Dangerous

“Probably not.” She sipped coffee. “Exactly what do you do when you aren’t impersonating a police officer?” she asked politely.

He pursed his lips and his silver eyes twinkled. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to—”

A loud horn drowned out the rest. This time, it was a fire truck. They waved. Kilraven waved back. So did Winnie.

“Have to what?” she asked him.

“Well, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“That’s just stonewalling, Kilraven,” she pointed out. She frowned. “Don’t you have a first name?”

“Sure. It’s—”

Another loud horn drowned that out, too.

They both turned. Cash Grier pulled up beside the picnic table and let down his window on the driver’s side. “Isn’t it a little cold to be drinking coffee outside?” he asked.

Kilraven gave him a wry look. “Everybody at the EOC saw me drive off with Winnie,” he said complacently. “So far, there have been two cop cars and a fire truck. And, oh, look, there comes the Willow Creek Police Department. A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” he called loudly to the driver, who was from northern Jacobs County. He just grinned and waved and drove on.

Winnie hadn’t realized how much traffic had gone by until then. She burst out laughing. No wonder Kilraven had wanted to sit out here. He wasn’t going to have her gossiped about. It touched her.

“If I were you, I’d take her to Barbara’s Café to have this discussion,” Cash told him. “It’s much more private.”

“Private?” Kilraven exclaimed.

Cash pointed to the road. There were, in a row, two sheriffs’ cars, a state police vehicle, a fire and rescue truck, an ambulance and, of all things, a fire department ladder truck. They all tooted and waved as they went by, creating a wave of dust.

Cash Grier shook his head. “Now, that’s a shame you’ll get all dusty. Maybe you should take her back inside,” he said with an angelic expression.

“You know what you can do,” Kilraven told him. He got up and held out his hand for Winnie’s cup. “I’m putting these in the sink, and then we’re leaving.”

“Spoilsport.” Cash sighed. “Now we’ll all have to go back to work!”

“I can suggest a place to do it,” Kilraven muttered.

Cash winked at Winnie, who couldn’t stop laughing. He drove off.

Winnie got up, sighed and dug in her coat pocket for her car keys. It had been, in some ways, the most eventful hour of her life. She knew things about Kilraven that nobody else did, and she felt close to him. It was the first time in their turbulent relationship that she felt any hope for the future. Not that getting closer to him was going to be easy, she told herself. Especially not with him in San Antonio and her in Jacobsville.

He came back out, locking the door behind him. He looked around as he danced gracefully down the steps and joined her. “What, no traffic jam?” he exclaimed, nodding toward the deserted road. “Maybe they ran out of rubberneckers.”

Just as he said that, a funeral procession came by, headed by none other than the long-suffering Macreedy. He was famous for getting lost while leading processions. He didn’t blow his horn. In fact, he really did look lost. The procession went on down the road with Winnie and Kilraven staring after it.

“Don’t tell me he’s losing another funeral procession,” she wailed. “Sheriff Carson Hayes will fry him up and serve him on toast if he does it again.”

“No kidding,” Kilraven agreed. “There’s already been the threat of a lawsuit by one family.” He shook his head. “Hayes really needs to put that boy behind a desk.”

“Or take away his car keys,” she agreed.

He looked down at her with an oddly affectionate expression. “Come on. You’re getting chilled.”

He walked her back to her car, towering over her. “You’ve come a long way since that day you went wailing home because you forgot to tell me a perp was armed.”

She smiled. “I was lucky. I could have gotten you killed.”

He hesitated. “These flashes of insight, do they run in your family?”

“I don’t know much about my family,” she confessed. “My father was very remote after my mother left us.”

“Did you have any contact with your uncle?” he asked.

She gaped at him. “How do you know about him?”

He didn’t want to confess what he knew about the man. He shrugged. “Someone mentioned his name.”

“We don’t have any contact at all. We didn’t,” she corrected. “He died a month ago. Or so we were told.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her dark eyes were cold. “I’m not. He and my mother ran away together and left my father with three kids to raise. Well, two kids actually. Boone was in the military by then. I look like my mother. Dad hated that. He hated me.” She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say as much.

But he read that in her expression. “We all have pivotal times in our lives, when a decision leads to a different future.” He smiled. “In the sixteenth century, Henry VIII fell in love with a young girl and decided that his Catholic wife, Catherine of Aragon, was too old to give him a son anyway, so he spent years finding a way to divorce her and marry the young girl, whom he was certain could produce a male heir. In the end, he destroyed the Catholic Church in England to accomplish it. He married Ann Boleyn, a protestant who had been one of Catherine’s ladies, and from that start the Anglican Church was born. The child of that union was not a son, but Elizabeth, who became queen of England after her brother and half sister. All that, for love of a woman.” He pursed his lips and his eyes twinkled. “As it turned out, he couldn’t get a son from Ann Boleyn either, so he found a way to frame her for adultery and cut off her head. Ten days later, he married a woman who could give him a son.”

“The wretch!” she exclaimed, outraged.

“That’s why we have elected officials instead of kings with absolute power,” he told her.

She shook her head. “How do you know all that?”

He leaned down. “You mustn’t mention it, but I have a degree in history.”

“Well!”

“But I specialized in Scottish history, not English. I’m one of a handful of people who think James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, got a raw deal from history for marrying Mary, Queen of Scots. But don’t mention that out loud.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

He opened her car door for her. Before she got in, he drew a long strand of her blond hair over his big hand, studying its softness and beautiful pale color.

Her eyes slid over his face. “Your brother wears his hair long, in a ponytail. You keep yours short.”

“Is that a question?”

She nodded.

“Jon is particularly heavy on the Native American side of his ancestry.”

“And you aren’t?”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, Winnie,” he said quietly, making her name sound foreign and sweet and different. “Maybe I’m hiding from it.”

“Not you,” she said with conviction. “I can’t see you hiding from anything.”

That soft pride in her tone made him feel taller. He let go of her hair. “Drive carefully,” he said.

“I will. See you.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he did nod.

With her heart flying up in her throat, she got in and drove away. It wasn’t until she got home that she realized, she still didn’t know his first name.

4

Winnie was back at work the next morning almost walking on air. Kilraven had kissed her. Not only that, he seemed to really like her. Maybe San Antonio wasn’t so far away. He might visit. He might take her out on a date. Anything was possible.

She put her purse in her locker and went to her station. It was in the shape of a semicircle, and contained a bank of computers. Directly in front of her was a keyboard; behind it was a computer screen. This was the radio from which she could contact any police, fire or EMS department, although her job was police dispatch. There were separate stations for fire, police and EMS. Fire had one dispatcher, EMS had two. She, along with Shirley at a separate console, handled law enforcement traffic on her shift for all of Jacobs County. Beside her was a screen for the NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. Behind the computer screen, on a shelf, sat three other computer screens. One, an incident screen, noted the location of the units and their current status. The middle was CAD, or computer aided dispatch, which featured a form into which information such as activity code and location were placed; typing in the location brought up such data as prior calls at the residence, the nearest fire hydrant in case of fire, the name and address of a key holder and even a box to fax the incident to the police department. It also had screens for names and numbers of law enforcement personnel, including cell phone and pager numbers. There was a mobile data terminal from which dispatch could send messages to law enforcement on their laptops in their cars. The third computer screen was the phone itself, the heart and soul of the operation, through which desperation and fear and panic were heard daily and gently handled.

This information came through two call takers. Their job was to take the calls as they came in, put them into the computer and send them to the appropriate desk: fire, police or EMS. Once the location and situation were input, the computer decided which was the appropriate agency or agencies to be dispatched. For a domestic incident with injuries, police were sent first to secure the scene, and an ambulance would stage in the area until it was deemed safe for the EMS personnel to enter the house to assist the injured. Often the perpetrator was still inside and dangerous to anyone who attempted to help the victim. More police officers died responding to domestic disputes than almost any other job-related duty.

Winnie had just dispatched a police officer to the scene of a motor vehicle accident, along with fire and rescue, and was waiting for further information.

In between the calls, Shirley leaned over while the supervisor was talking to a visitor. “Did you hear about the break in the murder case?”

“What break?”

“They found Kilraven’s cell phone number clenched in the victim’s hand.”

“Oh, that. Yes, Kilraven told me.”

Shirley’s eyes twinkled. “Did he now? Might one ask what else he told you, all alone at his house?”

“How do you know we went to his house?” Winnie asked, blushing.

“A few people told us. There was a sheriff’s deputy, Chief Grier, a fireman, a funeral director …”

Winnie laughed. “I should have known.”

“They did all just mention that you and Kilraven were drinking coffee at a picnic table, outside in the freezing cold,” Shirley added.

“Well, Kilraven felt that we shouldn’t start gossip.”

“As if.” Shirley chuckled. “What were you talking about?” she added slyly.

“The murder case,” Winnie said with a grin. “No, really, we were,” she added when she saw her coworker’s expression. “You remember Senator Fowler’s kitchen help died mysteriously after she gave some information to Alice Jones, the coroner’s investigator from San Antonio, about the victim? Now there’s gossip the murder might be linked to other murders in San Antonio.” It was safe to tell her that. No way was she going to add that Kilraven’s family might be involved.

“Wow,” Shirley exclaimed softly.

“Heads up,” Winnie whispered, grinning and turned away before Maddie Sims came toward them. The older woman never jumped on them about talking because they only passed remarks back and forth during lulls in the operations, but she did like them to pay attention on the job. She would know what they did anyway because everything was recorded when they were working. Maddie would be diplomatic about it, though.

Winnie smiled as Maddie passed. A message from the police officer responding to the wreck was just coming in, requesting a want and warrants on a car tag. She turned back to her console and began typing in the numbers.

IT WAS A BUSY NIGHT. There was an attempted suicide, which, fortunately, they were able to get help dispatched in time. There were assorted sick calls, one kitchen fire, several car versus deer reports, two domestic calls, a large animal in the road and three drunk driver reports, only one of which resulted in an arrest. Often a drunk driver was reported on the highway, but no good description of the vehicle or direction of travel was given and it was a big county. Occasionally, an observant citizen could provide a description and tag number, but not always. Unless a squad car was actually in the area of the report, it was difficult sometimes to pursue. You couldn’t pull an officer off the investigation of an accident or a burglary or a robbery, she mused, to go roaming the county looking for an inebriated driver, no matter how much the officers would like to catch one.

At break, she and Shirley worried about the assault on Rick Marquez.

“I hope he’s not going to be attacked again, when he goes back to work. Somebody wants this case covered up pretty badly,” Shirley said.

“Yes,” Winnie agreed, “and it looks like this is only the tip of the iceberg. We still have that mangled murder victim in our county. Senator Fowler’s hired help told Alice Jones something about him and the poor woman was murdered in a way that made it look like suicide. Now there’s an attempt on Rick, who’s been helping investigate it.”

“He’s lucky he has such a hard head,” Shirley said.

“And that his partner went searching for him when he didn’t turn up to look at some paperwork she’d just found. Yes, I heard about that from Keely,” Winnie said. “Sheriff Hayes,” she added with a grin, “is Boone’s best friend, so they know more than most people about what’s going on. Well, except for us,” she added wryly. “We know everything.”

“Almost everything, anyway. You know, we used to live in such a peaceful county.” Shirley sighed. “Then Keely lost her mother to a killer who was friends with her father. Now we get a murder victim dead in our river and his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. This is a dangerous place to live.”

“Every place is dangerous, even small towns,” she replied with a smile. “It’s the times we live in.”

“I guess so.”

They had homemade soup with cornbread, courtesy of one of the other dispatchers. It was nice to have something besides takeout, which got old very quickly on ten-hour shifts. The operators only worked four days a week, not necessarily in sequence, but they were stress-filled. All of them loved the job, or they wouldn’t be doing it. Saving lives, which they did on a daily basis, was a blessing in itself. But days off were good so that they had a chance to recover just a little bit from the nerve-racking series of desperate situations in which they assisted the appropriate authorities. Winnie had never loved a job so much. She smiled at Shirley, and thought what a nice bunch of people she worked with.

KILRAVEN WAS PUMPING his brother for information. It was, as usual, hard going. Jon was even more tight-lipped than Kilraven.

“It’s an ongoing murder investigation,” he insisted, throwing up his hands. “I can’t discuss it with you.”

Kilraven, comfortably seated in the one good chair in Jon’s office, just glared at him with angry silver eyes. “This is your niece and your sister-in-law we’re talking about,” he said icily. “I can help. Let me help.”

Jon perched on the edge of his desk. He was immaculate, from his polished black shoes to the long, elegant fingers that were always manicured. His black hair was caught in a ponytail that hung to his waist. His face grew solemn. “All right. But if Garon Grier asks me, I’m telling him that you stood on me in order to get this information.”

Kilraven grinned. “Should I stand on you, just for appearances?” He indicated his big booted feet. “I’m game.”

“I’d like to see you stand on me,” Jon shot back.

“Come on, come on, talk.”

Jon sighed. “I don’t have much, but I’ll share.” He punched the intercom. “Ms. Perry, could you bring me the Fowler file, please.”

There was a pause. A light, airy, sarcastic feminine voice answered. “Hard copy is kept in your filing cabinet, Mr. Blackhawk,” she said sweetly. “Lost our password again, have we?”

Jon’s face tautened. “What I am losing, rapidly, is my patience. For your information, Garon took out the files to show Agent Simmons. They’re in your filing cabinet.”

There was a dead silence. A filing cabinet was opened and then closed, and impatient high-heels came marching into Jon’s office with a pleasant face, blue eyes and jet-black hair, cut short.

She put a file on the desk. “We do have electronic copies of this, password-protected, if your password ever presents itself again,” she said sweetly.

Jon glared at her. “You were an hour late for work two mornings this week, Ms. Perry,” he said, his tone as bland as her own. “So far, I haven’t reported it to Garon.”

She stiffened. Her blue eyes had blue shadows under them. She didn’t shoot back an excuse.

“Perhaps it would help your present attitude if you knew that Ms. Smith has an extensive rap sheet, of which my mother is unaware. With your, shall we say, proclivities for sneaking in the back door of protected files, I should think you could dig out the rest of the information all by yourself. If,” he added with dripping sarcasm, “you can manage to keep your present job long enough to look for it.”

She reddened. Her blue eyes shot ice daggers at him, but her voice was even when she spoke. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything further, Mr. Blackhawk.” She left, without even looking at Kilraven. Her back was as stiff as her expression.

Jon got up and closed the door behind her with a little jerk. His own eyes, liquid black, were smoldering. “Ever since my mother sent Jill Smith in here to vamp me, it’s been like this.”

“You did have Ms. Smith arrested for harassment,” Kilraven pointed out with barely suppressed amusement. “And taken out in handcuffs, if I recall?”

Jon shrugged. “A man isn’t safe alone in his own office these days.”

“You’re safe from that particular woman, I’ll bet,” Kilraven replied, nodding toward the direction Joceline Perry had taken.

“Most men are.”

“Care to say why?”

Jon went back to the desk and picked up the file folder. “She has a little boy, about three years old. His father was killed overseas in the military. She can freeze a man from half a block away.”

“Not necessary in your case, bro, you’re already frozen.”

Jon glared at him. “Don’t call me that disgusting nickname, if you please.”

“Excuse me, your grace.”

Jon glared even more.

Kilraven sobered. “All right, I’ll try to act with more decorum. Is Mom still speaking to you?”

“Only to tell me how poor Ms. Smith is suffering from my rejection. I’ve tried to tell her that her newest candidate for my affections is one step short of a call girl, but she won’t listen. Ms. Smith’s mother is her best friend, so naturally the daughter is pure as the driven snow.”

“She might not be, but you certainly are.” His brother grinned.

Jon’s black eyes narrowed. “And you certainly would be, if you hadn’t been conned into marrying Monica.”

Kilraven’s amused expression fell. “I guess so. I never planned to get married in the first place, but she knew her way around men. Funny, I never even wondered why, until we were already married and she was pregnant with Melly. She had boyfriends that actually showed up at the house from time to time to see her.”

“Which didn’t go over well.”

“I was young and jealous. She was experienced, but I wasn’t.” He gave his brother a quiet appraisal. “You could still charm unicorns. Don’t you think you’re old enough to consider getting married?”

“No woman could live with me. I’m married to my job. And when I’m not at work, I’m married to the ranch.”

“I miss it from time to time,” Kilraven mused. “I guess I’ll forget how to ride a horse eventually.”

“That’s a joke. You’ve got more trophies than I have.”

They were both expert horsemen. In their youth, they participated in rodeo and stood undefeated at bulldogging in southern Oklahoma until they retired from the ring.

“But all this is beside the point,” Jon said. He handed the file to Kilraven. “You’ll have to read it here and you can’t have photocopies.”

“Fair enough.” He started reading. Jon took a phone call. By then, Kilraven had enough information to form an uncomfortable hypothesis.

“Senator Fowler’s protégé, Senator Will Sanders, has a brother, Hank, one of the more dangerous career criminals and a man who has his hands in every illegal operation in the city,” Kilraven murmured as he read. “Two attempted murder charges, both dropped for lack of evidence to convict, and at least one accusation of rape.”

“For which he drew a suspended sentence when the lady recanted.” Jon’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “In fact, his brother, Senator Sanders himself, has a statutory rape charge that was dropped for lack of evidence. He has a taste for virgins, and since a good many women are experienced even by their mid-teens, he’s looking for them younger and younger.”

“Pervert,” Kilraven muttered. “The victim in this case was fourteen. Fourteen years old! He gave her an illegal substance and had her in a guest bedroom in his own house. He even filmed it for the amusement of his friends.” He frowned. “There was a dead teenage girl seven years ago, remember? It was just before Melly …” He cleared his throat. “The girl was found in a similar condition to our murder victim in Jacobsville. I’ve always felt there was a connection, but we were never able to put our finger on one.”

“Just coincidence, probably,” Jon agreed. “They do happen.”

Kilraven tossed the file back onto Jon’s desk with utter disdain. “He filmed himself assaulting a fourteen-year-old. And they couldn’t prove it? There was film!”

“It’s not called film anymore, it’s digital imaging, but I get your meaning. No, they couldn’t prove it. The camcorder was erased in the police property room, by persons unknown, conveniently before arraignment. We can’t accuse anybody, but Senator Sanders has a longtime employee who did hard time for a violent crime. He’s violently protective of both brothers, and he has a cousin who works for SAPD.”

“How convenient. Can we put some pressure on the cop?” Kilraven asked.

Jon gave him a wry look. “We’ve got enough problems. We’re having him watched by internal affairs. That will have to do. Now, to get back to the case involving the living fourteen-year-old, the assistant D.A. in the case was hopping up and down and using language that almost got him arrested in his own office when they told him. That was just after the girl’s parents called and said they were refusing to let her testify.”

“They didn’t want the creep prosecuted?” Kilraven exclaimed.

Jon’s expression was eloquent. “The week after that, the girl’s father was driving a new Jaguar, one of the high ticket sports models, and he paid off all his gambling debts at once.”

Kilraven was quiet. “Those cars run to six figures. The file says the father worked as a midlevel accountant.”

“Exactly.”

“If Melly had been fourteen, and someone had done that to her, I’d have moved heaven and earth to put the man away for life. If I didn’t break his neck first.”

“Same here. Money does talk, in some cases.”

“In a lot of them.” Kilraven was thinking. “The senator’s wife started divorce proceedings a few years ago, and then stopped them and started drinking. Her husband still has lovers and she can’t seem to get away from him. They have a beach house in Nassau where she spends a lot of time.”

“And the senator’s family has a ranch one property over from our own near Lawton,” Jon replied, naming the Oklahoma town where both boys were born.

“Maybe the wife knows something about her brother-in-law that she’d be willing to share,” Kilraven thought out loud.