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Chapter One

Luke Barritt

The Beast

Monday, April 5, 6:45 a.m.

 

Dispatch had called twenty minutes ago. Possible homicide, body in the water at Mana Paya Park.

​

Most mornings, precinct doughnuts and coffee kept me civil. Sure, dead bodies don’t keep office hours—but add a cranky detective? I’d rather block Lizzie Borden’s axe with a pool noodle.

 

After finishing my espresso, I pounded on Dakota Littlebear’s door. The chill bit my cheeks as wind threaded down from the hills through the pines, bringing the smells of wet cedar and sweet Oregon crabapples. Sunlight dappled the ground, glinting off the granite, casting long, restless shadows as the pines swayed overhead.

 

I smashed the doorbell, followed by pounding again on the door, and glanced toward the heavens. The sky hadn’t yet made up its mind—not fully sun or overcast. Gray clouds loitered with intent overhead.

 

I knew the Crime Scene Unit was already swarming the riverbank, waiting for the medical examiner. No rush on my part. I’d never met a corpse who could outrun me, unless they were in the back of the morgue’s meat wagon. I had time to swing by The Jelly Donut for a quick takeout. Priorities matter.

 

Ten minutes after Dispatch rang out, I picked up my goodies, then arrived at a humble two-story log cabin nestled in the shadows of massive pines and made my way up the flagstone walkway.

 

Last chance, lady.

​

I pounded my fist on the woman’s front door for the third and last time. “Shallows Creek Police Department. Open up. Now.”

 

A solid, lazy thunk echoed inside. Floorboards creaked. Then a groan, long and aggrieved. Slow, shuffling footsteps followed, like something dead coming to answer the door.

 

The bolt snicked back, and the door cracked open.

“Oh, look. It’s the devil. Why are you at my house, and what do you want?” Littlebear’s voice dripped with fatigue and sarcasm.

 

She was in pajamas, I assumed. A tank top, PJ shorts, all semi-covered by a knee-length kimono-style robe. The kind of outfit that screamed, “I wasn’t expecting company.”

 

She scowled and pulled her robe closer.

“Well, Miss Littlebear—”

A yawn escaped her lips, and her hand reached only halfway to her mouth.

“It’s Sunday. I’m in a coma, and nothing I say can be used against me in a court of law.”

“It’s Monday. And we’ve got a possible homicide.”

 

Detective Dakota Littlebear’s dark eyes snapped wide open. “Wait. What? You lead with that, Barritt. You say ‘we have a homicide’ first.”

 

She smacked my chest and bolted down the hall, robe flaring like a superhero’s cape. I rubbed the sore spot and frowned. She usually lived in cargo pants and black boots. Seeing those bare legs in daylight reminded me why sparring with her was a terrible idea.

 

Unwanted images. Delete, delete.

 

“Thanks a lot,” she yelled from inside her bedroom. “I don’t have time to shower. Why didn’t you call an hour ago?”

 

Her cabin was small but full of character. Native American décor, a mismatched brick fireplace. A painting of a warrior on horseback charging over the mantel. Dust motes spearing the morning light. Cozy … but with definite “I will murder you with your own gun” energy.

 

“I did call.”

 

A growl came from her room. “Next time, crawl through the window and wake me up.”

 

Oh please.

Like I would willingly sacrifice myself to waken the hibernating beast. No thanks. I’d like to hang on to my internal organs.

 

Five minutes later she reappeared in full leather, zipping her jacket with military precision. I handed her my sacrificial offering, a Jelly Donut espresso I’d held behind my back. She grabbed the cup, and a mumbled “thank you” may have happened just before the first slurp-and-swallow.

 

“If you gulp your espresso all at once, you won’t be able to talk.”

 

“You wish.”

 

“Someone has to save you from Dante’s inferno.”

 

“You can read? Thought you stuck to crayons and picture books.”

I dismissed her accusations.

 

“Hey, I can read Fun with Dick and Jane, and I can color with the best of them.” Half a moment passed. “The medical examiner and CSU are there.”

 

Outside, she locked up. “Where? Do we know?”

 

“Floater.”

 

By this time, I’d reached my cruiser. She’d finished her latte and lobbed the cup into the trash inside the garage. She slipped on her shades, pulled a helmet over her head, and powered up her motorcycle.

 

With a thumbs-up and a rare megawatt smile, she roared off on her motorcycle, leather jacket flapping, and I waved with a plastic smile.

 

“Keep safe, you twit. I don’t want to shovel your brains off the asphalt.”

 

***

Dakota

 

Luke didn’t tell me where the body was. Why make my morning easy when he could make it annoying?

 

At a stoplight, I voice-dialed Homicide Detective Jaci Mercer.

“Mercer here.”

“Jaci, where’s the scene?”

“Aren’t you with Barritt?”

Um, how do I play this?

“He’s behind me,” I said, “and I’m verifying the location.”

“You guys are late. Cordova’s already here.”

“Go figure, right?”

Mercer sighed. “Barritt’s goofing off again, right?”

I bit my lip, then said, “You know Luke.”

 

If Jaci messed up and my white lie slipped out, Chief Medusa might hear about it. Should I say anything? I hadn’t actually said he was late, and playing pranks was his thing.

 

She gave me the address, and we hung up. The light turned green, and I swung my bike left toward Mana Paya Park—‘Sacred Waters’ in the Paiute language.

 

The road twisted, mimicking Shallows Creek beside me. Engine and rushing water dueled for lead vocals. Wind tugged at my hair under the helmet, and I reminded myself not to smile—not appropriate while viewing a dead body. I could see the crime scene tape as the motorcycle and I turned the bend. Dappled sunlight flickered through the trees, casting broken shadows over the blue tarps and yellow tape.

 

I eased my bike off the road near the cluster of detectives, yanked off my helmet and glasses, and froze. Not just the detectives. Not just the M.E. and his tech.

Luke.

 

He was watching me from his Corvette, leaning against it like a king on his throne. Just … watching.

 

My partner. That hot? That friendly?

He’s gotta want something, and I’m onto him.

Some days, I needed blinders to make it through a shift without smacking him just out of principle.

He flashed his stupid movie-star grin, Icelandic blue eyes twinkling.

I stomped toward him. How had he beaten me here? Teleportation? I opened my mouth to tear into him—but then he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

 

Of all the days to ogle, I chose this one.

With his sleeves rolled up, my gaze did a full TSA scan. Forearms, biceps, chest, and dimples. His muscles flexed. They had their own zip code, and I had just crossed the border.

 

My heart slammed on the emergency brake.

Are you out of your mind?

Maybe I had a medical condition. A fever. A hormone imbalance. Are blinders tax-deductible? I was a perfectly coiffed social disaster and certainly didn’t need him to upset my comfortable ecosystem.

 

Bad brain. Bad.

 

I dragged a hand down my face and exhaled. Time to focus on the corpse. Or face the breaking-news headliner.

 

Detective Swoons at Crime Scene. Film at Eleven.

 

I struggled to keep up with Luke, my boots squelching through the wet grass. “Have you seen the body?”

 

He looked at me. “Patience. I like to take in the view.”

“Try the corpse. Not me.”

The corner of his lip curled in a slow smile, all smug charm.

 

“I wasn’t talking about you, but there’s a sunrise view—” he pointed, “—and then there’s Littlebear.” He pointed again, this time at me. “Or maybe you could get over yourself.”

 

If my knees weakened again, it’d count as cardio.

 

“Dork.” My voice cracked halfway between fury and mortification. Heat flickered up my neck before I could wrestle it down. His smirk deepened, as if he’d noticed the flush and was filing it away for later amusement.

 

He grinned, unbothered, like flirting at a murder scene was standard procedure. Luke, the accidental charmer, still didn’t seem to notice how completely he’d wrecked my

brain.

 

***

Luke

 

Dakota Littlebear was unhinged twenty-four seven, a walking, talking—and occasionally unfiltered—angry zombie. But in my mind’s eye, as she moved in slow motion, I inhaled the sight of an exotic First Nations woman in motorcycle leathers, straight out of a Mad Max movie. Her features twisted themselves into a mix of shock, anger, and cringe—her norm. With an abrupt stop, she choked like a cat hacking up a hairball. My mouth snapped shut.

 

Images of a savage encounter invaded my thoughts again. Inappropriate. Not vaguely PC.

 

Focus.

I turned to the medical examiner.

“Anything new?” Because … priorities.

Dakota shifted beside me—too close. Yeah. I could handle this. Not awkward at all.

 

The M.E. raised his head.

“She’s been in the water, and there was minimal animal activity. Judging by lack of decomp, no rigor, and the chill of the water, I’d guess she’s been there no more than eight to ten hours. I’ll need the tech to check the river and weather data, too. Looks like a gunshot wound to the occipital lobe.” He glanced up. “Back of the head. I’ll know more after the prelim. Feet were bound with duct tape. You see what I see.”

 

Dakota asked, “Was she a missing persons case?”

“No, but a kid was a mispers—Search and Rescue found him shivering, but otherwise alive and well. A volunteer spotted a brown cloth on some downed tree branches in the river at six twenty a.m., and intuition led to the body. It was part in, part out of the water, and covered with a waterproof liner.” Wyatt pointed to the sky. “What they didn’t see were the turkey vultures. They’re picky eaters and like fresh meat.”

 

The M.E.’s tech, in full SOCO—scene-of-the-crime—coveralls, hoodie, plastic glasses, and mask, came to his side. Not her usual bubbly self, because a dead body tended to sober up a person. She pulled her hoodie back, revealing blue‑streaked hair, and removed the plastic eye protection and gloves.

 

“The area’s secure with a deputy on watch, so I’m taking the body now, and then I’ll be back.” She blew out a long breath. “I found footprints nearby. I took measurements, photographed them, and tweezed a fiber from near the waterline.” She turned to the medical examiner. “The casting process is almost done.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch when we know more.”

 

The four of us detectives huddled up. I opened my mouth, but Dakota jumped ahead of me, squaring her shoulders and drawing a deep breath.

“We need to secure the perimeter, canvass the volunteers, and set up the tarps before the wind scatters the scene,” she said.

My smirk grew—equal parts admiration and irritation.

“Okay,” I said, “so it’s a homicide, but which kind? Was she shot elsewhere and dumped here? Was it an accident, and someone didn’t want anyone to know?”

Detective Jaci Mercer tipped her chin up and winked at me. “I bet the medical examiner’s office will have to deflesh the body.”

 

Dakota emitted a whispered ugh, and I smiled.

“What’s worse, boiling the flesh off the body, or the fact Jaci knows it?”

Cordova asked, “Is it like the awful cooking show I watched once?”

“Who’s gonna say the obvious?” Dakota interrupted, hurrying ahead of our teasing. “Let’s find some evidence. The deputies are questioning the volunteers.”

 

Marcos took a long drink from his coffee cup.

“See you there.” Mercer nodded, turned, and gave a salute.

 

I walked with Dakota toward her motorcycle. “And it’s about time to get you out of your leathers—”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, you have a dirty mind. For a preacher.”

“Attending church is tons different from preaching.”

“If you say so. As I was saying, out of your leathers and into your fancy cargo pants.”

“Humph.” She shook her hair out, slid her sunglasses back on, and slipped into her leather jacket.

 

She swung a leg over the bike, tugging her helmet down onto her head.

“Chief Ganoit put me on lead,” I said. “You’re the new kid on the block. Maybe you should let me do my job.”

She snorted. “Your point? You need a leash to find a lead.”

I grinned.

Smart mouth.

She might be entertaining enough to keep around.