Trail Of Danger. Valerie Hansen

I have to secure you before we can hit the road, so here come the straps again. I’m sorry to have to do it but I could lose my license if I didn’t make sure you were safe.”

      Abigail inhaled more of the enriched air, then lifted the mask to speak. “I’ll try to behave. I promise. I don’t know what came over me before.”

      “Leftover trauma, if I had to guess,” the woman replied pleasantly. “I almost wouldn’t mind trading places with you if I could get Reed Branson to look at me the way he looked at you just now.”

      “That cop?”

      “Oh, yeah.” She chuckled as she tightened the safety strap. “What a hunk.”

      “I didn’t notice.”

      “Really?” The medic fitted her with an automatic blood pressure cuff and checked the flow of oxygen to the mask, then smiled. “Maybe you need your vision checked, too.”

      * * *

      Reed’s first duty was to notify acting chief Noah Jameson that he had diverted from his tracking assignment in order to intervene in a crime. Then he checked in with fellow police officers while they were still on scene. Some had dispersed to search the shadowy amusement park while others guarded the carousel and busy crime scene techs. The Coney Island boardwalk was relatively safe most of the time but it did draw a rougher element late at night, particularly in warm weather. A hot summer or fall day brought out every troublemaker in the state of New York at night. Or so it seemed.

      Adding to the foreboding atmosphere, wind-driven rain began pelting the rides and the ground as if bent on settling a score with humanity. Reed kept Jessie fairly dry under the canopy of the carousel while CSIs dusted the control booth mirrors for fingerprints and filled tiny plastic envelopes with dust and debris from the floor of the wooden turntable.

      “Needle in a haystack?” Reed asked a familiar crime scene investigator.

      “More like a needle in a stack of other needles. There’s virtually no chance we’ll scoop up usable clues. They’ve probably blown all the way to Flatbush by now.”

      Reed nodded. “Agreed. Sorry I didn’t get a better look at the guys who tried to grab the victim.”

      “Any chance this is connected to the rash of disappearing teens?” the CSI asked, pausing to glance up at him.

      “Remotely. This victim looked pretty young until I got up close. You’d think anybody who was after kids would be able to tell the difference, though.” He scowled. “I’m sorry she had to go through this, but she probably stood a better chance than an inexperienced kid would have.”

      “Do you know her?”

      “Not the way I know you and most of these others.” Reed indicated a group of NYPD regular officers sweeping the area with flashlights and sloshing through puddles. “Going by what she told me after Jessie tracked her down, her name is Abigail Jones. That’s so common I didn’t believe her last name until the medics found ID on her.”

      “Jones? I wouldn’t have bought that, either.”

      “Are you about done here?”

      “Why? You got a hot date?”

      Smiling slightly, Reed denied it. “Nope. Just wondered. Chief Jameson released me and I thought I’d check on the victim before my shift ends.”

      The man chuckled. “Your car is going to smell like wet dog, Branson.”

      “Probably. It often does.”

      Reed had a standard-issue yellow slicker and a modified cover for Jessie, too. In his Tahoe SUV. Three blocks away. He sighed, waved goodbye to the friendly tech and stepped off the carousel.

      Big drops were still falling so close together it was impossible to stay dry. Jessie snapped at a few of them as if it were a game. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you girl? Hang in there. I’ll pour you a drink as soon as we get back to the car.”

      Because he was paying close attention to his dog, Reed noticed a slight change in her behavior as they walked up the street. That was part of being a K-9 handler. He and the dog were supposed to read each other without fail. And right now Jessie was acting as if she sniffed something familiar. Since Abigail was long gone, Reed could only surmise she was getting a whiff of the thugs.

      He delayed radioing his suspicion until he had walked a little farther, following his dog until she paused at a curb and turned in circles several times. When she looked up at him he could tell she was disappointed.

      “Well, you tried, girl,” Reed said. “And I forgot to reward you the last time, didn’t I?” Handing the K-9 her favorite toy, a piece of frayed mooring rope, he ducked into a doorway to call dispatch. “This is Branson, K-9 Unit. Jessie just led me to an empty parking space. It’s in front of a falafel stand on West Fifteenth almost to Surf Avenue. There’s a tourist trap with souvenirs next to it. We may see something on surveillance cameras if we pull up tonight’s recordings.”

      “Copy. I’m showing you on West Fifteenth Street a little north of Bowery.”

      “That’s affirmative. I’m about to head for the hospital to check on the victim, then I’ll be ten-sixty-one. It’s been a long night.”

      “Copy that.”

      Visions of Abigail’s pale blue eyes and ginger hair remained vivid, not that he was pleased to have noticed. His life was complete. He had the perfect job, a peaceful private life and the best tracking dog in the unit, maybe in the whole state. The K-9s and his fellow officers, which included his sister, Lani, as a rookie, were all the family he needed. Theirs was a dangerous profession. Just look at what had happened to his former boss, Chief Jordan Jameson, six months ago.

      The entire NYC K-9 Command Unit was still mourning deeply, as were others. Losing Jameson had been hard to accept, especially for Zack, Carter and Noah Jameson, Jordy’s brothers. The glue of respect and friendship that had held their unit together had been sorely tried after Jameson’s murder and Noah’s interim promotion into his vacated position.

      The killer had been clever, even leaving a suicide note, but Jordy’s team of officers hadn’t bought it. Between the four branches of the K-9 Unit—Transit, Emergency Services, Bomb Squad and Narcotics—they had all the expertise they needed to pursue the truth. To help homicide solve the crime, one way or the other. No one in his unit was content to sit back and wait for results from other divisions.

      Yet life went on. It was true that New York City never slept. Reed knew what his duty was and did it to the best of his ability. Now and then, however, a puzzle came along that fascinated him enough to seek answers on his own time, such as, what had happened to Abigail Jones tonight.

       THREE

      “I just want to go home,” Abigail kept telling anyone who entered her hospital room. What was wrong with these people? Why were her wishes being ignored?

      The graying patient in the other bed snorted as a harried nurse beat a hasty retreat. “Might as well save your breath, sweetie. You ain’t gettin’ out of here tonight.”

      Desperate for someone who would listen, Abigail fought tears of frustration as she said, “I don’t understand why they won’t discharge me. They did a brain scan and the doctor told me there was no damage.”

      “I believe he said, ‘No visible damage.’”

      “Same thing.”

      “Not hardly.” The other woman coughed. “I heard him asking questions. You didn’t have a lot of answers.” Another cough. “You hidin’ from an abusive man or avoidin’ the cops?”

      “Of course not!” I’m not my mother.

      “Okay, okay, don’t get your jammies in a twist.