Search and Rescue.

In Safe Hands.

Katie Ruggle.

For everyone at the Rochester Minnesota Police Department.

Thank you for all that you taught me, and for your daily acts of courage and selflessness. Fire might get all the glory (and calendars), but cops are still my favorite real-life heroes.

Prologue.

Anderson King punched the numbers into the burner phone. As it rang, he resisted the urge to pace. The shadows of the lawn shed hid him, but movement could catch someone's attention. It rang twice more, and King was starting to think he'd be sent to voice mail, when someone finally answered.

"It's me," King said quietly.

There was a pause. "A lot of people are looking for you."

"That's why I need to get out of here."

"Why are you calling me?"

"Because"-he eyed the light seeping out around the edges of the closed blinds in the upstairs window-"to leave, I need money."

"Again, why are you calling me?"

"I found Price. We had an interesting talk."

The silence on the other end continued too long, forcing King to speak again.

"He told me some things about you."

"What do you want?"

"Just to have a chat." King grinned. The conversation was going exactly as he'd imagined. "Meet me tomorrow at that empty white house on Alpine Lane with the for-sale sign out front. Two a.m. I'll make sure the back door is open for you."

He ended the call, still smiling. With a final glance at the window, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

The killer was late.

Anderson King prided himself on his patience, but his stomach had begun to curdle at the thought of his plan going to h.e.l.l. It was one thing to leave the country with money, and a whole other thing to go on the run broke. No brother, no cash, cops on a county-wide manhunt, sleeping on the hard floor of a vacant house, his body bruised and aching from George Holloway's fists...how had everything gone so wrong?

Nervous energy forced him to pace the living room until Anderson realized his boots were clomping against the hardwood floor. Appalled, he stopped abruptly. A final echo of the sound reverberated through the empty s.p.a.ce. How had he gotten so sloppy? Was he losing his stealth and nerve along with everything else?

"Anderson."

He whirled toward the voice. Anderson had been so preoccupied that he hadn't heard anyone else enter the vacant house. The moonlight filtering through the windows wasn't very bright, but Anderson had no problem making out the handgun and its attached silencer. He reached for his pistol holstered at the small of his back.

"Don't." The single word wasn't loud, but there was an authoritative crack to it. That and the pistol pointed at him made Anderson reconsider drawing his weapon.

"About time you got here," he bl.u.s.tered. "I was beginning to think you didn't care if I handed all this evidence over to the state investigators."

"What evidence?"

As the other voice calmed, growing quieter and more conversational, Anderson found himself getting agitated. Relax, he told himself. You're holding all the cards here. "Photographs Willard Gray took."

"Of what?"

Anderson leaned a shoulder against the fireplace mantel. "Pretty, pretty fires."

"That proves nothing."

"There are letters, too."

The silence stretched an uncomfortably long time, and Anderson forced himself not to fidget. During poker games, he'd always been good at bluffing. Now was not the time to develop a tell.

"Letters?"

And there's the tug on the baited line. Biting back a triumphant grin, Anderson confirmed, "Yep. Gray sent them to that crazy buddy of his, Baxter Price. There's all sorts of interesting information in those letters. It's funny. He may be dead, but Gray still can give his eyewitness testimony."

"Where are they?"

That was the flaw in his plan. With Baxter Price missing, there were no letters or pictures-at least not in Anderson's possession. No one had to know that, though. "In a safe place."

That disconcerting silence fell again.

"You don't have any letters." He sounded certain.

"Sure I d-"

Time slowed as he saw the gun flash and felt the punch of the bullet entering his chest, cutting off the lie midword. This was it, then. The gun fired once more, and he began to topple face-first toward the floor.

At least he'd get to see his brother again soon.

With a sigh, Sheriff Rob Coughlin lowered his gun. He was tired, and it was late. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with yet another body. There wasn't any alternative, though. He'd made the mess, so he'd clean it up. That's what responsible people did.

Quietly, methodically, he got to work.

Chapter 1.

It was almost May, and it was still snowing. Daisy made a face at the fat flakes clinging to the window. It wasn't like she had to go out into the snow, but she hated that it drove everyone else inside. With her neighbors sheltering against the cold, her special version of reality television had been reduced to what she could see through the windows of the few houses in her line of sight.

There was no use whining about it, though. It would have to do until spring finally came to the Rockies.

She peered through the curtain of snow at the house directly across the street. It looked like most of the Storvicks were in their family room, watching a movie. Only the oldest son, Corbin, was missing. Daisy spotted him through one of the upstairs windows, talking on a cell phone while pacing his bedroom. From the way he yanked on his hair with his free hand, there was more drama happening between him and the tall, redheaded girl who visited his house on an off-again/on-again basis.

As she watched the teenager end the call by throwing his phone against the wall, Daisy leaned closer to the window, making a mental note to tell Chris that Corbin and his girlfriend were fighting again. Last time they'd split, Corbin had spray-painted misspelled epithets on the girl's garage door. Daisy wasn't sure why his girlfriend had taken him back after that. Maybe Corbin was a good apologizer.

Since the teen had crammed in his earbuds and thrown himself on his bed, Daisy figured he'd be moping for at least a few hours. With the excitement at the Storvick house over for the night, she checked out Ian Walsh's place. To her disappointment, the new shutters were closed, blocking her view.

The window coverings and the girlfriend had been installed around the same time. Although she was happy that Ian had found someone, those shutters had put a definite damper on any vicarious thrills. Firefighter Ian Walsh had been in the habit of walking around in nothing but boxer briefs, and Daisy missed her personal Chippendales show.

The house to the right of the Storvicks', 304 Alpine Lane, was empty and had been for almost eight months. The for-sale sign was looking a little faded, especially with the frosting of new, bright-white snow lining the top. Daisy wished someone would move in soon and give her one more channel of neighbor TV. It looked like tonight's entertainment would be a book or the Internet, neither of which excited her.

With a resigned sigh, she started to turn away from the window, but a movement in her peripheral vision brought Daisy's focus back to the empty house. She squinted through the falling snow. There might have been a flicker of motion by the back corner of the house, but the darkness and the veil of snow made it hard to see. As her gaze traveled over the shadowed edges of the yard, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle. Without any moonlight, the forest on the far side of number 304 disappeared into absolute blackness. Anything or anyone could be lurking just past the tree line, and Daisy would never know.

Dragging her gaze away from the encompa.s.sing darkness, she forced herself to leave her window seat.

"No more horror movies for you," she muttered under her breath. Ever since her friend, Chris, had told her about the headless body found in a nearby reservoir a few months ago, Daisy had been even more on edge than usual. As she scanned her bookcase for something light and funny to read, Daisy couldn't help shooting a wary glance at the window. There were dangerous, terrifying things in the world beyond the safe walls and locked doors of her home. She knew this all too well. If she let herself dwell on those horrors, though, the nightmares would get even worse.

Picking one of her comfort reads, Daisy sat on her bed with her back toward the window. As she started on the first chapter, she was quickly lost in the book, and Daisy was almost able to shove away any worries about the unknown dangers creeping around outside her safe haven.

Almost.

Daisy recognized the knock, but she still pushed the intercom b.u.t.ton. Messing with Chris was one of her few pleasures in life.

"May I help you?"

"Dais. Let me in." He sounded crabby. That was unusual.

"Is that how you announce yourself? Shouldn't you be shouting 'Sheriff's department' or something?"

"I'm not serving a warrant." Chris was definitely cranky. "If you don't let me in right now, you're not getting your very heavy present."

"Present?" She hit the b.u.t.ton to unlock the exterior door. "Why didn't you say so? You know 'present' is the magic word." Tipping her head close to the wood panel, she listened for the dull thud of the outer door closing and the click of the lock reengaging. Once it was secure, she opened the four dead-bolt locks and two chains as quickly as possible. Finally yanking open the interior door, she grinned when she saw the big box Chris was carrying.

"Out of the way," he grunted, walking forward so she was forced to retreat a few steps. As soon as he was through the doorway, she closed the interior door, careful not to look at the outer one. Just the sight of that flimsy barrier between her and the outside world made her dizzy.

After refastening the locks, she turned toward her gift and its bearer. Chris had set the box on the kitchen floor and returned to the door to remove his boots. As Daisy hurried toward the mystery box, she stepped on a chunk of melting snow. With a yelp, she hopped over the remainder of what Chris had tracked in.

"I think the cows already escaped," she said, watching through the arched doorway between the kitchen and the entry as he pulled off his boots.

He blinked up at her. "What?"

"Closing the barn door? Boots? Snow on the floor?"

With a snort, he unzipped his coat. "You're a strange one, Daisy May."

"You do know that's not my middle name, right?"

"Sure." He offered her a crooked grin. His bad mood seemed to have disappeared as soon as he was inside. "Daisy May is just more fun to say than Daisy Josephine."

"If you say so." She curled her fingers under the box's cardboard flaps and looked at Chris, waiting anxiously for his okay to open it. When he waved a hand, a smile tugging at his mouth, she flipped the flaps over, revealing a sheet of bubble wrap. Pushing it aside, she spotted the flesh-colored torso and shrieked with excitement. "Grapple Man!"

Wrapping her arms around the dummy, she pulled him out of the box, scattering packing material as she did so. He was heavier than she'd expected, probably about fifty pounds, and Daisy grunted as she hoisted him upright. Looking at Chris, she saw he was wearing a proud grin.

"This is awesome, Chris! If I didn't have my arms full of this marvelous specimen of fake manhood, I would hug you so hard! Where'd you get him?"

"The department upgraded, so I snagged this one for you." He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "He needed a new sparring partner, and I figured you could use a training buddy for times when I'm not here."

She was distracted for a second by the way Chris's biceps bulged, stretching the tan fabric of his uniform shirt, and it took a moment for his answer to penetrate. "He's the best present ever. Thank you, Chris." She hugged the dummy, since the man she really wanted to hug was several feet away and didn't always accept physical affection gracefully. "I shall call him...Maximillian. Unless..." Daisy looked over the dummy's shoulder so she could see Chris. "Did you guys already name him?"

Smirking, he shook his head.

"Huh." Bending her knees, she heaved Max over her shoulder into a fireman's carry. "How could you have worked with him for years without naming him? It's unnatural."

"Unnatural? Naming some dummy you're about to kick in the face is what's unnatural. I'll get him, Dais." Chris reached to take Max, but Daisy spun out of reach, tottering slightly before catching her balance.

"We're good." She patted Max's behind as she headed for the training room. "I can't wait to practice my kicks on him. With the bag, I never know if I'm landing them in the right spot. Did I mention that this is the best gift ever?"

"I think you did a couple of times." He followed her through the doorway.

"Well, thank you again." She eyed the hook dangling from a chain next to the heavy bag. "That should be a good height for Mr. Max, don't you think?"

"Looks about right." Chris maneuvered the dummy so the ring at the back of his neck slid onto the hook. Max's feet almost touched the ground.

"Perfect." Eyeing her new piece of training equipment, Daisy excitedly bounced on her toes before turning back to Chris. "He's so great. You're so great. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

She couldn't stop herself from reaching to hug him, but he dodged and grabbed her outstretched hands instead. Although she felt the usual dart of hurt, Daisy's delight in Max was too great to be squashed so easily. She squeezed his hands, instead.

"You're, uh, welcome," he said, glancing away. Ever since she'd given in to a moment of impulsive stupidity and tried to kiss him a few months earlier, awkward moments had occurred between them on a regular basis. Daisy hated that.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, releasing his hands and turning toward the doorway. "I can make us some lunch."

"That's okay." He followed her out of the training room. "I'll just swing by my house and grab something quick."

Disappointment settled over her, and she fought to keep her smile. "Since you used your break to bring me my new favorite man, the least I can do is feed you. Plus, then you can fill me in on all the latest Simpson gossip."

"Gossip?" he grumbled. "I don't gossip. I'm with the sheriff's department, not Fire."