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Hot vomit rocketed up the back of Officer Josie Quinn’s throat. Her hands trembled as she tore off her blood-slick vinyl gloves, clutching them in her fist. She clamped her other palm over her mouth and ran out the front door of the large Victorian house in Denton’s central district. Sour bile, coffee, and chunks of undigested food spurted through her fingers just as she threw her upper body over the porch railing. Bending at the waist was a challenge with her bulky bulletproof vest strapped around her torso like a steel casing. Eyes watering, she heaved the contents of her stomach onto the grass below. Acid seared the back of her throat.
A large hand clapped her back. Her field training officer, Artie Peluso said, “Come on, kid. Get it together.”
Her insides spasmed each time the images from the inside of the house flashed across her mind. Blood was streaked up her forearms and soaked into the knees of her pants. The gloves had been useless. She tried to breathe through the dry heaves, but more undigested food clotted in her throat.
“Kid,” Peluso said, more urgency in his voice. “Pull your shit together or go back to the car.”
Josie straightened up, sucking air in through her nose, and wiped her slimy hand on her pants. There was no point in asking for a tissue or paper towel. There weren’t any and Peluso was not about to find one for her. Only babies get coddled, he always told her.
She used her sleeve to wipe the rest of the throw-up from her mouth and turned to look up at him. His expression was inscrutable. “I’m fine,” she said.
Then she made the mistake of turning her head. On the sidewalk, at least a dozen neighbors had gathered, their wide eyes locked on her as they murmured to one another. Several marked Denton PD vehicles clustered behind them in the street. Some of the officers were already canvassing to see if anyone had seen anything, while others lingered, keeping the crowd away from the house. The call that had brought Peluso and Josie here was from a neighbor who’d heard screaming. A few of her colleagues smirked or laughed as they glanced her way. One of them muttered, “Fucking rookie” loud enough for her to hear. Her cheeks flamed. At least Officer Dusty Branson, standing at the bottom of the steps, had the courtesy to avert his eyes. He was her husband Ray’s best friend. He had a year on her and Ray, but he was still new.
“Kid,” Peluso said, his tone softening. “Look at me.”
Josie tore her eyes from the crowd that had just witnessed her humiliation. She stuffed the bloody gloves into her pocket.
“You did good in there. All that blood, what happened to those poor people—well, I would still be puking if I saw that my first year on the job.”
So. Much. Blood. Peluso’s words sparked the images back to life. It was everywhere. Dripping from the ceilings. It was almost impossible to walk in there without stepping in it, slipping in it. Then there were the bodies. The shredded flesh, the insides spilling out, the mutilation. In the six months she’d been a Denton PD officer, she’d seen a body that fell from a roof, a body smashed inside a car that
had been pulverized by a semi-truck, a few bodies ravaged by drugs, killed by overdoses, and one body riddled with gunshots.
None of that prepared her for what they walked in on today.
Peluso slapped her shoulder. “Hey, you held out till the very end, that’s what matters.”
She had been fine. Mostly. Not really, but she’d been able to stow her emotional and physical responses to the horror, pushing them down deep into the place where the bad things lived. That was until she was kneeling next to a girl so tiny she looked like a doll, and her hands were trying to push the flayed skin of her little chest back together.
“Why did you leave me with the girl?” Josie choked, the foul taste of bile stinging her tongue. “You could’ve… you have more experience rendering aid. I wasn’t—”
Peluso leaned down, invading her personal space, his face inches from hers. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “You think we get to pick and choose on this job, Quinn?”
She tried to step back but the railing bit into her lower back. “No, I—”
His voice was low and menacing. “You signed up for this shitshow. Whatever you get is what you deal with, what you live with. You don’t get to walk out. You don’t get to decide it’s too hard. If you can’t handle it, then go be a fucking librarian.”
Swallowing, Josie thrust her chin up at him. The truth was that she wasn’t sure she could handle it. All her life she’d wanted to be a police officer. She’d wanted to have the power to arrest people like her mother. Cruel, evil, ruthless people who bartered with innocent lives and crushed them without remorse. She’d wanted to be part of a team that fought to make people’s lives better. Except that this job was an endless procession of depravity and tragedy, punctuated by long hours of paperwork. No one gave a shit if her intentions were pure or if she wanted to protect people. Other than Peluso, the team she had hoped to join was made up of a bunch of middle-aged men who thought she would be better off shaking her ass for tips at the local strip club or serving them drinks at the bar after their long shifts.
Even the damn uniforms weren’t made for women. She had to wear men’s shirts and pants, which made her look like a little girl playing dress-up in her
daddy’s work clothes. For the first time ever, she cursed her slender frame and tiny waist. Fitting all of her equipment onto her duty belt was a pain in the ass, and hauling twenty pounds’ worth of gear around on her person for hours at a time was exhausting. Not to mention her back hurt constantly, and most of the time, her hips were completely numb.
And now she knew what it felt like to press her hands against a tiny girl’s sternum, bone visible under her fingertips, as her heartbeat faded.
Maybe she should become a librarian. Maybe she couldn’t handle this.
But she’d be damned if she let anyone know that, especially her field training officer. She sure as hell wasn’t going to show any more weakness to the assholes on the sidewalk laughing at her. Mustering as much attitude as she possibly could, she said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Peluso narrowed his eyes, staring until Josie knew he was waiting for her to break. She held eye contact. He was a decent guy but if he thought she was backing down from his challenge, he could go fuck himself.
They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps. Hugh Weaver, one of the Denton PD crime scene techs, trudged up the porch steps, swinging a heavy case. The faint smell of whiskey trailed behind him.
Peluso put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from entering the house. “Where’s the rest of your team?”
Hugh shrugged. “Hell if I know, but I’m not waiting all damn day for them.”
Peluso didn’t let him pass. “There’s a man out back but no one else goes inside until I say.”
Hugh grumbled but Peluso ignored him, turning back to Josie. “Quinn, go get the clipboard. You’ll be posted here at the door. You’ll be responsible for logging in every person who enters and exits the house.”
Wordlessly, Josie sprinted down the steps and muscled her way through the throngs of onlookers and Denton PD patrol officers until she reached her cruiser. A few officers quietly jeered her as she returned to the porch, but she ignored them. She was just happy that Peluso let her stay and gave her some responsibility. She quickly signed
Weaver in while Peluso went around to check on things at the back of the house.
Her back ached as she stood sentry, watching the crowd of neighbors thin out until only a dozen people remained. From the bottom of the steps, Dusty said, “You know who caught this case, don’t you?”
“I don’t care,” Josie said. “All the detectives are dickheads.”
Dusty chuckled. “This guy is the king of dickheads.”
“Great,” she mumbled. Just what she needed. The perfect topping on this shit sundae of a shift.
As promised, Jimmy “Frisk” Lampson showed up fifteen minutes later. He’d gotten his nickname because he routinely pulled over teenage girls for bogus reasons and then made them get out of their vehicles so he could “frisk” them. In high school, several girls had had encounters with him. He was a pervert and a pedophile. Josie always wondered if he’d done more than grope his victims, but no one ever came forward. He was a police officer, and he was very good at intimidating teenage girls. One girl in Josie’s class had tried to report him for touching her inappropriately during a traffic stop and she’d ended up in a juvenile detention center for three months. It was a lesson for all of them: Don’t fuck with Frisk Lampson.
Now he sauntered down the sidewalk like he had all day, grinning like he was coming to a backyard barbecue and not a crime scene where multiple people had been savagely slaughtered. He stopped to chat with a couple of the uniformed officers, joking and laughing. Ignoring the male neighbors, he zeroed in on the females, mostly older women. Not his type. Eventually, he spotted a group of teenage girls clustered along the edge of the pavement. Their cheeks were stained with tears, and they held themselves, arms wrapped tightly around their torsos.
Was he really going to pull his bullshit right here? In broad daylight, in front of a bunch of people? At a crime scene?
Josie let out a sigh of relief as he continued to chat with the girls, keeping his distance, jotting down notes on a pad as they talked. Minutes ticked by. A woman in her late thirties approached, joining the group. She curled an arm around one of the girls. Her daughter, probably. They turned to leave and two of the other girls went with them. Only one girl remained.
Scanning the street, Josie realized that the rest of the onlookers had migrated several feet away from Lampson and the girl. Separating the weak from the herd. Lampson subtly moved in on the girl until her back was pressed against a police car. There was a whispered discussion between them, Lampson gesturing toward the other vehicles. The
girl shook her head.
“Dusty,” said Josie.
“I’m not getting involved.”
Josie still couldn’t figure out why the hell Ray was friends with him.
“Just go over there. Ask him something.”
“I’m not getting involved.”
The girl’s mouth formed the word no. Lampson stepped closer, dropping his lips to her ear and saying something that made her recoil. Josie took a step forward, the movement drawing the girl’s attention. Their eyes locked. Josie knew the “rescue me” look. She was a woman, after all.
Rage ignited inside her, blazing through her veins. Her heart thrashed inside her rib cage. She could barely hear over the roar inside her own head. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Dusty.”
He must have recognized the change in her tone because he turned and looked at her. “Aww, shit,” he said. “The Chief already talked to you about your temper. How many times now?”
“Only twice.” Josie held out the clipboard. “Come up here and take this. You’re on the door.”
“It’s not worth it.”
The anger was white-hot now, blistering her insides. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Dusty. Get up here and take this. You’re on the door.”
With a heavy sigh, he tromped up the steps and took the clipboard. “You’re gonna regret this.”
Sweat dampened the nape of Detective Josie Quinn’s neck. Lifting her black locks with one hand, she used the other to fan her skin. Even at nine in the morning, the July air felt heavy and cloying. She stood on the sidewalk outside a residence in Central Denton, wishing this particular section of the street was shaded. This neighborhood was one of the oldest in the city, featuring large Victorian homes, most of which had at least one tree out front. Not this one. The prospect of air conditioning called to her like a siren song from her SUV, parked nearby.
“Here.” A paper coffee cup appeared in front of her face.
Josie took it and smiled up at FBI Agent Drake Nally. He was off duty, dressed casually in a fitted blue T-shirt and tan cargo shorts. Sunglasses shielded his brown eyes.
“Blonde latte?” she asked him.
“That’s what you asked for.”
“Thanks.” She took a long sip, ignoring the burn across her tongue.
Drake looked from her to her SUV. “Why aren’t you sitting in your car? In the AC?”
A smile curved Josie’s lips and she used her cup to motion toward the house. “Wait for it…”
Drake studied the property. Behind a wrought-iron fence, a Jack Russell terrier lay on its back, sunbathing on the front lawn. Folding his arms across his chest, Drake said, “Looks like a hotbed of crime.”
Anticipatory glee stirred in Josie’s heart. “Just wait.”
“Shouldn’t you be in there? Did you get a call?”
She sipped her latte, not even caring that the hot drink was going to make her sweat more. “We did. Margaret Bonitz. She’s an elderly widow. Last year she called 911 a half-dozen times saying that someone was breaking into her house and stealing things—but nothing valuable. Dishes and flatware. The remote control. Weird stuff. Responding officers couldn’t find any evidence of a break-in. They started to think she was senile.”
Drake turned away from the house and dipped his chin, watching Josie carefully. “She wasn’t senile, was she?”
“Nope. Neighborhood kids were messing with her. Gretchen had Mrs. Bonitz order a cheap camera, set it up for her, and caught them. Anyway, now when she calls, we come. Gretchen told her to call the investigative team, not 911.”
Drake pursed his lips, looking impatient. He wasn’t in Denton in his official capacity as an FBI agent. He only ever came to Denton with his girlfriend, Trinity Payne, who was also Josie’s twin sister. Trinity was an accomplished journalist who had moved from anchoring a national network news broadcast to having her own show, Unsolved Crimes with Trinity Payne. In fact, she was still in New York City finishing up an episode. It was very unusual for Drake to travel without her, much less for him to request a few minutes of
Josie’s time in private. Something was up, but right now, Josie was solely focused on Margaret Bonitz’s front door.
Realizing this, Drake sighed. He pushed a hand through his dark hair, somehow making his already perfectly tousled mane look even more dashing. He couldn’t be a more perfect fit for Josie’s sister. She hoped he wasn’t in Denton early to tell her that he was about to dump Trinity.
“If you got a call, why are you out here?” he asked.
“I’m waiting for my colleague. The new guy.”
He tipped his head back, letting out a long breath. “Oh. Douchebag.”
“I’m not supposed to call him that anymore. Out loud. But yeah, that’s the one.” He was still saved in her phone contacts as Douchebag, though.
Detective Kyle Turner had been hired about a year ago to replace their fallen colleague, Detective Finn Mettner. Denton was a small city in central Pennsylvania. Its central district—where Josie and Drake now stood—straddled the banks of a branch of the Susquehanna River but the city limits extended far beyond that, its rural roads threading through the mountains that surrounded it. Its population was enough to support a decent-sized police department as well as a four-member investigative team which included Josie, her husband, Lieutenant Noah Fraley, Detective Gretchen Palmer, and the newest and most loathsome member of the team, Turner.
“He hasn’t gotten any better then?” Drake asked.
Josie took another sip of her latte. “Well, I’m more inclined to throat punch him now than knee him in his balls, if that tells you anything.”
Drake snickered. “I’m not sure what that says about him—or you.”
“He’s still late filing his shitty reports. Half the time we have no idea where he is. One of these days his phone will need to be surgically removed from his hand—if Gretchen doesn’t shove it up his ass before then—but we’re still working on his inability to call us by our actual names.”
The front door of Mrs. Bonitz’s house opened and Turner emerged, phone in hand, looking as annoyed as ever. Margaret followed him onto the porch, chattering away, pointing an arthritic finger up at his face. Apparently, he made as good a first impression on her as he did on everyone else. Without looking away from his phone screen, Turner said something to her that made her shake her head
in disgust.
Finally noticing the presence of his owner and Turner, the dog flipped onto its feet.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Drake.
“You’ll see.”
Turner waved Mrs. Bonitz away and started down the walk, head bent to his phone, thumb scrolling. The dog let out a growl. Turner didn’t notice. The dog followed him to the gate. Turner fumbled to unlatch it. Mrs. Bonitz’s dog took that opportunity to lift his leg and make his displeasure with the large unwelcome human known.
Josie hid her giggle behind her coffee cup.
A stream of expletives burst from Turner’s mouth as he watched the dog dart away, back to the safety of the porch. Mrs. Bonitz still stood there, now wearing a satisfied smile. Turner looked down at his soaked pantleg and let out a groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Finally, he got the gate unlatched and stalked over to Josie, not sparing Drake a glance. Turner towered over her, his deep-set blue eyes flashing with fury as he speared a finger at her face. “You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?”
Josie didn’t back away. “I know that when you come here, if you don’t leave fast enough, Mrs. Bonitz’s dog will piss on your leg. I did not know you would take so long getting the gate open.”
Turner looked down at his pantleg again, growling. He wore a suit to work every day, even in the middle of the summer. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Drake watched, an amused smile on his face.
“What did Mrs. Bonitz say?” Josie asked innocently.
“You don’t give two shits what Mrs. Bonitz said.”
“Now that’s not true—”
Turner thrust a finger in her face again. “Listen, sweetheart—”
A slow grin spread across Josie’s face when he froze. She reached up and pushed his arm down. Then she held out a palm. “Come on, Turner.”
From her periphery she saw Drake arch a brow.
Shaking his head, Turner jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. “This is bullshit.”
“You agreed to this so hand it over. It’s only Monday. At this rate, by the end of the week I’ll have enough money to buy the entire department a round of drinks.”
Mumbling even more curses, Turner started searching his pants pockets instead.
Finally, he came up with a crumpled dollar bill and deposited it into Josie’s hand.
“You could make an effort to look a little less smug,” he told her.
“Fuck that.” She did make an effort not to wrinkle her nose when she closed her fist around the dollar to find that it was damp. Stuffing it into the pocket of her khakis, she slugged down the rest of her latte.
Turner’s head swiveled toward Drake, giving him a slow appraisal. Both men were over six feet. Seeing them face to face, Josie would venture to guess they were exactly the same height. Turner said, “Who the hell is this? He looks like a Fed.”
Drake stroked his goatee and glanced over at Josie. “Does he always talk about people like they’re not standing right in front of him?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Turner rolled his eyes and extended his hand to Drake. “Detective Kyle Turner.”
Drake accepted the offering. “Special Agent Drake Nally.”
“You are a Fed. I knew it. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me Mrs. Bonitz has a direct line to you, too. I don’t think we need the FBI to figure out which neighbor keeps putting their garbage in her cans.”
“He’s here for me,” Josie said.
One of Turner’s brows quirked. “Really? Does your husband know?”
Drake sidled over to Josie and slid an arm around her shoulders. Deadpan, he said, “I just told him. We’re going to fight to the death later to see who gets to stay.”
Josie could see the momentary confusion flash through Turner’s eyes. Then he returned Drake’s deadpan tone. “May the best man win.”
Josie sniffed the air. “You smell like piss.”
“Thanks to you, sweet—” He broke off and quickly corrected himself. “Quinn.”
“That still counts,” Josie said. “Half a ‘sweetheart’ is fifty cents.”
“I’ll put it in the jar at the stationhouse later,” he grumbled. “I gotta go home and change my pants. Let me know if any other old ladies need help with their chores.”
Drake released
Josie as they watched Turner walk away, phone back in his hand. “Wow. He’s a ray of sunshine, isn’t he?”
Josie turned to face him, surprised at just how nervous she felt. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. “Never mind him. What’s going on? Why all the secrecy?”
Drake took off his glasses and grinned. “Relax. It’s good news. I’m going to ask Trinity to marry me.”
Josie’s worry quickly transformed into excitement. She rocked up onto her toes and threw an arm around his neck, squeezing him in a half-hug. “Drake! That’s amazing!”
He patted her back. There was an edge of apprehension when he said, “She’ll say yes, won’t she?”
Releasing him, Josie laughed. “Considering that she thinks you’ve taken way too long to do it already, yes. I hope you’ve got something dramatic planned for the proposal because it’s ‘go big or go home’ with Trinity.”
Drake ran his hands through his hair again. “Uh, yeah, I’ve met her. It’s going to be hard to beat jumping off a cliff though.”
“My husband didn’t jump off a cliff. That wasn’t part of the proposal. I hope you got Trinity a ring you can see from space.”
Drake rolled his eyes. “Why do you think it’s taken me so long to propose? Government employees don’t make that much. I had to save up.”
Josie laughed again. “You have my blessing. I won’t tell anyone besides Noah. What is your plan?”
He told her.
Josie raised a brow. “Oh, you’re doing it this week? Here?”
He nodded and let out a shaky breath. He was nervous, which was kind of sweet. “So, will you guys help me?”
“Of course.”
Her ringtone sounded. She took her phone from her pocket and answered dispatch with a curt, “Quinn.” As she listened, her pulse fluttered. “On my way,” she said, hanging up.
Drake frowned. “Catch a bad one?”
Josie walked around to the driver’s side door of her SUV. “I’m not sure. Dispatch said there’s a baby sitting in a stroller in the city park with no parent to be found.”
The sound of a baby wailing set Josie’s teeth on edge as she jogged along one of Denton City Park’s wide asphalt trails. Sweat poured down the sides of her face as much from tension as from the heat. Here in the park, which teemed with foliage, flowers, and shrubbery, it was always significantly cooler, but the humidity added a suffocating type of heat to the mix. As she drew closer, she tried to determine what type of cry they were dealing with. Josie and her husband didn’t have children. Unable to have their own, they’d spent the last year wading through a lengthy process in order to be able to adopt. Last month, they’d had a successful home study and been approved. They were in the process of preparing their adoption profile in order to be put on the waiting list to match with a prospective child.
But Josie still knew the different types of cries that infants used to make their needs known. The I’m-hungry cry. The I’m-hungry-and-you-waited-way-too-long-to-feed-me cry that was so intense and scary that it always made her worry the neighbors were going to call 911. The change-my-diaper cry. The I’m-in-pain cry which came with a really fun guessing game as to whether it was due to gas, teething, colic, ear infection, or something more serious. The I’m-too-cold-or-too-hot cry. The I’m-overly-tired cry. The I-just-want-to-be-held cry. One of her best friends, Misty DeRossi, had given birth to Josie’s late first husband’s son almost eight years ago and Josie had been one of little Harris’s primary babysitters since his infancy.
Damp with perspiration, the back of Josie’s polo shirt clung to her skin. The trail curved twice in an S shape. The infant’s shrieks grew louder. Finally, the stroller came into view. It was the kind with the detachable car seat. Josie was glad to see its hood was extended, giving the infant protection from the sun. One uniformed officer—Dougherty—gripped the handle of the stroller and gently pushed it back and forth while peering down at the baby. His partner, Brennan, stood nearby, talking into his radio.
Josie jogged over to the stroller and muscled Dougherty out of the way. ...
