Harlequin Romantic Suspense April 2021 by Karen Whiddon (interesting books to read for teens TXT) 📕

next edition of the PPG. Yet he knew there’d been something suspicious about the death. He just needed Cheryl to confirm that the stiff wasn’t a local. If it had been, a protocol would have been followed that included Doc Lambert contacting the funeral home to collect the body as soon as the family had been notified.

Peter still knew he was on the trail of a story, and a good one at that. The lack of statements from officials—Doc Lambert and Sheriff McCloud, to name two—didn’t discourage him. Quite the opposite—the hunt for facts left him energized.

It was almost like the series he wrote back in the early 1990s as a reporter embedded with the troops back when he worked for a major New York newspaper. A drug cartel was sneaking heroin into the country through troops rotating home—some of the soldiers were unsuspecting, others less so. The articles placed Peter on the short list for the Pulitzer, a prize he never won.

Then life brought him back to his hometown of Pleasant Pines, the last place he wanted to be. Yet, for decades, he’d made it work. And because of Darcy Owens, he actually had news to report...or he used to, at least.

Still, there were other stories out there—like what had gone on in the park this morning?

The camera sat on the edge of his desk and he removed the memory card, taking only seconds to plug it into his computer. He opened a file, and his screen filled with dozens of thumbnail shots from this morning. He scanned the images. After selecting one, he double-clicked.

The entire picture filled his computer screen. Sheriff McCloud, arms folded across her chest, looked at the dark-haired man, who was in profile. Even in the picture, it was impossible to miss the woman’s injured hand. Peter had seen more than enough mangled flesh while covering the first Gulf War to write a book on battle wounds.

He recalled the town council meeting when Sheriff McCloud’s employment was announced. At that time, her hand had been in a bandage and he assumed the injury was minor. Looking at it now, he knew he’d been wrong.

What had happened to Julia? And without the use of her hand, could she really protect and serve the people of Pleasant Pines?

Yet, there were other mysteries to be solved.

Who had died at the park, and what had killed them?

And who was the guy with dark hair?

Peter opened another picture. This time, the dark-haired guy was staring straight at the camera, almost as if he could see Peter at the window.

“Let’s find out who you are,” he said, copying and cropping the photo. He pasted the picture into a web browser and conducted an image search. The first photos to appear were of an actor, grown now, who used to star in a popular kids show that aired in the 1990s. He could see the resemblance, certainly, but it wasn’t the same guy.

Sighing, Peter scrolled. The amount of red carpet moments was endless.

His finger stopped. Leaning toward the computer, he stared at a picture from one of the Denver papers.

Bingo.

The headline read, Detective Connected to Deaths of Quarterback, Russian Drug Lord.

There, on the front page of the paper, was a photo of the dark-haired man. Flanked by two uniformed cops, he was walking up the stairs to police headquarters. The caption under the photo read Detective Luis Martinez, a Twelve-Year Veteran of the Denver PD, on the Way to Meeting with the Chief of Police.”

Luis Martinez. At least Peter had a name to go with the face.

Grabbing a pen and paper, Peter pulled both to him. Sure, he could take notes on his phone or just snap a picture of the screen. But he was old school—or maybe just old—and therefore set in his ways.

On his first day of J-school in 1984, a professor had stood in front of the class. The man had a mane of white hair and a tweed jacket, almost like Mark Twain had come back from the dead. Holding a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other, the professor had proclaimed, “There are three things every journalist needs. A pen. And paper.”

Lifting his hand, Peter asked, “What’s the third thing?”

“An unwavering desire for the truth. Followed by the ability to ask a question.”

Decades later, technology had changed. But he hadn’t. He still burned with a need for the truth; and to this day, he’d never been afraid to ask a question.

Turning his attention back to the article, Peter noted the date—two years ago—along with the reporter’s name. He read the article. Luis Martinez, a decorated police detective, had been involved in the murder investigation of the Colorado Mustangs quarterback. There were ties between the killing and the Russian Mafia. A performance-enhancing drug that could slip through the league’s testing was linked to the death, as well. In the end, a Denver physician was charged with the murder and an abandoned warehouse had burned to the ground. The owner of the Colorado Mustangs, Arnie Hatch, had also been charged as an accessory and coconspirator. The trial was short and the outcome brutal, at least for Hatch. He’d been convicted on all counts, and to this day was still serving time in prison.

Luis Martinez, lead detective on the murder case, had been put on administrative leave—not given a medal or a raise.

Why?

Time for a call. It was answered after the second ring.

“Smitty,” said Peter, using the nickname he’d given Scott Smith when they were both beat reporters at a small paper in Boise, Idaho. Scott Smith now worked as a news director for a TV station in Denver. “It’s Peter. Peter Knowles.”

“I know who this is,” said Scott with a laugh. “Who else would use that horrible nickname?”

“Been a long time since the days in Boise.”

“Nineteen-eighty-nine.”

“Christ on a cracker, no wonder I feel old. I am.” The professor in J-school had told the class that there were three things a journalist needed to succeed