drums, their rustling of leaves like cymbals. I tried to clear my mind and squeezed my fingers, which already felt fat and numb with the after-effects of panic.

Pointing to Petosa, Stone said, "He's your stand-in for the gunman. I'll play the second suspect."

Gunman. As in Goliath. As in Bear Man. Whom I'd stood inches from and survived.

"Show time," Stone said with a clap of his hands that snapped me to attention.

I inhaled slowly, quieted my mind, and gave Max signals to sit and stay far from the body and even farther from the cops: finger up, palm out. Piece of cake.

Then I gestured for Petosa to move toward Bear Man's original position looming over the mound, where the body now lay exposed. From my angle I could see the man's fingers almost touching Petosa's shoelace. I blinked, looked away.

"Where were you at this point?" Stone asked.

Backing halfway down the hill, I stopped and called, "About here. Max on my right."

Max stirred but I held out my palm.
Hold still, buddy
.

"And the second suspect I believe stood here." Stone stepped closer to Petosa's position. Too close.

"No, back further." I pointed to the hole in the bushes. "He crawled out from there."

Max bolted, mistaking my words and gesture for commands, and leapt through the hole with a circus lion's grace.

Shit, not again.

I darted after him, ignoring Stone's demands to stop, and squeezed through the breach. Which landed me in a veil of woods.

I picked up speed and kept running down the steep grade, following the sounds of Max's crunching feet. Pent-up adrenaline pressed me to escape the whole damn scene of authority and arrogance and corpses.

I whistled, I yelled, but no Max. By now I'd ventured way off path and into the rough terrain of the north park woods, far from cops, though I could make out Stone's calls in the distance. They must have searched this area already.

Continuing down to the base of the ravine, I slipped under Huddlestone Arch, where slick, mossy rock canvassed the bridge's underbelly. The echo of trickling water drowned out the voice demanding my return and Max's growls ahead of me.

When I emerged on the other side, I paused. Branches snapped, leaves shuffled. Yellow flashed in the distance and I followed, my feet dancing along the steep ravine bank above the creek, my hands clutching damp trees for balance. Progress came in inches.

Max's butt wiggled near a giant maple at the mouth of the ravine, so I jumped over the creek and climbed the opposite embankment, the ripe earth and detritus seeping under my nails and smearing my legs with new residues. I'd catch hell for destroying Stone's precious evidence, but anything was better than blood.

Max's wiry tail stiffened, signaling he'd found prey.

"Max, come. Leave the poor squirrel alone." I slipped down the slope and caught my balance by grabbing an overhead branch.

Then I saw this wasn't another squirrel Max ensnared, but an oatmeal-colored sweater. Scrambling backwards on his thin legs, Max writhed and growled, stretching the knitted sleeve like a sausage casing.

"Drop it!" I had to stop him from attacking a homeless man before the cops caught Max and threw him on death row.

Darting forward, I arrived at the base of the maple tree within reach of my dog.

And stared down the eye of a gun.

"Call off the mutt, lady." Same peacoat, same orange pants, same brassy hair. Same underdog thug.

CHAPTER 2

"Don't got all day," said the man in a raspy voice, blood dripping from his lip and nose. I recalled his name was Sam, like that would humanize the bastard as he wagged his gun, implying he'd shoot Max if I didn't hurry up and comply. And here I'd thought he'd saved my life.

"Miss Larson." Stone's voice echoed from the top of the ravine. "Where the hell are you?" Then he came into view on the ledge above us, hooking his arm around a tree trunk so he didn't slide down the embankment. "If you're done with your sightseeing tour, my men and I would like to move on with this investigation. Today, please."

From the detective's vantage he couldn't see the thug hiding at the base of the maple tree. Likewise, Sam was protected from Stone's view—and his gun aim—by a tree trunk larger than my closet.

But nothing stood between me and the thug's gun except Max. And Max was the only family I had left in this world.

"Get him off me. Now," snapped Sam, cutting through my stupor. He pulled his over-stretched sleeve back inside his peacoat, but Max was pulling with gusto, making Sam lean hard, unable to flee the scene.

"Leave it." I hooked my fingers inside Max's collar and yanked, despite wanting him to gnaw off the man's arm. Max twisted and ripped the knitting, growling with delight.
Let go, damn it, or he'll shoot us both.
What the thug didn't know was Max was playing tug of war, not attacking as he ought to be.

"Off!" I gave another tug and Max released, while I fell on my ass, legs splayed. I could barely hold onto Max's collar as I got my bearings.