Brenda Novak - Dear Maggie

“Yes” hovered on the tip of Maggie’s tongue. It was what she wanted to say. But then she remembered the f.p. factor. Father potential. No matter what Nick Sorenson said, he wasn’t the marrying type. She could feel it. “No,” she said. “I’m sort of involved with someone else.”

“With whom?” he asked.

Maggie knew she was stretching here. But she needed some excuse. She couldn’t let herself fall for a guaranteed heartbreaker. “His name is John.”

“John?” He blinked at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “John who?”

“You don’t know him,” she said. “I met him on the Internet.”

Great! Now he was competing against himself.

Nick sat at his desk, going over some paperwork, although in reality he was doing nothing more than wondering how he’d managed to strike out with Maggie again. The night had been going so well. He’d easily recognized the signals she was sending—they told him he wasn’t alone in his attraction. Yet when he’d gone for the close, she’d shot him down. Because of “John.”

And he couldn’t even ask what “John” had that he didn’t!

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Dear Reader,

Set in Sacramento, California, where I live, this book was especially fun to write. I drive the streets Maggie and Nick drive, I frequent the same places, I use the bike trail. Against the backdrop of such familiar territory, I guess it was inevitable that this story would seem more real to me than any other. But as you read Dear Maggie, you’ll understand why there were times when “real” wasn’t such a good thing! I often spooked myself into looking over my shoulder as I jogged along the American River or double-checking my windows and doors at night.

Though there is definitely an element of suspense running through this novel, it’s still about relationships and trust and finding the one person in life who completes us. Nick, an undercover FBI agent, and Maggie, a newspaper reporter, are perfect for each other, but there are plenty of obstacles standing in their way—Maggie’s background and childhood experiences, Nick’s job and his fear of commitment…and a serial killer.

I’d love to hear from you. You can write me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611. Or simply log on to my Web site at www.brendanovak.com to send me an e-mail, enter my monthly draws, join my mailing list, check out my book signings or learn about upcoming releases.

Happy (and safe ) reading!

Brenda Novak

P.S. I hope Dear Maggie helps you “get caught reading” something you can’t put down!

To Pam,

For being more than a sister.

For being a lifelong friend.

And to Joy,

For exactly the same reason.

I’d like to thank Dixie Reid and Ted Bell, staff writers at the Sacramento Bee, for giving me a tour of the newsroom and helping to answer my questions about a cop reporter’s world.

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

FOR THE FIRST TIME in her life, Maggie Russell wasn’t sure she wanted to be a police reporter. She’d always known she could, and probably would, be faced with situations like this, but somehow the reality was far worse than she’d ever imagined. Maybe it was because she was a single mother now. Maybe it was because her three-year-old son was sleeping soundly in his bed only a few blocks away.

Shivering despite the warm Sacramento night, she tried to block out the flashing police lights, and the stench—God, the stench was cloying, sickening—and concentrate on the snippets of conversation she overheard as the evidence recovery team worked carefully and cautiously to preserve the scene. This was her first big story. She couldn’t wimp out now.

“It’s a female, been here maybe three days,” the coroner announced, bending over a body so badly decomposed Maggie couldn’t bear to look. “She’s been stabbed, repeatedly.”

“Watch that piece of plastic, Rog,” someone else muttered. “The lab might be able to lift some prints from it.”

Two detectives stood off to the side frowning. Maggie recognized them as Detectives Mendez and Hurley from the Sacramento Police Department, because it was her business to know who was who on the force. But she’d never had any direct contact with them. Most of her tips came from the police dispatchers who handled the calls as they came in. And most of her stories centered on domestic violence, insurance fraud or embezzlement. She’d once reported on a convicted felon who’d escaped from Folsom Prison, and she’d paid close attention when Jorge, a fellow cop reporter for the Sacramento Tribune, followed a rash of armed robberies. But she’d never been involved with a murder—especially such a brutal murder.

The homeless woman who’d discovered the body while rummaging through the Dumpster behind a small Midtown office building sat on the asphalt parking lot, rocking. Her hair was long, matted and dark, her thin frame buried beneath several layers of clothing. She carried her belongings in a plastic grocery bag and wore a sober, intense expression on her face. Maggie thought she recognized a glimmer of intelligence in her eyes, but when Detective Mendez had tried to talk to the woman, she wouldn’t respond. Afterward, Maggie had heard him mutter to Hurley, “Man, the lights might be on, but nobody’s home.”

“See anything that could’ve been used as the murder weapon?” someone asked.

“No, that kind of damage can only be inflicted by a pretty big knife. Nothin’ like that in this Dumpster. We’ll have to spread out, check the surrounding shrubbery and garbage cans.”

Maggie shot another glance at the homeless woman and moved closer. Maybe Mendez had approached her too soon. Maybe he hadn’t been patient enough…

“Hi, there,” she said.

The woman didn’t even look up.

“You must be feeling terribly frightened after stumbling onto something like that. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

No answer.

“Do you hang out here every night?”

Nothing.

“The police think the woman you found was murdered about three days ago, but the body could’ve been dumped as late as yesterday. Any chance you saw something that might help them?”

Again, nothing.

“Ma’am? I’m talking to you, and this is pretty important. Do you hear me?”

The lights might be on, but nobody’s home…. Maggie sighed. She’d started to walk away when the woman finally spoke. “What?” she asked, turning. “I couldn’t hear you.”