Detective Bryce Campbell climbed out of his aging Ford Mustang and walked across the Silver Valley Police Department’s graveled lot to the waiting unmarked cruiser. Its taillights glowed like two red Christmas tree bulbs in the darkness. Both of the officers assigned to him for this patrol were in the car, and he made out a third, smaller head in the backseat of the sedan.
A third person?
He opened the back passenger’s door and slid into the car. Slim hands rested on slim thighs in utilitarian khakis.
A woman.
“Evening.”
No response from the stranger.
“We never get enough of you, Detective Campbell.” Officer Julian Samuel—Jules to the force—spoke from the driver’s seat. He never wasted a chance to send a zinger at Bryce. They’d been up for promotion at the same time, and Bryce had not only received the advancement, he’d been assigned as one of three detectives on Silver Valley’s force.
He ignored Jules. “How are you doing, Nik?”
“I’ll be better when we catch the killer.” Officer Nika Pasczenko’s voice purred from the passenger’s seat in front of Bryce. Although he couldn’t see her in the dark interior, Bryce knew the first-generation Polish-American woman wore no makeup to emphasize her model-quality beauty. Not on the job. She’d been a godsend to Silver Valley, as her natural talent with languages, including Spanish and Russian, had helped them break into the drug and crime rings that were ever-expanding into their central Pennsylvania town from New York City, Philadelphia and Baltimore.
“And you’re...?” Bryce didn’t want the mystery rider to feel left out.
“Colleen Hammermill. I’m the volunteer chaplain tonight.”
He made out shoulder-length hair, probably dark as it wasn’t catching any of the ambient light in the car, and a throaty voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
“Bryce Campbell. Have we met?”
The leather seat creaked as she shifted.
“No.”
Liar.
She was a rookie, too, at whatever she was trying to pull off. That tell with her body language could cost an officer his or her life.
“Are you a minister?”
“Yes, but I’m not assigned to a local church at the moment. I’m ecumenical and float from congregation to congregation as needed to give the local pastors a break.”
He knew every volunteer chaplain, made up of local ministers, counselors and psychologists. They rode with the officers on a rotating basis and sat in the backseat as they encouraged the officers to open up about what dedicated law enforcement agents usually avoided—their emotions. Sometimes the volunteer chaplains were present during a crime or right after, and often proved excellent witnesses. No matter their background, they were all required to be certified counselors. If they thought an officer might be in emotional or mental difficulty, they were free to inform the superintendent of police.
Bryce had ridden with all of the chaplains, or so he thought.
He’d never met Colleen Hammermill.
His phone buzzed in his front pocket and he pulled it out.
Superintendent of police Colt Todd.
Now what?
“Campbell.”
“Bryce, I assume you’re in the cruiser and have met the new chaplain?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t...”
“No, she’s not on the permanent roster, and yes, she’s temporary. No questions. Just...”
“Sir?”
“Watch her six for me, will you?” Superintendent Todd’s voice was gruff. That wasn’t unusual, but his more personal request to watch Colleen’s back, using the military term both Todd and Bryce knew well, certainly was. Superintendent Todd’s request was clear—he needed him to protect the mystery ride along.
“Yes, sir.”
Bryce ended the call and stared at the phone’s screen for a full beat.
Just who the hell was Chaplain Colleen Hammermill?
* * *
Zora Krasny wanted to kick herself for even thinking about squirming when Bryce Campbell slid in beside her. She’d be able to do that later, after this mission was complete. The fact that he’d acted as if he was suspicious of her, as though he knew she was giving him a fake name, as if he might find her familiar, made her want to bolt.
But they had a mission to accomplish.
Zora unobtrusively stretched her shoulders under her body armor. While her Kevlar vest was like an old friend and still fit her perfectly, she needed to get used to it again. She rarely needed bulletproof gear in her new job. She’d resigned her navy commission and ended her seven-year naval intelligence officer career three years ago. After six months of downtime she agreed to go to work for the Trail Hikers on an as-needed basis while she completed her civilian counseling degree program.
She’d been sporadically employed for the past two years by the Trail Hikers, a secret government shadow agency that existed to aid local and federal law enforcement with particularly difficult cases. Cases that needed more financial backing or expertise than was provided in the everyday operating budgets of regular law enforcement.
The