скачать книгу бесплатно
Pregnant Protector
Anne Marie Duquette
Detective Nick Cantello has just lost his partner to a bullet–one that was meant for him. All he wants is to find the people responsible. What he gets is a "babysitter"–one who comes with a dog.As part of the canine unit, Lara Nelson is used to having a four-footed partner. So she's unprepared for her latest assignment–guarding another cop.Together, Nick and Lara must find the killer. Only when the case is over can they figure out how to deal with the consequences of the night their attraction for each other reached the point it could not be denied.
“I want to work this case, Captain.”
“It’s against procedure for you to investigate your partner’s death. You know what the policy is.”
Nick was prepared. “Then I’ll quit and investigate on my own. Julio died, when it should’ve been me. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring the man in, procedure be damned. It’s your call.”
Captain Girard looked away. Nick reached for his police-issue 9 mm. “Fine. You have my resignation—effective immediately.”
“Stop, Detective. You can stay.”
“I can?” Nick couldn’t believe it. “What’s the catch?”
“You need a partner to watch your back.”
“I already have…” For the first time, the full impact of his loss sank in. He didn’t have a partner anymore. Julio was dead.
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You have to sleep sometime. She’s a cop.” Girard handed Nick a file. “Consider yourself joined at the hip.”
He quickly scanned the contents. “She’s not a detective?”
“K-9.”
“That’s no help!”
“Doesn’t matter. She and her dog also do private bodyguard work. I want her to keep an eye on you. Emotional men with guns shouldn’t be working the street alone—or at all, for that matter. If Lara Nelson tells me you’ve slipped up, you go on desk duty.”
Dear Reader,
The bond between man and dog goes back to prehistoric days. Man’s ability to reason and make tools, coupled with the canine’s extraordinary speed, vision, hearing and smell was an unbeatable combination. It still is.
The United States began its association with canine or “K-9” teams in World War One, using messenger and patrol dogs. Shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the government established “Dogs for Defense” to standardize war dog training. By 1945 over ten thousand American dogs served overseas as sentry, scout and messenger dogs. Some even parachuted into the field. In Korea and Vietnam their service was expanded to include bomb detection and water duties. And the natural outcome of American dogs of war? American dogs of law enforcement.
The German shepherd was judged best suited to wartime conditions, and is still the preferred breed for law enforcement in the United States. Contrary to popular belief, their biggest task is not attacking. These highly intelligent animals are trained to search, protect, apprehend and assist. Searching is one of their main functions, and they are asked to find many things, from missing persons to drugs, firearms, evidence of crime and articles of terrorism. They also act as a strong deterrent to violence in tense situations.
The biggest asset of the canine, however, is loyalty. Just ask the handler of Sirius, a K-9 killed at the World Trade Center attack, or the handler of a German shepherd K-9 in my hometown. His dog took a shotgun blast on duty and served his “final watch.” This book is dedicated to Urk, whose memorial service I attended. Urk’s bravery, along with his handler’s, inspired me to research this subject.
By the way, my characters, the kennels, the police stations and this story are purely fictional. And although my heroine is also a work of fiction, the history of law enforcement and police dog training is not. Welcome to the world of canines and their handlers: true heroes and heroines in the war against violence.
Anne Marie Duquette [owner of AKC German shepherd Renegade Striker]
Pregnant Protector
Anne Marie Duquette
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Urk.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER ONE
May, Monday morning
DETECTIVE NICK CANTELLO of the San Diego PD’s homicide squad sat in shocked silence in the shift lieutenant’s office, and he wasn’t a man who shocked easily.
My partner’s dead? Julio’s dead?
He must have spoken the words aloud.
“Tough break,” said the shift lieutenant, a big, beefy cop named Joe Lansky.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Nick’s normally smooth baritone was hoarse and grating. His lean face was pale under his tan. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We tried, Cantello. Your cell didn’t pick up and you weren’t at home. Homicide rode by.” Lansky’s eyes were filled with compassion.
Nick was too stunned to see it. As a man who loved deep-water boating but couldn’t afford a decent boat on his salary, he regularly paid for a weekend charter down to Mexican waters. Just as he had this weekend. But he always carried his cell phone charged, and he’d come straight to work Monday morning directly from the harbor, riding Julio’s motorcycle.
“Someone should have called! You should have kept trying.” Shock gave way to a sudden, horrible thought. “Oh, my God…his family. Does Lilia know?”
At Lansky’s nod, Nick felt a painful twist in his gut. Julio and Lilia Valdez had two kids and a third on the way. In his soft, quiet way, Julio had told Nick the good news over a beer two nights ago.
“How did he die?” Nick asked.
Lansky spit out a foul expletive. Then, “It’s bad…”
Nick doubted he could feel worse than he did right now. “Give it to me.”
“MVA Friday night.”
Motor vehicle accident.
“It was raining,” Nick said with particular emphasis that only locals could understand. It had rained steadily all the way to the harbor, an uncomfortable event for even a man as experienced with motorcycles as he was. Southern California’s desert climate made rain a rare event, something people talked about. It also provided both law enforcement and the public with a lot of grief. The freeways connecting Tijuana/San Diego/Los Angeles/Hollywood carried the densest traffic in North America. The desert climate meant no measurable rain for months. When rain did arrive, months of embedded oil floated to the surface on heavily used roads. Everything from local streets to packed interstates became almost oil slicks. For local drivers who had little practice driving in rain, vehicular accidents skyrocketed in those first wet thirty minutes. Then came the infamous California pileups, with the accompanying injured and dead.
Lansky nodded. “Yeah. His—your car—spun out. I understand you two swapped keys in the parking lot. Why’d you take his bike?”
The “bike” was a huge Harley-Davidson motorcycle, for Julio and Nick had met at a SDPD motorcycle fund-raiser and had hit it off instantly. When both were promoted and transferred to the detective unit, neither had to ask the other to be his partner.
“Julio’s wife called right before the shift ended. Said the refrigerator wasn’t working. The repairman couldn’t get there until the next morning. She needed him to pick up some ice. So we swapped.” Guilt stabbed through his pain. “If anyone should have spun out in the weather, it should have been me on the bike…not him. Hell, my tires are brand-new.” An uncomfortable pause told Nick more bad news was coming. “What?”
“There’s more. Someone took a shot at the car in the rain. Your car,” Lansky said pointedly.
For a moment, Nick fought to prevent being violently ill. He took a deep breath, like a raw rookie viewing his first homicide scene.
“Julio left the office when you did. It was after rush hour, Cantello. Traffic was moving, but not that fast, with the rain. Julio spun out right after the shot was fired. We got cell phone reports from other drivers on the scene and we’ve been interviewing them all weekend.”
Traffic on Southern California freeways was congested day and night, Sundays and holidays included. Beach exits were standstills in the summer. Tempers flared. Drive-by shootings in slow, crawling congestion were no novelty. Like earthquakes and wildfires, road rage was a price to be paid for living in the Sunbelt’s beach paradise and driving its massive freeway system.
Nick swallowed hard. “Did…did Julio take a hit, or just the car?”
“We don’t know yet. The divers are still trying to recover the vehicle, but it’s been all weekend, and still nothing. That shot sent Julio straight into the ocean. We had a chopper on-site, but by the time rescue got there…” Even the gruff veteran couldn’t finish.
Julio drowned, and I was off on a pleasure cruise with a damn cell phone that didn’t pick up in Mexican waters. It’s my fault. Nick’s heart seemed to stop as he realized, That should have been me. I had his bike. He had my car.
Nick echoed the words of all loved ones during tragedy. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure?”
“We interviewed more than twenty callers over the weekend.”
“Did they find the shooter? Description of vehicle?” He didn’t ask the question he usually asked, What about motive? He desperately tried, but for the life of him he couldn’t get the words out.
“Nothing. The captain contacted the local gang specialists, but initiations usually involve members of another gang. Never cops. We’ll be checking out more after the autopsy. In the meantime—” Lansky drew in a deep breath “—the department’s handling the funeral arrangements. Julio’s wife and kids have left to stay with family in Mexico until then. She said she’d call you in a few. You need to check in with the captain and take some time off.”
Nick issued an earthy expletive, which miraculously loosened the constriction of his throat. “I switched vehicles with my partner, he ends up dead, I might be tied to the real motive and you want me to go home?” Nick swore again.
Lansky’s reaction was mild. He even shrugged.
“I didn’t say home. You’ll probably get desk duty. Take it up with the captain after roll call.”
Nick said nothing as his lieutenant rose from his chair. Sorrow had largely replaced shock now, but the guilt was still there when Lansky called the roll and started the fifteen-minute morning briefing. Nick ignored the other members of the squad—the lucky ones who still had their partners—and listened to Lansky skip Julio’s name on the roster. It hurt, almost as much hearing the news the first time.
Lansky reviewed what new information SDPD had gathered from the cell phone callers over the weekend—which wasn’t much. “Funeral details will be posted later on. As always, full dress,” Lansky ordered.
The silence in the downtown San Diego squad room was broken by a whispered, “I knew that rain meant bad luck.”
During funerals held for Southern California cops, it always seemed to rain. This, in water-rationed San Diego. Always. Half the shaken cops in the room would probably repeat the old superstition—cops who rarely cried on the job, but waited until they were home with their lovers or spouses or six-packs of beer.
“Any other comments?” Lansky asked. “No? We’re still investigating the possibility that the killer was targeting Cantello.”
Nick felt the eyes in the room turn toward him.
“So far, we have no motive. The captain himself will be coordinating with Homeland Security. If anyone has any leads, come to us. As I told you before, expect overtime. This is one of our own.”
Nick’s lips tightened into a thin line. I should be in charge of this. He was my partner.
“Keep your eyes open,” Lansky continued as he picked up his uniform hat. “The same goes for your wallets, boys and girls. For those of you who missed seeing me over the weekend, I’m collecting for Valdez’s wife and kids. Contribute on your way out.”
“Baby showers, birthdays, retirement parties—now this,” someone mumbled. “Any more collections and I’ll need a second job.”
Nick recognized the bleak attempt at humor, and wished it had been from anyone other than that particular guy. Nick didn’t particularly like Homicide’s T. J. Knox. In fact, he found him just as irritating as his father, Sergeant Richard Knox. Nick tended to avoid both men. Still, he couldn’t fault the son’s generosity. The bill in T.J.’s hand was a large one.
Nick didn’t bother with his wallet. He quickly scribbled out a check, instead, then ripped it out with a vicious yank that tore a tiny chunk off the corner.
“Here, Joe.” He folded it and dropped it into Lansky’s hat.
Lansky unfolded the check and deliberately eyed the first digit and subsequent three zeros before the decimal point.
Nick snatched the check out of Lansky’s beefy fingers and stuffed it back into the hat. “Mind your own damn business.”
“You cops are my business. The captain’s still waiting to see you.”
“I said I’m not going home,” Nick ground out.
“So tell Girard, not me. I’m just passing on the message.” Lansky’s eyes were already on the next contributor. “Is that all you can give? Now Cantello here, there’s a man who knows how to donate. Look at his check.”
