Honeybun One and Done

CHAPTER ONE-2

BRITA LIFTED A TINY red long-haired dachshund out of the front seat, kissing her between her wet, brown eyes. “We’ll just be a minute, Miss Moxie. I need to tell the Sarge that I’m taking my vacation a little earlier than expected.

The little dog licked Brita’s chin, her tail wagging happily. Brita had already made arrangements to have her parents watch her five dogs, but she hadn’t been able to resist bringing the sweet little doxie along with her on one last errand. “Now you be good in there,” she warned. “No peeing under the boss’s desk like last time.” Moxie barked once and wriggled joyfully, always happy to get a scolding she deserved.

After all, she was a dachshund.

Brita was grinning as she started across the street. The precinct building was quiet at that time on a Sunday night. Most of the trouble makers had burnt themselves out the night before. A large percentage of them had probably spent the better part of the day getting stitches or sleeping off their excesses.

A light rain misted over her, bringing up the scent of old oil and other sour smelling things as it hit the asphalt. A car honked a couple of blocks down and she turned to see a couple standing on the sidewalk, obviously arguing about something. The woman’s hands waved expressively and the man’s posture was stiff, angry.

She frowned, the scene making her think of Percy. And with the thought came a fresh surge of guilt for having run out on Angie and Alastair’s wedding.

Moxie stiffened in her arms, her long nose lifting before she growled, low in her throat.

“Easy, girl.”

Brita’s hackles rose too. She’d lived too long with dogs not to trust their instincts. Especially on a mostly empty street at night. Her gaze scanned the sidewalk in both directions, halting for a closer look at the face of the alley between the precinct building and the electrical plant next door.

She thought for a moment that she’d seen movement. A shifting of shadows. And heard the soft scuff of a shoe on pavement. Moxie’s growl grew louder and she barked, the sound pitched high enough to make Brita’s eardrums ring. She settled the tiny dog on the ground at her feet. “Stay.” Moxie took a step forward but stopped, vibrating with excitement.

Brita reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her Glock nine. “Heel.”

The little doxie settled in close to Brita’s foot and bounced along with her as she moved into the alley, keeping close to the wall. “Who’s there?”

No response. No movement. “Police. Show yourself.”

Brita’s finger caressed the barrel of the Glock, ready to find the trigger if anything jumped.

After a moment she relaxed. Moxie trotted behind the dumpster a few yards inside the alley and could be heard snuffling eagerly beneath it. “Watch out for rats, Miss Moxie. They’re bigger than you are.”

The little dog yipped once to acknowledge Brita and went about her business.

Brita moved deeper into the alleyway, her gaze scanning the area. She no longer thought somebody was in there, but she believed someone had been. She emerged on the other end of the alley and took note of the Irish Pub across the street. The doors were open and the sounds of loud conversation and music poured into the night from inside the busy bar and restaurant.

The delicious aroma of corned beef and cabbage wafted her way and Brita thought she might just pop in there after talking to Sergeant Cline and get herself some dinner.

Moxie’s barking pulled Brita back down the alley. It wasn’t the sound of alarm, more an announcement of discovery. Brita just hoped whatever the doxie had discovered wasn’t gooey and disgusting.

Something caught her eye about midway down the alley. She turned her head and saw a thin white strip of something dancing on the breeze. Moving closer, she realized it was a piece of shoestring, caught on the bottom rung of the fire escape.

She reached up and grabbed the string, her gaze sliding to the windows above. She felt the first stirrings of alarm when she noticed that a window on the second floor was open. The window would be pretty close to Sergeant Cline’s office. Brita frowned, her gaze sliding to Moxie. If she didn’t have the dog...

She whistled and Moxie came running. Brita scooped her up, hurrying around the building and through the front doors. The information desk was empty, the cop who usually manned it was probably in the bullpen gossiping with the detectives on call. She hurried past and into the stairwell, not wanting to wait for the ancient elevator to rumble its way down to her.

As she exited onto the second floor she set Moxie back down and retrieved her gun. The floor was dark and quiet. All of the offices were empty, their glass-fronted doors closed and locked for the night.

The only light glowed a soft gold from within Sergeant Cline’s office. Brita had known he’d be in. As long as she’d known the older cop he’d returned to his office on Sunday nights to get a jump on the paperwork for the coming week. He claimed he liked the quiet, with nobody calling and very few interruptions. But Brita suspected he was hiding from his rambunctious grandkids, who came with their parents to dinner at the Sarge’s house every Sunday night.

She moved quickly toward the lighted doorway, noting as she neared it that the door stood open.

That wasn’t normal.

Moxie bounded past her, tail happily slicing the air, and Brita gave a soft whistle to recall her.

Something felt off. Listening carefully, she realized there was absolutely no sound coming from Sergeant Cline’s office. No creaking chair. No tap of fingers over a keyboard.

Nothing.

A chill scraped up Brita’s spine and her fingers tightened on the handle of her Glock. She slid quickly along the wall and stopped, peering around the door into the room. Sergeant Cline was seated behind his desk. It looked like he was sleeping. He was leaning back in his chair, his head dropped back in a way that seemed awkward and uncomfortable. His big hands were stretched out in front of him, fingers curved as if they’d been typing.

Blood spread outward from a hole in the center of his chest.

Shoving aside her emotions, Brita quickly checked the room and then hurried over, placing her fingers against his throat to check for a pulse.

No pulse. But he was still warm and the blood on his shirt was still wet, telling Brita he hadn’t been dead all that long.

With a start, she realized she might have seen the killer in the alley.

Her hand shaking, she pulled her cell from her jeans to call for an ambulance. A snuffling noise underneath the Sarge’s desk reminded Brita she had a nosy little interloper with her.

“Crap!” She grabbed for Miss Moxie, dropping her phone in the process. She managed to scoop her up, but not before the little dog managed to track through the puddle of blood beneath the desk. Brita swore again as Moxie’s paws painted her forearms with Sergeant Cline’s blood.

Her pulse pounding, she realized she needed to call down and get some help securing the scene. And techs needed to be called in to process the crime scene. But before she did that, Brita did a quick scan of the room. Moxie wriggled in her arms and Brita stuffed her Glock into her purse so she wouldn’t drop it. “Be still, Mox.”

The little dog whimpered softly, swiping a small, pink tongue over Brita’s chin. She was sensing Brita’s distress. Brita gave her a quick scratch under the chin as she moved carefully around the desk. She saw the overturned coffee cup, its contents splattered over a pile of files that were askew, as if someone had been rifling through them.

The light on Sarge’s phone lit up and Brita realized it was only a matter of time before someone else wondered upstairs. She wanted to have the scene catalogued in her mind before that happened. Just in case. She scanned the floor, finding only a spread of paper painted in blood. Taking a picture, she made a mental note to go through the files later, though she doubted there’d be anything useful in them. If the killer had been there to gather up evidence he would have taken it with him. She straightened and looked at Sarge’s desk.

Cline’s index finger was tipped in blood. Brita carefully moved the files to peer beneath them. He’d attempted to write something on the surface of his blotter. It looked like a “j” followed by a letter she couldn’t read, something that looked like a tilting “r”, a blotch and more smears. Brita snapped a quick picture.

Moxie wriggled out of her grasp and hit the floor running. Brita jumped up and followed her into the hall. The dachshund stopped outside the bathroom door and started scratching, whining and growling intermittently.

Brita retrieved her Glock and leaned into the door, pushing it open a crack with her hip to check the space before going inside. Moxie slipped through, running along the tile floor past the first four stalls to the last one.

A warm breeze slithered through the space, bringing with it the scent of rain. The window at the end of the long, narrow room was open and the floor beneath it was wet.

Moxie trotted under the last stall door, barking excitedly.

Brita stepped into the puddle of water and pushed the door open.

A man sat on the toilet, fully clothed, his head drooping on his chest.

The front of his dark blue uniform shirt was stiff with blood.

Brita stepped over Moxie and moved closer, reaching to lift his chin carefully, with two fingers.

A deep, gruesome cut severed the width of his throat.