LITMIR.BIZ

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smiled as Maddie passed. A message from the police officer responding to the wreck was just coming in, requesting a want and warrants on a car tag. She turned back to her console and began typing in the numbers.

      IT WAS A BUSY NIGHT. There was an attempted suicide, which, fortunately, they were able to get help dispatched in time. There were assorted sick calls, one kitchen fire, several car versus deer reports, two domestic calls, a large animal in the road and three drunk driver reports, only one of which resulted in an arrest. Often a drunk driver was reported on the highway, but no good description of the vehicle or direction of travel was given and it was a big county. Occasionally, an observant citizen could provide a description and tag number, but not always. Unless a squad car was actually in the area of the report, it was difficult sometimes to pursue. You couldn’t pull an officer off the investigation of an accident or a burglary or a robbery, she mused, to go roaming the county looking for an inebriated driver, no matter how much the officers would like to catch one.

      At break, she and Shirley worried about the assault on Rick Marquez.

      “I hope he’s not going to be attacked again, when he goes back to work. Somebody wants this case covered up pretty badly,” Shirley said.

      “Yes,” Winnie agreed, “and it looks like this is only the tip of the iceberg. We still have that mangled murder victim in our county. Senator Fowler’s hired help told Alice Jones something about him and the poor woman was murdered in a way that made it look like suicide. Now there’s an attempt on Rick, who’s been helping investigate it.”

      “He’s lucky he has such a hard head,” Shirley said.

      “And that his partner went searching for him when he didn’t turn up to look at some paperwork she’d just found. Yes, I heard about that from Keely,” Winnie said. “Sheriff Hayes,” she added with a grin, “is Boone’s best friend, so they know more than most people about what’s going on. Well, except for us,” she added wryly. “We know everything.”

      “Almost everything, anyway. You know, we used to live in such a peaceful county.” Shirley sighed. “Then Keely lost her mother to a killer who was friends with her father. Now we get a murder victim dead in our river and his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. This is a dangerous place to live.”

      “Every place is dangerous, even small towns,” she replied with a smile. “It’s the times we live in.”

      “I guess so.”

      They had homemade soup with cornbread, courtesy of one of the other dispatchers. It was nice to have something besides takeout, which got old very quickly on ten-hour shifts. The operators only worked four days a week, not necessarily in sequence, but they were stress-filled. All of them loved the job, or they wouldn’t be doing it. Saving lives, which they did on a daily basis, was a blessing in itself. But days off were good so that they had a chance to recover just a little bit from the nerve-racking series of desperate situations in which they assisted the appropriate authorities. Winnie had never loved a job so much. She smiled at Shirley, and thought what a nice bunch of people she worked with.

      KILRAVEN WAS PUMPING his brother for information. It was, as usual, hard going. Jon was even more tight-lipped than Kilraven.

      “It’s an ongoing murder investigation,” he insisted, throwing up his hands. “I can’t discuss it with you.”

      Kilraven, comfortably seated in the one good chair in Jon’s office, just glared at him with angry silver eyes. “This is your niece and your sister-in-law we’re talking about,” he said icily. “I can help. Let me help.”

      Jon perched on the edge of his desk. He was immaculate, from his polished black shoes to the long, elegant fingers that were always manicured. His black hair was caught in a ponytail that hung to his waist. His face grew solemn. “All right. But if Garon Grier asks me, I’m telling him that you stood on me in order to get this information.”

      Kilraven grinned. “Should I stand on you, just for appearances?” He indicated his big booted feet. “I’m game.”

      “I’d like to see you stand on me,” Jon shot back.

      “Come on, come on, talk.”

      Jon sighed. “I don’t have much, but I’ll share.” He punched the intercom. “Ms. Perry, could you bring me the Fowler file, please.”

      There was a pause. A light, airy, sarcastic feminine voice answered. “Hard copy is kept in your filing cabinet, Mr. Blackhawk,” she said sweetly. “Lost our password again, have we?”

      Jon’s face tautened. “What I am losing, rapidly, is my patience. For your information, Garon took out the files to show Agent Simmons. They’re in your filing cabinet.”

      There was a dead silence. A filing cabinet was opened and then closed, and impatient high-heels came marching into Jon’s office with a pleasant face, blue eyes and jet-black hair, cut short.

      She put a file on the desk. “We do have electronic copies of this, password-protected, if your password ever presents itself again,” she said sweetly.

      Jon glared at her. “You were an hour late for work two mornings this week, Ms. Perry,” he said, his tone as bland as her own. “So far, I haven’t reported it to Garon.”

      She stiffened. Her blue eyes had blue shadows under them. She didn’t shoot back an excuse.

      “Perhaps it would help your present attitude if you knew that Ms. Smith has an extensive rap sheet, of which my mother is unaware. With your, shall we say, proclivities for sneaking in the back door of protected files, I should think you could dig out the rest of the information all by yourself. If,” he added with dripping sarcasm, “you can manage to keep your present job long enough to look for it.”

      She reddened. Her blue eyes shot ice daggers at him, but her voice was even when she spoke. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything further, Mr. Blackhawk.” She left, without even looking at Kilraven. Her back was as stiff as her expression.

      Jon got up and closed the door behind her with a little jerk. His own eyes, liquid black, were smoldering. “Ever since my mother sent Jill Smith in here to vamp me, it’s been like this.”

      “You did have Ms. Smith arrested for harassment,” Kilraven pointed out with barely suppressed amusement. “And taken out in handcuffs, if I recall?”

      Jon shrugged. “A man isn’t safe alone in his own office these days.”

      “You’re safe from that particular woman, I’ll bet,” Kilraven replied, nodding toward the direction Joceline Perry had taken.

      “Most men are.”

      “Care to say why?”

      Jon went back to the desk and picked up the file folder. “She has a little boy, about three years old. His father was killed overseas in the military. She can freeze a man from half a block away.”

      “Not necessary in your case, bro, you’re already frozen.”

      Jon glared at him. “Don’t call me that disgusting nickname, if you please.”

      “Excuse me, your grace.”

      Jon glared even more.

      Kilraven sobered. “All right, I’ll try to act with more decorum. Is Mom still speaking to you?”

      “Only to tell me how poor Ms. Smith is suffering from my rejection. I’ve tried to tell her that her newest candidate for my affections is one step short of a call girl, but she won’t listen. Ms. Smith’s mother is her best friend, so naturally the daughter is pure as the driven snow.”

      “She might not be, but you certainly are.” His brother grinned.

      Jon’s black eyes narrowed. “And you certainly would be, if you hadn’t been conned into marrying Monica.”

      Kilraven’s amused expression fell. “I guess so. I never planned to get married in the first

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