Be Afraid Read Free Page A

walked well enough, he was no longer certified for duty. The department had allowed Rick to adopt the dog as a personal pet.
    But Tracker was no more built for the civilian life than Rick. During his medical leave, Rick had tried returning to school but found the day-to-day classes underwhelming. No buzz. No excitement. Just boring.
    And so he’d put in his papers to be reinstated and, as luck would have it, he’d been tossed the new spot on the homicide team. Rick wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d gotten the job strictly on merit. He was a good cop, maybe a great one, but it had been his father’s forty-plus years of service to the department, as well as his brother’s current spot on the homicide team, that had tipped the scales. Family connections had opened the door to this opportunity and he sure as hell wasn’t going to squander it.
    “Beggars can’t be choosers, right, T?” He and Tracker made their way to the front doors.
    The two, both stiff from the car ride, moved slowly to the elevators. So far, Rick and Tracker had held their own. Not setting it on fire but closed a few slam-dunk cases. He punched the second-floor button.
    When the door opened, the hum of the fluorescent lights and chatter offered a half-hearted welcome. A few detectives glanced up in their direction. One or two tossed an appreciative glance toward Tracker, none toward Rick. No one had an issue with the dog.
    Tracker settled on a thick army blanket next to a metal, five-drawer desk as Rick glanced at the stack of homicide files he’d been reviewing yesterday. A teen knifed behind Broadway in an alley. A floater in the Cumberland River. A hit-and-run near Fourth Street.
    He shrugged off his coat and moved to the break room to pour a cup of coffee. He’d not slept well last night or any other night since the shooting. A year should have loosened the hold of that night but time apparently didn’t heal all wounds. Nightmares still jerked him out of sleep, leaving his heart pounding like a jackhammer and his body doused in sweat.
    He eased into his chair and sipped coffee as he reached for a file.
    “Don’t get too comfortable, Boy Scout.” The brusque request wrapped in a Boston accent came from his partner, Jake Bishop. In his late thirties, Bishop wore his jet-black hair slicked back and a dark beard trimmed close to his angled features. He favored dark shirts, ties that popped, and suits cut especially to his lean frame. He could have just been plucked out of South Boston if not for the polished black cowboy boots, his only concession to Middle Tennessee.
    In the month they’d been partnered, Bishop had barely spoken to Rick, who by virtue of his birth had the inside track Bishop had worked a decade to reach.
    Rick reached for his jacket and coffee and he and Tracker moved toward the elevators. Bishop punched the button and when the doors slid open the trio rode the elevator down. They generally used Rick’s car, a dark SUV, which was Bishop’s unvoiced concession to Tracker.
    Bishop buckled his seat belt without comment and glanced toward the backseat at the alert dog. “Dog looks good. You’re moving kind of slow though, aren’t you, Boy Scout?” His tone was light, friendly almost. “Feeling okay?”
    “Feel great.”
    Rick could hear the wheels turning in his partner’s head. The transplant had worked hard to fit in, earned every bit of ground he’d made in homicide, and his reward had been a crippled legacy and his dog. Bishop had not said he was waiting for Rick, the favored son, to screw up, but that was exactly what he was doing.
    “Where’re we going?”
    “Centennial Park. Skeletonized remains have been found,” Bishop said. “The maintenance crews were tearing out an old fountain and found a bag. Inside the bag was a pink blanket and bones. It appears to be a child. Not more than three or four.”
    Rick rubbed the back of his neck and started the car. Hell of a way to start the week. “How long has