LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 6

      My heart skips a beat before the looming shadow takes on the features of Detective Bob Richmond. I let my breath out in an explosive sigh of relief.

      “Hildy, what’s going on?” Bob says. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

      I’d say the man has a knack for irony except I don’t think he knows about what’s gone on so far this evening. “You did frighten me there for a second,” I tell him. “And while I haven’t seen a ghost, others have.”

      As Bob steps past me into the kitchen and surveys the scene, I fill him in on my experience with Danny earlier in the evening, our assumption that he was having a schizophrenic episode, and then the realization that the death he said he witnessed might have been all too real.

      “He told us he saw it happen,” I explain. “And that a spotted purple and pink dinosaur watched the whole thing.” Richmond shoots me an amused, skeptical look. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking, big guy,” I say with a wink, and I’m tickled to see Richmond’s ears turn bright red. “But don’t rush to any conclusions. Look over there.” I point toward the cabinet behind our victim where the dinosaur cookie jar still sits in all its purple and pink polka-dotted glory.

      Richmond’s smile fades and his brow furrows. “So, you think this guy Danny saw our victim commit suicide?”

      Doc Morton rises from his bent-over position, grunting a little. “Pretty sure it’s not a suicide,” he says. “There isn’t enough GSR on his hands for him to have been the one who pulled the trigger. And while I can’t say for sure yet—I need to do the autopsy first—it appears that our victim might have been dead before he was shot.”

      “Plus, there’s no suicide note,” I toss out. “And there’s a toddy in the microwave. Who fixes a nighttime toddy right before they kill themselves?”

      Bob shrugs. “Stranger things have happened. Do we have any ideas about motive?”

      “Oh, yeah,” I say before anyone else can speak. Bob looks at me with amusement. “You need to go out to the barn,” I tell him. “There’s a crop out there you’ll find very interesting. And a bit terrifying.”

      Bob arches his brows in curiosity. “Do say. Want to lead the way?”

      I don’t. Part of me doesn’t want to go anywhere near those plants again. Not the marijuana; it’s harmless enough. But the others unnerve me. Knowing how poisonous they can be makes me not want to be near them in any way. But I suck it up, nod, and turn to head back to the barn.

      Outside the house, Bob says, “You’ve certainly started off with a bang. How’s the job going so far?”

      “Was that a pun?” I say, giving Bob a sly smile. “A bit of dark cop humor?”

      Bob frowns, looking deep in thought for a second before I see enlightenment—and a hint of a smile—on his face. “Unintentional,” he says.

      “Too bad. It was a good one. As for how the job is going, it’s only my second shift. Too soon to pass judgment. Though I will say it’s nice having Roscoe with me and I think the two of us have made a difference in several people’s lives already.”

      “That’s great.”

      “Thanks again for putting in a word for me with the chief.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “Have you heard any, um, feedback about what people think about the program?”

      “Can’t say that I have.” I frown at this and Bob sees it. “Don’t be disappointed by that. As you pointed out, it’s only your second night. I suspect most folks are going to wait a while to see how things play out before deciding if they’re in favor of it or not.”

      He has a point. I’m desperate for this program to be a success because the position is my dream job. Chief Hanson applied for and received a grant to launch the program as a trial, so I need to make it successful if I want it to continue. Having a social worker ride around with the officers on duty has its risks, but hopefully the benefits will outweigh them. The availability of on-site counseling services alone should prove helpful, to the department staff as well as the community at large.

      As soon as I heard about the program, which has been dubbed Helping Hands, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I used all my powers of persuasion on Detective Richmond to get him to recommend me, and I figured I had a leg up in the qualifications department because I’m not only an experienced social worker with a nicely varied work history, I’m a victim myself. I hoped that level of empathy and understanding would help move me to the top of the list of candidates. Plus, I pitched the idea of having Roscoe, a certified therapy dog, be part of the package. That idea isn’t a new one. There are a few other police departments in the country that have started using therapy dogs with the beat cops, though I think our program, with the combined canine and human components, is unique so far.

      Because of the tenuous nature of the program, I haven’t resigned from my hospital position. As luck would have it, my hours there were cut just before I got the offer from the PD, so it’s possible, though not easy, to balance the two jobs. Complicating things is the fact that my boss at the hospital, Crystal Hoffheimer, also applied for the police job. She was interviewed right away—before I was, in fact—and I thought for sure she would get it.

      My winning out over my boss had the potential to make things uncomfortable or awkward at the hospital, but so far Crystal has handled it all with good-natured aplomb. I intend to be very careful to make sure the new job doesn’t interfere with or affect my old one.

      “It’s not going to be too much, working both places?” Richmond asks as we walk.

      “I’ll manage,” I tell him. “It will keep me busy and out of trouble.”

      Bob arches a brow at that comment but says nothing. We walk in silence until we’re only feet from the barn. Then Bob stops and puts a hand on my arm, stopping me as well. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he says. “I know this isn’t the best time, but I’ve been hesitant to call you. I knew your schedule was crazy with the training you had to do and your regular job, and I didn’t want to risk interrupting your sleep. Figured I’d see you eventually, anyway, and here you are.”

      “Here I am,” I say with a smile, wondering what this is all about.

      He shuffles his feet, looking at everything but me. This is easy for him given that he’s a little over six feet tall. He mutters a couple of “ums” and then finally manages to get his words out. “When you and I went out to dinner that one time a few weeks ago, did you invite me simply because you wanted my help with that boy’s case?”

      “No. I told you I was interested in you on a . . . nonwork level.”

      He nods, shuffling some more and licking his lips. “I know that’s what you said, but I also know that women sometimes say things they think we men want to hear. In order to get what they want.”

      “Then let me clarify things for you,” I say. “Bob Richmond, I would love to go out on a date with

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