Master of Wolves (2 page)

“If you'll come this way,” he said, opening the door for them and standing back to allow them to enter. Beside Jim, Mary began to tremble. He folded his free hand over hers. Her fingers felt like sticks of ice, thin, brittle, and cold.

“You sure you're up to this?” Jim whispered, concerned.

“I want to see.” There was a faint growl in her voice that made him glance sharply at her.

“Hang on, Mary.”
Don't Change in front of him.

She looked at him, and the magic faded from her gaze. “I'll be fine.” Drawing her hand from his, she straightened her shoulders and strode through the door.

Tony lay on a metal table covered by a sheet, his once-ruddy skin gray in death. Jim caught Mary's elbow as she swayed. “It's him,” he said shortly.

Mary pulled free and walked forward, simultaneously frail and courageous. Jim followed, his heart twisting into a sick knot of grief.
Dammit, Tony, I wish I'd been there. I should have had your back
.

Together he and Mary stood looking down at the emptied husk that had been Tony Shay. Testing, Jim inhaled.

Magic and rot. His hands knotted into fists.

The scent of rot intensified. “I want to assure you, Mrs. Shay, we're going to do everything in our power to catch the people who did this,” Ayers said.

Mary reached for the sheet over her son's chest. Ayers reached out to grab her wrist. “You don't want to see that.”

She looked at him, her blue gaze so cold and steady, his hand fell away. “The papers said they cut out my boy's heart.” She flipped the sheet back.

Mary made a choked sound at what she saw. Then, face grim with effort, she drew in a breath. Scenting. Her gaze met Jim's, and he knew she'd smelled the same thing he did.

Magic and rot.

Ayers was babbling. “I'm trying to find out who leaked that information to the press. I want to assure you that despite the speculation of irresponsible journalists, this was not some kind of Satanist thing. Not in my town. It may have been drug related, but—”

“My son was not involved in drugs,” Mary gritted.

Ayers hesitated. “Mrs. Shay, Tony was thirty-two years old. He traveled frequently. You don't know what he was involved in.”

Jim had heard as much of this as he intended to take. “I knew Tony well, and she's right. He was a bail enforcement agent.”

Ayers curled a lip ever so slightly. “A bounty hunter.”

“Yes, and he had nothing whatsoever to do with drugs.” He glared at the chief, who had the grace to look uneasy. “He certainly wasn't some kind of trafficker. I don't know where you come off even making that kind of accusation in the paper. You admitted no drugs were found on him or in his SUV.”

“You're lucky I don't sue,” Mary rumbled.

Ayers looked uncomfortable. “Some drug cartels employ this kind of…mutilation in retaliatory killings against rivals. And Clarkston is located along I-85, a well-known cocaine corridor.”

“I don't care.” She glared at him, her eyes cold with grief and anger. “You don't make those kinds of accusations.”

Ayers swallowed. “You're right, of course. I apologize.” He shrugged. “It was only a supposition. As I told the reporter, it could have been the drunks he fought with the previous night. One way or another, we'll find out.”

Yeah, right,
Jim thought.

Frowning, he hovered at Mary's side while she signed the required paperwork to obtain her son's body for burial. His thoughts raced, wrestling with plans, calculating probabilities.

At last they were done. Jim escorted Mary from Ayers's maddening presence and out into the hall.

They walked down the echoing corridor until both were sure they were beyond human earshot. When Mary spoke, her voice was flat and cold. “Somebody worked death magic on my son. I could smell the stink of it.”

“Yes.”

She stopped and turned to face him. Her eyes burned hot in her gaunt, pale face. “You're not going to let them get away with this.”

“No. No, I'm not. I'm going to find out who killed Tony, and I'm going to start with that police chief. He's involved in this up to his neck. The stench is all over him.”

Concern flickered through the despairing rage in her eyes. “That may be, but he and his cops aren't going to talk to you.”

Jim smiled without humor. “No, but I'll bet they'd talk
around
me.”

She searched his face. “What have you got in mind?”

“There was another article in the Clarkston paper. Seems the chief is looking for a drug dog.” Jim bared his teeth. “I'm going to make sure he gets one.”

One Month Later

 

Faith Weston's new
partner was big, muscular and covered in fur, and he didn't give her any crap. If the other males of her acquaintance would only follow his example, she'd be a happy woman.

Faith opened the back of her patrol car and leaned in to clip a leash on the German shepherd's collar. He tolerated the process, his eyes locked on the police department building behind her, as if eager to get to work.

“Come on, Rambo.” Faith stepped back to allow the dog to leap from the car's rear compartment. “Time to catch some more bad guys.”

“Nice bust last night, Weston.”

She turned, recognizing Chief George Ayers's pleasant baritone. “Thanks, Chief.”

He stood beside his blue unmarked Crown Vic, having just pulled in himself. Ayers wore another one of his endless collection of suits, this one a gray pinstripe, accessorized by an American flag lapel pin and a tie clasp shaped like a pair of handcuffs. “A kilo of cocaine. That's one of the biggest drug busts we've had in years.” He gave Rambo a genuine smile. “And that dog of yours found it?”

“Yes, sir. Rambo alerted on the wheel well of the guy's car. At first I didn't think there was anything there, but then I found a false compartment in the bottom, stuffed with drugs and ten thousand in cash.”

“That's fantastic.” The chief crouched to Rambo's eye level and patted him on the head, apparently not noticing the dog's stiff stance and raised hackles. Despite the outraged body language, the shepherd didn't growl. If she didn't know better, she'd think Rambo was practicing doggy diplomacy.

Ayers straightened to his full height, still wearing that pleased grin. “That money is going to come in handy for those dash cams I want to buy.” Thanks to Federal law, police departments could keep a share of drug profits they seized.

“After the judge signs off on it.” Faith shrugged. “When I was with the Atlanta P.D., it sometimes took months to work through all the red tape around a seizure.”

“Not this time.” The chief's gaze cooled. “Things are different in this county. Trust me, I'll see to it the judge doesn't drag his heels.”

Which would be a neat trick. In Faith's experience, judges couldn't care less what cops wanted—especially the chief of a small town police department like George Ayers. She'd love to know why Ayers thought he had enough pull to make a Circuit Court judge dance to his tune.

Faith grimaced.
Then again, maybe ignorance is bliss.
A lot of things seemed to operate differently in Clarkston, South Carolina.

Ayers flashed her his best professional politician smile. “Keep getting me results like these, and the town council will wish they'd let us have a drug dog sooner.”

“Well, tell them they got a bargain.” She leaned down to pat the shepherd's muscular ribs. “When I found out that K-9 trainer was just going to give us a dog, I'll admit my expectations weren't very high. But Rambo has turned out to be hell on wheels. With his nose and his training, Ray Johnston could have gotten five thousand for him even in this area, and ten thousand in other parts of the country.” She shook her head. “Whoever arranged for Rambo's donation to the department did us a big favor. We really lucked out.”

“Hey, I've always been a lucky man.” The chief's smile grew smug as they started across the parking lot. “Just make good use of the opportunity.”

She smiled down at Rambo as the dog trotted into the department at her heels. “Oh, believe me, I intend to.”

 

The redhead was
tall, slim, and drop-dead gorgeous, a fact she seemed blissfully unaware of. Her legs looked a mile long in her black uniform pants, and her badge called attention to breasts that were pert and tempting. Police equipment belts, with their holsters, gear, and pouches, tended to make most women look dumpy, but Faith Weston was tall enough to carry it all off.

Jim could have had worse partners.

He watched her as she stood in the Clarkston Police Department's break room, organizing the paperwork she'd need for the coming shift. Jim had been with Faith a month now while investigating Tony's murder, and he'd learned to respect her intelligence and integrity. This department was full of dirty cops, but Faith wasn't one of them.

She shifted her weight, drawing his attention to her firm little butt in those snug black trousers. Over the past month, he'd developed a definite thing for uniforms—or at least, a recurring fantasy about getting Faith out of hers.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one with ideas in that direction. As if on cue, a tall blond officer walked into the break room, spotted her, and smiled with predatory interest. Faith, Jim was pleased to note, eyed the cop almost as warily as he did.

“Hi, there, Faith.” The blond's grin was brilliant as he sauntered over to join her. A whiff of rot accompanied him. “I was wondering if I could buy you a beer after your shift.”

How many times does she have to say no, dumbass?
Jim thought.

“Sorry, Dave.” Her drawl was pure magnolias and cream. “Like I told you before, I don't date coworkers.” A trace of pain flashed in her green eyes. “It can get ugly.”

Just to make sure the cop didn't push the point, Jim growled low in his throat.

Dave looked at him, surprised and a little wary, before giving Faith a forced smile. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He strode off, making a careful circle around Jim.

Faith dropped to one knee so she was eye-to-eye with Jim, who lay under the break room table. “Well-timed growl there, Rambo.” She picked up his leash and gave his furry head a pat. “Good dog.”

Oh, baby,
Jim thought,
I'd love to show you just how good a dog I really am.

With a last appreciative glance up at her endless legs, he led the way outside.

 

Dave Green waved
at Faith as she strode across the police department parking lot, Rambo trotting along in front of her on his leash. She nodded back, carefully professional. The jerk just didn't want to take no for an answer.

“Hey, Faith,” Green called. “Call me, okay? I'm serious.”

She pretended not to hear.
When hell freezes solid.

Opening the rear door of her unit, Faith stood back to let Rambo jump in. “He's too damn good looking,” she told the dog, watching Green drive away. “Reminds me of Ron.”

And after the job her ex-husband had done on her, she had no intention of walking into the handsome-guy-buzz-saw ever again. Men who looked like that couldn't be trusted. Women came too easily to them. Like kids in a candy store, there was never a shortage of goodies to catch their attention.

Faith had learned the hard way that she didn't have what it took to keep a man like that interested. Luckily, there were other things she excelled at.

She started the Ford Crown Victoria and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the long, low brick building behind as she drove toward her patrol zone.

Clarkston worked hard at being a New South town, with its sprawling outlet mall and strip of chain restaurants running parallel to I-85. But for all its middle-class aspirations, the community still carried scars from the collapse of the textile industry. Faith's zone included the burned-out shell of a cotton mill and the surrounding neighborhood of Bomar, which had once served as the plant's employee housing. The residents had never been rich, not on textile wages, but they'd skidded even further down the economic ladder since the company closed. Few people had jobs, and those who did worked for minimum wage.

The only thriving business in Bomar was the drug trade. And, of course, police work.

In the past year, Faith had worked two murders, an arson, three convenience store robberies, and dozens of burglaries, not to mention countless domestics and drunken brawls. All of it in the same mile-long area. She never had to look very long before she found somebody breaking some law somewhere.

Today was no exception. Barely half an hour passed before she found herself a suspect.

Driving alongside the rattletrap Honda, Faith flicked its driver another assessing glance. After eight years as a cop, she knew a bad guy when she saw one.

He wore his blond hair in a greasy mullet, his face was long and homely, and he drove like a drug dealer. Not fast and recklessly, but five miles under the speed limit, a good fifteen miles slower than everything else on the road.

Both hands firmly on the wheel, he refused to look at her as she paced him. Most drivers eyed Faith whenever she drove up beside them in Clarkson traffic, whether it was a friendly
hello-officer
glance or a nervous
am-I-speeding
stare. This guy's body language was so throughly
I'm-not-doin'-nothing-Go-away,
he just had to be up to something.

“What do you think, 'Bo?” Faith murmured. “Kilo of coke in the trunk?”

A soft, deep woof sounded in her ear.

“My thoughts exactly. Let's see if Willie the Wonder Weasel will give us an excuse.” Judges frowned on pulling people over just because they acted funny.

Some members of the legal profession had no imagination.

Faith slowed down and pulled into the lane behind her suspect. His head jerked nervously as he checked out his rearview mirror. She grinned toothily at him. “That's right, Willie, panic. Run away. I want to chase you.”

But Willie was smarter than he looked—admittedly not difficult—and stayed right where he was, slowing down even more.

“Oh, yeah, you're carrying, you greasy little rat. What have we got here?” Faith checked out the back end of his car. No broken taillight. Too bad—that was one of her favorites. She scooped up the handset of her radio and called his tag number in to Tayanita County dispatch, hoping the car was stolen or registered to somebody with an outstanding warrant. As she waited for the dispatcher to tell her the results of the computer search, she checked out his car tag.

“Oh, look, 'Bo,” she murmured, her attention narrowing on the small sticker on the corner of his license plate. The color and date were wrong for this time of year. “Our boy hasn't paid his county property tax this year. Sticker expired four months ago.” Which meant the forty-day grace period had run out. “Come to mommy, weasel boy.” Faith reached down to the box under her radio and flicked the switch to activate the car's lights and sirens.

Again, Willie didn't run. Instead, he drove into the parking lot of Bomar's sole Li'l Cricket convenience store, as demure as a grandma going to church. He was going to try to brazen it out.

“This'll be entertaining,” Faith told Rambo as she pulled in behind his car. From long, cautious habit in this neighborhood, she parked a little to the left of his Honda, so their cars would block his shot if he suddenly opened fire.

She scooped up her handset again. “Tayanita, Clarkston 2-4. I'm out with a red 1992 Honda Accord, licence plate Lima Foxtrot Able 9-6-9.”

The radio crackled at her. “Ten-four, Clarkston 2-4.”

Grabbing her ticket book, she got out and closed the car door, eyeing the Honda. Her heart beating a little faster, she started toward it.

Contrary to popular belief, this was the moment when most officers got shot, which was why Faith wore a bulletproof vest under her dark-blue uniform shirt. Her entire body sang with adrenalin by the time she approached the driver's window.

Willie rolled down his window. His eyes were a little too wide in his thin face. “I wasn't speeding, officer.”

“Didn't say you were. License and registration, please.” While he reached for his wallet, she asked pleasantly, “Did you know your tag has expired?”

An
oh-shit
expression crossed his face, out of proportion to the hundred-dollar fine for the offense. “Uh, no ma'am. I'll pay it tomorrow.” He handed her his identification.

“Got any drugs in the car, Mr.”—she glanced at the licence and read his name—“Cruise?”

Samuel Cruise stiffened and said the magic words. “Not to my knowledge.”

Bingo. An innocent person would have given her a simple, surprised “No!” If there wasn't a kilo of coke in the trunk, she'd eat Rambo's badge.

“You sure about that? Step out of the car, please.”

Which was evidently Cruise's cue to babble as he reluctantly obeyed. “I don't have no drugs in the car. Swear on a stack of Bibles, I ain't no drug dealer.”

“Uh-huh.” Every cop knew the minute a Southerner started swearing on Bibles, he was guilty as hell of something. Faith smiled, sweet as a mint julep. “Then you won't mind if I get my dog and check it out.”

True alarm flashed over his face. “No! I mean, don't you got to have a warrant or—”

“A sniff is not a search, Mr. Cruise.” She started back toward the car, glancing over her shoulder in case he bolted. He looked like he was seriously considering it until she got Rambo out of the back and clipped on the big animal's leash.

Cruise's eyes widened, and he went very, very still.

Faith didn't blame him. Most German shepherds weighed sixty or seventy pounds at most. Rambo was twice that, a hulking black beast who looked as if there was a pony somewhere in his family tree. She often joked if her Crown Vic ever broke down, she could saddle 'Bo.

Faith led him over to the suspect, who took a wary step back. “He won't bite,” she told him. “Unless I tell him to.”

Cruise gave both of them a wild-eyed look.

Rambo put his big head down and sniffed the man's grimy running shoes, then worked his way up ripped, dirty jeans to one pocket. He promptly plopped his fuzzy butt down on the pavement and gazed up at Faith with a rumble of satisfaction. 'Bo was a passive alert dog—the sit-downand-look sequence meant he'd found something. Faith concealed a grin.
Let's hear it for puppy power.
“Please brace your hands on the hood of the car, sir.”