Chapter One
Avery stopped typing notes on her computer to snatch her phone from her desk when it rang. She stilled when she saw the number of her main police contact in Billings, and took a deep breath before answering.
She’d been waiting for this call. Dreading it for days. “Detective Dahl.”
“Avery, it’s Jim. I have some news for you.”
“Hi, Jim. Go ahead.” She braced herself for the possibility of bad news.
“It’s about Mike Radzat.”
“Yes.” Her stomach tensed, her fingers tightening around the phone.
“The National Appeals Board met this morning, and they’ve made the decision to—”
To overturn the Parole Commission’s decision and grant Radzat parole. So that dangerous, manipulative piece of shit could target more innocent victims.
“—deny his appeal.”
Thank you, God. She leaned back in her chair, slowly relaxing. “That’s great news.” She wanted him to stay in prison for as long as possible. “When will his next parole board hearing be?”
“Likely in another two years.”
Hopefully he’d be denied parole then too. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course. Have a good day.”
“You too.” She set her phone down on her desk with a relieved sigh. Until now she hadn’t realized just how anxious she’d been about the situation.
She looked up at a brisk knock on her partially open office door. Her work partner, Tate, stood in the doorway, wearing dress slacks, a charcoal-gray button-down, and a few days of bronze stubble on his jaw. His expression was somber. “We’re being dispatched to a domestic violence call.”
Avery pushed up from her desk and took her service pistol from the drawer, sliding it into the holster on her hip. “Where’s everyone else?” They were detectives, not patrol officers, but the Sheriff’s Department here was small enough that they were often spread thin, so everyone had to pitch in where needed.
“Busy.”
She hurried after him down the hall toward the main doors. These kinds of calls were thankfully rare here in Rifle Creek. It had been a long while since she’d had to respond to something like this, and she hadn’t missed it. She’d always hated them.
One in five officer “line of duty” deaths occurred while responding to domestic violence calls. They were by far the most dangerous kind of call for an officer to respond to, and she was thankful to have Tate with her.
They’d been partners for just over seven months now, and they’d become close right from the start. She trusted and felt safe with him. And not only was he a former Marine Raider with combat experience in addition to his years as a law enforcement officer, he was also in love with Avery’s best friend.
There was no one else she’d rather have watching her back in a situation like this. “Where’s the domestic at?”
“Summit Park. Neighbor called it in.”
New, fairly affluent neighborhood on the ridge above the creek. Just went to show that domestic violence didn’t discriminate—it affected all demographics, and all walks of life.
They exited the building into the bright October morning sunshine and hurried for his gray Ford pickup. “What was that call about when I showed up at your office?” Tate asked. “You looked relieved.”
“Just got word that the inmate I testified against in Billings a few years ago has officially been denied parole.”
“Radzat?” He unlocked the doors for them.
“Yeah.” Serial assaulter, thief and drug dealer. “For once, our justice system got it right.” Even though she’d done everything in her power to keep him behind bars, she’d been worried they might let him out early.
During the parole hearing she’d testified that he shouldn’t be granted parole—ever. Mike Radzat needed to stay behind bars right up until the last day of his sentence. He’d been committing violent crimes since the age of twenty-three, and he’d only been put away for the things he’d been caught for.
Having worked as a patrol officer in Billings for several years prior to becoming a detective, she had arrested him at least ten times, and each crime had been increasingly violent. No surprise to her that he’d wound up being arrested for aggravated murder soon after, having carved a rival to pieces with a machete.
“How long’s he got left in prison?” Tate asked as he steered out of the parking lot.
“Eighteen years.” She shook her head. “He had every chance in the world to straighten out. He came from a good family and had all kinds of support and opportunities. Instead he threw it all away.”
“At least he’s not getting out anytime soon.”
“That’s the silver lining.”
They were quiet for a few minutes, until Tate turned off the two-lane highway. “So, Mason’s moving in tomorrow night, huh?”
Her good mood took a dip. Oh, God, she didn’t even want to think about Mason. The man unsettled and confused her. And he was about to become her basement suite tenant, because rental suites in Rifle Creek were sparse, and she could use the money. “Yeah. Now give me the rundown on this situation we’re responding to.”
Tate outlined what the caller had told the 911 operator about the domestic violence incident. Sounded like the middle-aged couple had been in one hell of a fight if the neighbor had been concerned enough to call the cops. Husband was a lawyer, wife an interior decorator. The caller didn’t know if the wife had been injured, but had feared enough for her safety to make the call.
As they approached the neighborhood, Avery mentally readied herself for the unknown situation they were about to walk into.
“Ready?” Tate asked as he pulled up to the sprawling, two-story brick house.
“Yep.” She got out and walked with him up to the front door, hand on the butt of her service weapon. The neighborhood was quiet, most of the driveways empty with the residents at work, though she noticed the next-door neighbor peeking at her and Tate through a gap in the curtains as they headed up the front walkway.
Tate rang the doorbell. Electronic, with a camera. When no one answered, he rang it again, and rapped on the door.
“Hang on,” came the irritated reply a few moments later.
“Mr. Zinke,” Tate said when the homeowner finally opened the door.
Avery studied him in silence. Forty-three-year-old male, clean cut, with brown eyes and dark blond hair. Same height as her, right around six feet, with a wiry build. The dress slacks and shirt hinted that he was on his way to work.
Zinke didn’t budge, the door opened only wide enough to frame his face. Avery didn’t see any visible scratches or marks on it. “Yes?” he said, still sounding irritated.
Avery and Tate held up their badges. “Rifle Creek Sheriff’s Department. We got a call about a domestic disturbance at this address,” Avery said in a no-nonsense tone. “We’d like to speak to you and your wife.”
His face tightened as he stared at her. “She’s not here.”
Uh-huh. Then how come both cars were still in the driveway? “Can we come in?”
He eyed them with suspicion. “What for?”