“I hear you got him. Well done.”
“Good work, man.”
He got paid to catch bad guys, but if his fellow cops wanted to make a big deal out of it, he would let them.
Darius had been with the Denver Police Department for a little more than a year now. He’d moved to Colorado after a decade with the LAPD’s Threat Management Unit, chasing down the stalkers and psychopaths who targeted celebrities. The work had been rewarding at first. But after a decade of working with movie stars, directors, models, and singers, he’d decided most of them were as obsessed with themselves as the unhinged people who stalked them. Everything he’d loved about his job had become everything he’d hated about it, and he’d known it was time to go.
After LA, Colorado was a breath of fresh air. Though Denver had the conveniences of a big city, it was close to world-class skiing and endless miles of pristine wilderness. Best of all, there was no celebrity culture. It had been more than a year since anyone had demanded he run press releases by their publicist or treated him like staff or sat through an intake interview naked.
The conference room door stood open. Chief Irving, with his gray crew-cut and suit jacket, sat at one end of the table. Marc Hunter, the SWAT captain whose team had assisted with the arrest, sat a few chairs down, still in body armor.
Darius took the seat across from Hunter. “Thanks for your help today. You and your team do good work.”
Hunter grinned. “Hey, you’re the one who solved the case.”
It had been one of the most challenging investigations of Darius’ career. Everyone believed the victim’s husband had murdered her. Much of the evidence had initially pointed in his direction. Statistically speaking, when a young woman disappeared and turned up dead, her boyfriend or husband was the killer.
But Darius knew only too well how assumptions could bias an investigation, ruining the lives of innocent people while allowing the guilty to go free.
Despite circumstantial evidence and statistics, the killer hadn’t been the husband this time around. It had been the meth dealer next door. Hernandez had begun to suspect the bastard was dealing when she’d witnessed a steady stream of vehicles stopping at the house at all hours of the day and night. She’d confronted him rather than calling the police. That had been a fatal mistake.
Chief Irving looked like he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in the past thirty years. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his face wore a resigned expression, as if he’d long ago accepted that the bullshit would never end. “I read the case reports from both of you. Good work. Silva, your former boss said you never give up. Like a pit bull, he said. Now I know what he means.”
A pit bull?
Darius supposed hedidhave a reputation for persistence. He’d had the highest closure rate of any detective on the Threat Assessment Unit and the second highest at the LAPD. It had cost him a couple of girlfriends, a car, and more than a few nights’ sleep.
“Thank you, sir.”
They spent the next ten minutes going over details of the raid before Chief Irving changed the subject.
“I have a request for support from the Forest County Sheriff. They’ve asked for help investigating a hit-and-run that happened yesterday just outside Scarlet Springs. The young woman who was hit is a world-famous climber—the reigning world champion, in fact—and the sheriff wants our help determining whether this was a random act or a personal attack. I’ve told them you’ll arrive tomorrow morning to lend a hand.”
It took Darius a moment to sort through that. “You’re sending me …where?”
Hunter grinned. “Scarlet Springs. It’s a small mountain town west of Boulder. I worked with the Forest County Sheriff’s Department and the local fire department when they were hit by a wildfire a couple of years ago. They’re good people.”
“If you’ve got a good working relationship with them, why don’tyougo?”
“Hunter has a wife and kids, and he lacks your cyber-crime experience.”
Hunter shrugged. “I’m good at kicking down doors and pulling triggers, but beyond that…”
Fuck.
The last thing Darius wanted was another celebrity stalking case.
Irving slid a folder across the table, opened it to reveal a publicity photo of a pretty young woman with a bright smile on her face, her golden blond hair in braids. “The victim is Sasha Dillon, age twenty-six, single, no dependents. She’s currently in Memorial Hospital with injuries that aren’t life-threatening.”
Hunter’s brow furrowed. “Thank God for that. She’s a sweet kid.”
Irving went on. “You’ll be staying at the Forest Creek Inn on our dime. Take your service vehicle. Also, they don’t have the cyber tech that we have, so take whatever you think you’ll need—cyber monitor, validator, all of that.”
Hunter chuckled. “Listen to you, old man—trying to sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
Irving shot him a withering glance, but he didn’t fool Darius. Irving was fond of Hunter. He turned back to Darius. “Any questions?”
Darius bit back his objections. He respected Irving, and he’d sworn an oath to follow orders. “How long will I be staying there?”
