Anne Duquette - Pregnant Protector

“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]

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Urk.

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

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.”