Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Carol Ericson (short books to read TXT) 📖

were important or had forgotten to mention to the agents. Sometimes, it was one of those small details that led them to the perpetrator.

“It was posted on some kind of online community board.” Jax repeated what Akna had told him. “Sounds pretty last-minute, but we can pull it up and check the time stamp.”

“I already did,” Anderson said, standing up, while Patches scooted over to Ben, and the veteran agent took his turn petting her.

What most agents didn’t realize was that while the therapy dogs were there for the victims, they helped the investigators cope, too.

Anderson pulled out his phone and scrolled through notes, his lips moving silently until he finally said, “Eight a.m. About half an hour before the game started and an hour before the bomb went off.”

“Not much time for someone to plant it if they were targeting one of the players,” Ben mused. “Not to mention that not everyone who responded used their real names. Some of them are just screen names. Unfortunately, the guy who posted the idea about the game, Aiden DeMarco, died at the scene.”

“But not all of the players were killed,” Anderson said. “Maybe the bomber was going after one of the other people at the park. Or even someone who was supposed to be here, but left once they saw a game in progress.”

Ben nodded slowly. “Or they’d been targeting one of the soccer players and they planted it quickly when they learned that person would be here this morning. That game drastically increased the number of people who were hurt or killed today.”

“Was the bomb on a timer?” Jax asked. “Or did someone set it off remotely?”

“Looks like it was set off remotely,” Ben replied. “Probably with a cell phone, but we’ll know more after the lab techs get their hands on it. We sent it to the lab six hours ago. Hopefully, we’ll have the answer tomorrow. In the meantime...” He stared meaningfully at Jax.

“You want me to come with you to the hospital? See if any of the victims saw anything?”

“The fresher it is in their minds, usually the better,” Anderson said.

“No problem,” Jax agreed, even though he knew that was only partially true. Sure, memories faded over time. But with trauma, the mind could block out pieces. Sometimes, those details only returned later.

He gave Patches an encouraging smile. “Want to go help some more people?”

Woof!

Ben jerked slightly at Patches’s enthusiastic reply, but Anderson just smiled. “She handles this part of it better than any of us.”

“Kind of,” Jax replied, but Ben and Anderson were already heading toward the SUV.

The truth was, dogs were susceptible to depression from this kind of work, too. They needed breaks, just like people did. But there was no denying that Patches loved cheering people up. Right now she was staring at him expectantly, then glancing toward the SUV, knowing she had more work to do.

He smiled at her, then lifted his arm, directing it toward the vehicle. “Okay, Patches, let’s go.”

The hospital was going to be his next stop anyway. He ignored the growl of his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since the quick sandwich he’d grabbed four hours ago. He had hours left before his day would be over.

Hopefully, one of the victims at the hospital would have answers that would get them closer to the bomber. Because if Anderson was right and the intended target of the bomb hadn’t been on scene, would the bomber try again?

AFTER SEVEN LONG years alone, the memories shouldn’t have been so close to the surface.

Keara stared into the whiskey she’d ordered hours ago, but had barely touched. The amber liquid reflected back a distorted version of the hand under her chin, a hand that had once worn a thin gold band, no diamond to get in the way on the job.

She hadn’t had such a vivid flashback to Juan’s murder in years. The bomb scene was nothing like her husband’s murder. The thick jagged slice across her husband’s neck, the blood pooled underneath him, the crickets chirping happily in the background. Her scream echoing through the tiny yard, making a neighbor call the police, because she was too traumatized to move. Too shocked to do her own job because she’d known with a single look that he was already gone. And she’d never even suspected there was a threat.

When the investigation began, she’d been told repeatedly to stay out of it. It was her husband, but it wasn’t her case. She’d understood that, believed in her fellow detectives, believed Juan would get justice. But a year later the case had gone cold, the detectives insisting they’d done all they could, that they’d loved him, too. In that moment she’d known she couldn’t stay. Not with the Houston PD, not in the life she and Juan had built together. Not if she wanted to be able to move forward.

It’s over, Keara reminded herself, squeezing the whiskey glass but not lifting it to her lips. She’d made her choice when she moved to Alaska. Let go or drown in it. Those had been her options six years ago and she’d picked let go.

At least she thought she had.

Except here she was, failing to do her job because of the past. Pushing the whiskey away from her, Keara glanced around the old-fashioned bar on the outskirts of Luna. Between the claustrophobic closeness of the booths jammed together and the heater turned up to battle the chill that slid underneath the ill-fitting door, the air was stuffy and beer-scented. She’d chosen it because she’d wanted to be alone in a room full of people, rather than truly alone in her vehicle and then her house.

Although it was nearly twice the size of tiny Desparre—in terms of population, if not geography—there weren’t many options late at night in Luna. She’d hoped a quiet booth and a short glass of whiskey would calm her nerves. Instead, she’d choked on the only sip of whiskey she’d taken. And