Daddy Protector. Jacqueline Diamond

was excited about attending a school dance with a new boyfriend; her father had insisted that she stay home and fill in. He’d dismissed her tears as selfish.

      Selfish! She still got mad thinking about it. If she’d had other, warmer memories of her dad, no doubt she’d have forgiven him. But she didn’t.

      “Yeah, well, I grew up without a mother, so between the two of us, we had an almost perfect childhood.” Hale grinned, then added, “Before you adopt, though, remember that the great thing about other people’s kids is, when you get tired of ’em, you can send ’em home.”

      “That’s what I used to think, too,” she admitted. “But people change. I’ve changed. Maybe you will, too, someday.”

      “Stranger things have happened.” A slight concession, or perhaps simply a way of ducking the subject. “I’d better be going. Lock the back door first, okay?”

      “Absolutely.”

      After she did so, he left via the front, passing a couple of teenage girls who ogled him blatantly. They giggled incessantly while picking out hair ornaments, and Connie suspected the subject was Hale.

      She rang up their purchases, amused that her neighbor inspired so much girlish interest. He had been considerate to drop off Skip’s bag.

      And fiercely protective when he heard the noise in back. Remembering the tension in his dark eyes and the power in his movements gave her a twinge of longing. A zap of common sense followed on its heels.

      The great thing about other people’s kids is, when you get tired of ’em, you can send ’em home. She could hardly expect any other attitude from Hale. Vince Borrego might have reformed, but she doubted her playboy neighbor ever would. Too bad. He sometimes showed hints of potential for being a good man.

      Connie went to switch off the video and collect Skip. She had enough love in her heart to make a home for this child if she was ever lucky enough to get the chance. That would be family enough, at least for now.

      AS USUAL ON A Monday morning, Hale found his desk piled with reports from the weekend. His assignments in the Crimes Against Persons Unit ranged from missing persons to assaults. A small city like Villazon had mercifully few homicides but plenty of felonies, and he spent the morning reviewing crime-scene accounts and citizen complaints, following up on witnesses and conferring with other law-enforcement agencies whose cases overlapped his.

      Recalling the adrenaline rush he’d experienced during the incident on Saturday at Connie’s shop made him miss his years on patrol. Not that he didn’t occasionally get to take down a suspect, but in his position as a detective, the paperwork drove him crazy.

      Still, Hale enjoyed the challenge of discerning the facts and tracking down crooks. He supposed he ought to be studying for the exam to earn promotion to sergeant, which Joel had passed several years ago, but that might mean a transfer to a different division.

      He didn’t require extra income to pay alimony, either. Sipping his third—or maybe fourth—cup of coffee of the morning, Hale flexed the arm muscles he’d strained yesterday replanting Connie’s flowers. Darn, that woman was bossy! But fun to tease, and kind of sweet once in a while.

      Opening the first case file, he got to work. The hours vanished silently and swiftly, until the scream of sirens from the fire station next door jolted him from his absorption. “Chemical fire in a warehouse on the east side,” noted Detective Lieutenant E. J. Corwin, who paused in striding toward his office.

      A second siren blared. “What kind of chemicals?” Things could get ugly fast in any blaze, especially one that involved toxic substances. Firefighting was even more dangerous than police work, according to Hale’s insurance agent.

      “Unidentified.”

      Not a good sign. However, police usually only got involved with fires to control traffic. Or when bodies turned up, which he hoped didn’t happen.

      Thirty minutes later, as the idea of buying a sandwich from a vending machine loomed large in his mind, the phone rang. To his terse response, a woman said, “The chief would like to see you in his office, Hale.” The voice belonged to Lois Lamont, the sixtyish secretary whose tenure dated back to the late Mesozoic era.

      “I’m on my way.” He rang off. He had no reason to expect trouble, but neither did he usually pal around with Willard Lyons.

      The new chief had come on board the previous year to clean up the PD’s image. At Saturday night’s party, he’d glad-handed the community leaders and stayed until the bitter end, or at least as much of the bitter end as Hale had observed before bowing out at eleven.

      The man worked hard, and according to office gossip, he’d had a reputation as a decent cop in his previous positions with the Whittier PD and LAPD. The guys respected him, even if no one felt particularly chummy. Will Lyons’s manner didn’t invite chumminess.

      Hale walked past the watch commander’s office and the traffic bureau, his curiosity growing with every step.

      The secretary’s desk and several file cabinets crammed the small outer office. When he entered, Lois peered at him through owlish glasses beneath a fuzzy orange halo of thinning hair. “None of your cheekiness today, young man. He’s not in a good mood.”

      “Moi? Cheeky?” All the same, Hale appreciated the warning.

      “I hope you haven’t settled for any of the ladies in this town yet,” Lois continued. “My beautiful nieces put them in the shade. You really ought to let me introduce you. They won’t stay single forever.”

      She’d been offering to fix him up for years in what had evolved into a running joke. Judging by the photos on her desk, the girls seemed pretty enough but not Hale’s type. Not blond and smart-mouthed with a quick temper. “I’m married to my work,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

      She sighed, then indicated the inner door. “Go ahead.”

      Inside, light through a large window flooded the expansive office. The wooden desk and conference table from Vince’s tenure had been refinished and the chairs reupholstered. Satellite images of Villazon hung where once the walls had displayed photos of the town’s quaint former city hall.

      “Close the door, please,” the chief said.

      Must be a sensitive subject. Curious and a bit wary, Hale obeyed and followed the chief’s directive to take a seat.

      With his broad chest, thin mustache and close-cropped brown hair, Will Lyons fit the image of a police administrator. Not merely a bureaucrat, though; more than once, he’d helped resolve an investigation by asking key questions of the detectives.

      In his thirteen months on the job, not once had Lyons acted nervous or uncertain in Hale’s presence. Now, however, he folded his hands atop the desk and cleared his throat.

      The words “So what’s bothering you, boss?” nearly slipped from Hale’s lips. That’s what he’d have said to Vince in the old days. But no one joked freely with Chief Lyons and, besides, Lois’s warning rang in his ears. So he waited.

      Finally the chief said, “I’d like you to probe something discreetly. It may appear that I’m protecting myself, but the fact is, I think this may be an attempt to embarrass the department. If at any point you believe these contentions are true, Detective, you’re to treat this as you would any other case.”

      Curiosity about the subject warred with an instinctive dislike of subterfuge. “Why me?” If this was a politically sensitive issue, he’d rather it went to someone of higher rank, such as Frank Ferguson, captain of the detective bureau and interim chief before Lyons’s arrival.

      “Because every man and woman on this force likes and respects you,” his boss replied. “I’m a relative stranger here. If any of this comes out, they’ll trust you to be absolutely honest.”

      Did his fellow officers respect him that much? As chief party animal, Hale knew he had friends. But if he was truly held in such high