Hers To Protect. Catherine Lanigan

ONE

      VIOLET PEERED THROUGH her binoculars at the shower of apple blossoms fluttering onto the hood of her unmarked Ford Taurus squad car. Though she listened to satellite radio through an aux jack, she was waiting anxiously for a call from her superior, Detective Trent Davis. This was Violet’s first stakeout—though only an innocent-looking old farmhouse, it represented her superiors’ trust in her.

      After six months on the ILPD force, she’d been handed every rookie assignment the chief couldn’t pawn off on one of the veteran cops. She was the greenie kid fresh out of the academy. Every one of her superiors had dodged giving her a real assignment. Until today.

      She’d been walking past the chief’s office—okay, she’d been purposefully loitering there, eavesdropping on the conversation between Trent Davis, Sal Paluzzi and Chief Williams about a Chicago-based drug dealer moving into the area. She heard Chief Williams say, “All I’ve got is that this guy is in the area, drives an expensive sports car and a name. Miguel Garcia.”

      Violet choked on the coffee she’d been nursing. Trent looked up and saw Violet on the other side of the open door. “Officer Hawks?”

      Violet didn’t shy away. “Yes, sir.” She boldly walked across the threshold, but as she opened her mouth, an image of being fired for her impertinence invaded her thoughts. Risks were something an officer of the law faced every day. She took the shot. “It’s likely an alias. Miguel Garcia is a very common name. It would take more than searching databases to get a bead on this guy. Which would be the reason it was used.”

      Trent folded his arms over his wide chest. The chief narrowed his eyes, while Sal sought refuge in his coffee mug. He was waiting for her to trip up. Again.

      “You’re correct on that, Officer Hawks,” the chief said. “Any suggestions?”

      Fast thinking, intuition and the ability to piece together unrelated clues and fragments of information had served her well since the first time she played board games, or watched television mysteries with her siblings. “Over Easter dinner at my mother’s house, which is out on the north side of the county, Mom said she’d seen an expensive sports car racing down 1000 North. She said it came out of nowhere and had to be going over one-fifty. It was so fast she didn’t remember the color. For my mother, an architect and designer, who sees every tone and hue of color, that’s fast.”

      “Your point?” Trent challenged.

      Her thoughts fell into place like lightning strikes. “It’s been ILPD experience that drug dealers around here tend to have fast, expensive cars. They also comb the county roads around Indian Lake because that’s how they traffic their shipments and avoid us. Er, the authorities. I’ve lived in the north of the county all my life. I know every road, farmer’s access road and gully. I’ve picked strawberries at Paulson’s Farm and peaches at Brown’s Orchards. The tourists don’t usually head out that way. Superfast cars aren’t the norm out near my mother’s house. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that speeding car belonged to someone who was up to no good, someone who might be part of this new dealer’s network or even the dealer himself.”

      Her mouth had gone dry. Had she done the right thing? This wasn’t her meeting. She’d been hired as a traffic cop, though all she’d ever dreamed about was becoming an investigative detective on a major city’s police force such as Chicago or New York.

      The truth was, Violet wasn’t good enough for big city forces. She’d applied in Indianapolis, Evansville and South Bend. They’d all turned her down. Being the second youngest Hawks kid, she’d wanted to get out of Indian Lake and make her mark elsewhere. Anywhere. But since drug use and trafficking in small towns and rural areas throughout the Midwest was on the rise, towns like Indian Lake needed cops. Trent Davis knew her sister, Isabelle, and Isabelle’s husband well, so he recommended Violet to the chief. She got the job.

      Violet knew she had dues to pay. She was okay with that. Still, she would have rather done so in Los Angeles or Chicago where her detective skills would have been tested nearly every day and advancement would have been faster. Or so she thought. Trent Davis’s Drug Task Force had made significant inroads and arrests last year. Isabelle’s husband, Scott, had written a prize-winning newspaper article on his eyewitness report to Davis’s bust bringing down the notorious and elusive Le Grand gang. Now a new gang was taking over. If she could contribute to this investigation, she could become a permanent member on Davis’s team. After that? The possibilities were endless.

      Trent rubbed the pleased smile off his face and turned to Violet. “Did your mother have an idea what kind of car it was?”

      “She said Maserati. My brother Eric always had posters of Italian race cars in his room. She said it was something like that.”

      “It could be anything,” Sal interjected.

      Trent unfolded his arms. “How many Maseratis have you seen around here? Even in tourist season, Sal?”

      “None.”

      Chief Williams pointed at Violet. “Hawks, I’m ordering you on a stakeout. Davis, you get her outfitted with what she needs. If something is going on up there on or around 1000 North, I want to know about it. This makes sense. It’s close to the Michigan state line. The interstate is a stone’s throw away. Those county roads up there are a spiderweb. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed my turn and ended up in Three Oaks, Michigan.” He cleared his throat.

      Trent rose and walked toward Violet. Sal was behind him. He lowered his voice as they headed toward Trent’s desk. “Congrats, Hawks. But, while I’m ordering up a car for you, I want you to search that database.” He pointed to the computer on his desk. “Don’t look for Garcia. Look for Maserati sales in the tristate area.”

      * * *

      AS SHE SCANNED the early May orchards, she savored the sweet taste of satisfaction on her lips. She’d stepped up to the plate, and finally, she felt she was part of a team.

      The radio chirped.

      “Hawks?”

      She grabbed the square shoulder mic. “Sir?”

      “What have you got?” Trent asked.

      “Nothing.” She sat up straighter. Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of an engine. This wasn’t a tractor or a slow-moving old truck taking fruit saplings out to plant. It was something she’d never heard before.

      Holding the binoculars again, she saw a streak of blue through a blind of windbreak trees to the far south.

      “Are you still there?” Trent asked.

      “I got something.”

      “What?” His voice pitched with interest.

      “I don’t...know...but it’s moving like a bullet train.”

      “Use your radar gun. How fast?”

      She snatched the radar gun from the passenger seat, aimed and tagged the vehicle, whose make she still couldn’t identify. “Holy crap. Sorry, sir.” She turned on her car’s engine already anticipating the chase. “Two zero two.”

      “Talk later. Go!”

      “Roger. Out.”

      She flung the radar gun and binoculars to the passenger seat, stomped on the gas pedal and shot dirt from under her tires. The blue bullet was streaking down the country road as if the devil was on its back. As Violet sped the Taurus over seventy, then eighty miles an hour, she knew she’d never outrace her prey.

      She’d have to outsmart him.

      Knowing that Jasper Brown had bisected his enormous orchard years ago with a dirt path wide enough for his truck, she headed for that familiar dirt alley that separated the apple trees from the pear trees.

      Turning sharp right, she tore down the bumpy trail that seemed a lot more hazardous today than it had ten years ago when she used to ride her bike home from apple picking. She tightened her seat belt