Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas: Protecting Virginia. Lenora Worth

Terrified, too. The last thing Capitol K-9 police officer John Forrester wanted to do was scare her more, but he couldn’t let her go. She was obviously running from something or someone, and he didn’t want her to run right back into whatever danger she’d fled.

      “Calm down,” he said, tugging her back another step. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

      She whirled around, took a swing at his head, her fist just missing his nose.

      Beside him his K-9 partner, Samson, growled.

      That seemed to get her attention.

      She froze, her eyes wide as her gaze dropped to the German shepherd. Samson had subsided, his dark eyes locked on Virginia, his muscles relaxed. Obviously, he didn’t see the woman as too much of a threat.

      “He’s not going to hurt you, either,” John assured the woman.

      She didn’t look convinced, but she wasn’t screaming any longer.

      “That wasn’t you in the house,” she said as if that made perfect sense.

      “What house?” he asked, eyeing the hedge she’d just torn through. The property on the other side of it had been empty for longer than John had been renting the Hendersons’ garage apartment. According to his landlords, the elderly woman who owned the house had moved to an assisted-living facility over a year ago.

      “Laurel’s,” the woman said, her hand trembling as she tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. She looked vaguely familiar, her soft blue eyes sparking a memory that he couldn’t quite catch hold of.

      “Laurel is your friend?” he prodded, anxious to figure out what was going on and get back to his day off.

      “My husband’s grandmother. She left me the house, so I guess it’s actually mine,” she corrected herself.

      “And you think someone was in there?”

      “Someone was in there. I saw him.”

      “Your husband maybe?”

      “My husband,” she said, every word brittle and sharp, “is dead.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      She didn’t respond, just fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I need to call the police.”

      “I can check things out for you,” he offered, because he was there, and because if someone was in the house, the guy would be gone long before the police arrived.

      “I don’t think that would be safe,” she said, worrying her lower lip, her finger hovering over the 9 on her phone. “He could have a weapon or—”

      “I’m a police officer,” he interrupted. “I work for Capitol K-9.”

      She looked up, her gaze sharp. “Then you know Gavin McCord.”

      The comment brought back the memory he’d been searching for. Captain Gavin McCord’s wedding. His bride and her entourage of foster kids, the quiet woman who’d been with them. He hadn’t paid all that much attention to her. She’d been pretty enough, her hair swept into some elaborate style, her dress understated, her shoes sturdy. Nothing showy about her. They might have been introduced. He couldn’t remember. He’d been too busy thinking about getting food from the buffet.

      “You’re Cassie’s friend,” he said, pulling Samson’s lead from his pocket and attaching it to the shepherd’s collar.

      “Yes. Virginia Johnson. Cassie and I work together at All Our Kids.” She glanced at the hedge again, tucking another stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her nervous energy made him antsy. He didn’t much like sitting idle when he could be doing something, and right at that moment, he and Samson could be searching for whomever she’d seen.

      “Tell you what, Virginia,” he said. “Go ahead and call the police while I look around. If there’s someone in the house, we’re giving him way too much time to get away.”

      “I hope he does get away,” she muttered.

      “You want him coming back?” he asked, and she flinched.

      “No, but I don’t want you killed, either, Officer—”

      “John Forrester. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

      “I’m not waiting out here by myself,” she said, moving in behind him as he made his way to the shrubs.

      “Then wait at my place.” He shoved the keys into her hands, pointing her toward the external staircase that led to his second-floor garage apartment.

      “But—”

      “Find!” he said, commanding Samson to move forward.

      The Shepherd took off, lunging through the shrubs and out into a pristine yard, nose to the ground, body relaxed. He was trained in apprehension and protection. He knew how to track a suspect, corner him and disarm him if necessary.

      He was also good at sensing danger, at knowing when someone was around who didn’t belong. Right now, he was focused on a scent trail. Probably Virginia’s.

      John followed as Samson beelined across the lawn and headed straight toward the large Victorian. The Shepherd bounded up the porch stairs, and stopped at a door. Cracked open, a little wedge of light visible beyond, it looked as if it opened into a kitchen.

      “Hold!” he commanded and Samson settled onto his haunches, eyes trained on the door.

      John nudged it open, peering into an empty kitchen.

      “Find,” he commanded, and Samson trotted into the room.

      The house lay silent, the air thick with something that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end. He’d been in enough dangerous situations to know when he was walking into trouble. He could feel it like a cold breeze brushing against his skin.

      Samson sensed it, too. His scruff bristled, his body language changing. No longer relaxed, he sniffed the air and moved toward a doorway to their left. Beyond it, a staircase wound its way to the second floor.

      Samson charged up, his well-muscled body moving silently. John moved with him. In sync with the Shepherd’s loping gait, muscles tense, every nerve alert, he jogged onto the second-floor landing and into a wide hallway. Seven doors. All closed. Another staircase that led downstairs.

      Samson growled, the deep low warning seeming to echo through the hallway.

      “Police!” John shouted. “Come on out or I’ll send my dog to find you.”

      There was a flurry of movement below. Fabric rustling, footsteps pounding.

      Samson barked, yanking at the lead, tugging John into a full-out run.

      A door creaked open as they raced downstairs and into a large foyer.

      The front door?

      Samson veered away from it, pulling John through the foyer into an old-fashioned parlor.

      Cold air filled the room, swirling in from an open door that emptied onto a wraparound porch.

      “Find!” John commanded, and Samson raced through the open doorway and out into the crisp winter day, his well-muscled body tense with anticipation.

      Someone had been in the house. There was no doubt about that. What he was doing there was something John had every intention of finding out.

      He ran down porch steps, Samson bounding in front of him. No hesitation. The dog had the scent, and he’d follow it until they found their quarry. Once he did, the guy was going to be very sorry he’d picked that house.

TWO

      Virginia didn’t know what to do.

      That was going to be a problem, because