Mischievous Malamute Mystery Series: Books 1-3

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Detective Jonah Ramirez stepped out of the cruiser and checked his watch. 4:45 a.m. Man, did it ever get it any easier? he wondered to himself. After sixteen years on the job—eleven of them in Homicide—he knew the answer. Over time, he tried to put the names and faces behind him, letting them blend into one another until they became less and less distinct. Still, the memories haunted him. Drove him. He shrugged as he surveyed the scene unfolding in the alley.

The crime scene unit had been dispatched shortly after the 911 call at 4:07 a.m., so Robert Jabawski and his team were in the midst of their investigation.

“Whatcha got for me, Jabba?” Ramirez asked as he reached the lead technician, calling the man by his nickname.

The stout tech grimaced as he came up from bent knees—an old football injury, he always claimed—pushing thick black-framed glasses to the top of his head before squinting at Ramirez.

“Nice of you to finally show up, Detective,” he quipped. “You bring me any coffee or are you just here to block my light?”

Ramirez chuckled, then handed his old friend the usual offering: a venti-sized Starbucks Pike Place Roast with six Splenda packets and a splash of half-and-half. Jabawski sniffed the contents and nodded in approval.

“We’ve got ourselves a female victim—no identification—with extensive trauma to the face and head. Damage was inflicted elsewhere, but her body made its way into the dumpster before she expired.”

“A beating?” Ramirez questioned.

Jabawski nodded. “Yeah, it’s looking that way. There was a significant amount of rage driving this perp. Girl’s got no face left. Here, see for yourself.” The tech moved a few feet to where two members of his team were working.

Death filled his nostrils as Ramirez followed Jabawski to the dumpster. Though he’d grown accustomed to her pungent fragrance over the years, it was Death’s indiscriminate viciousness that set him on edge. As the techs continued to work, he leaned in to observe her current reaping. Jabawski had been right, Death had been brutal—savage even—as she snatched the girl’s life into her rakish clutches. Triumphant, no doubt, as she claimed her victory, despite the means with which she obtained it. He knew it was her way. Death—like Life—didn’t play fair. Ramirez shook his head in frustration and turned his attention back to Jabawski.

“Anything to work with yet?” he asked.

“We’re still collecting, but it’s not promising,” Jabawski replied somberly. “We’re working with a dumpster and an alley, not exactly a CSU’s dream.”

“Witnesses?” Ramirez prompted.

“Nope. The owner of the house directly behind us found the victim while taking her trash out. Her name is Arianna Jackson. City’s trash guy arrived within a minute or two after that. She waved him down and got him to call 911. Anyway, he’s over by his truck. Despite having chucked his morning McMuffin all over the wall, he has quite a mouth on him. Ms. Jackson is with your guys in her backyard.” Jabawski thumbed over his left shoulder.

As Ramirez started in that direction, Jabawski called after him, laughing, “Watch out for the big bad wolf, he’s got a mouth on him, too.”

Everything was moving in slow motion. Or at least it appeared to be. Police officers and crime scene technicians swarmed like worker bees from the hive, scouting out their surroundings meticulously, in the hope of finding even the most minuscule of clues.

I’d spoken to several officers and carefully detailed my actions before finding the body. One officer eventually allowed me to retrieve Nicoh, who had awoken from his doggie slumber and—not one to be left out—had gone into full howl mode. Not pretty given the hour.

Unfortunately, it also hadn’t done much to detract the small crowd of onlookers congregating at the alley’s entrance. Now that I was safely in his sights, his piercing howls subsided, though there were still the occasional whoo-whoos as techs and officers passed. If anybody was going to get the last word, it would be Nicoh.

While we waited, I offered the crime scene techs shoe prints, fingerprints and paw prints for exclusionary purposes, along with a couple of other items I thought might be useful, including a list of neighbors.

At first, they indulged me, but after a short while, most resorted to a tight smile, a nod of the head or a pat on the back before politely asking me to return to my backyard to wait for Detective Ramirez, the lead investigator on the case, to arrive.

With nothing left to do, I resorted to flicking paint chips off the weathered bench where I sat. Nicoh grumbled in disgust—hopefully at the situation and not my choice of tasks—before sighing and placing his massive head on his paws.

We carried on like this for a bit until a dark figure strode purposefully through the back gate. I had to keep from gasping audibly as I took in the tall, imposing stranger. Wavy black hair framed tanned skin, a strong, chiseled jaw and piercing green eyes. Though dressed in faded jeans, worn cowboy boots and a semi-pressed button-down shirt, his demeanor indicated he was the man in charge. His expression gave nothing away but I knew he was sizing us up, analyzing us in his cop-like way.

“Alaskan Malamute?” he asked.

“Very good, Detective Ramirez. Most people assume he’s a Siberian Husky or wolf-hybrid, but Nicoh’s 100 percent Malamute,” I replied. “All ninety-eight pounds of him.”

Nicoh sat up straighter and whoo-whoo’d with delight because of course, any conversation he was the subject of had to be a good one, right? Some protector, I mused.

“You know who I am.” It was more of a statement than a question, though Ramirez arched an eyebrow in mock surprise.

“Well, I’ve been interviewed by most everyone here, excluding the media, of course,” I subconsciously snarled out the word “media,” which ignited a flicker of amusement in Ramirez’s eyes. “Anyway, several of the officers mentioned you were the lead detective, noted I would need to speak with you and told me that my animal and I would need to sit quietly and wait until you arrived on the scene,” I paraphrased the actual conversations, but was sure Ramirez caught the sarcasm. “So, now that you are here, how can I help you, Detective?”

Ramirez hadn’t been sure what to make of Jabawski’s last comment, but as he entered the gate leading into Arianna Jackson’s backyard, two things struck him.

First was the large canine. Surrounded by a dark mask, its eyes reflected off the lights, giving them an eerie, copper cast. It bore a strong, muscular body with a bushy, curly tail, draped carelessly along its back as it rose to acknowledge his arrival. Its pointed, megaphone-like ears jutted forward. If not mistaken, it was an Alaskan Malamute—not a breed he’d often seen in a city like Phoenix.

The second thing he noticed was the woman the dog pressed himself against protectively. She wore an oversized crimson Henley, black running pants and ASICS with fluorescent yellow shoelaces. Her long dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail on the back of her head. Angled bangs shaded her eyes, though Ramirez could tell they were bright blue, with a fleck of something he couldn’t quite make out, given the distance between them. Whatever it was, it was striking. She wore no makeup but had a healthy flush to her cheeks. While tall and slender, her composed manner indicated she could handle both herself and that big dog, if needed.

She wasn’t rude but seemed eager to proceed, so he dispensed with the small talk and got down to business. As he questioned her, he found her direct and to the point, with a great deal of confidence and control. Her eyes met his with each response, her voice never wavering as she detailed her steps. A cool customer for someone who had stumbled upon a body in her dumpster, he noted. It didn’t mean she was immune to it, just that she’d tucked it away until prepared to deal with it. He’d seen it before—she didn’t want to lose control in front of him. She was a tough one, for sure.

After they finished their discussion, he offered to call someone to come and stay with her or to take her elsewhere. As he’d expected, she politely thanked him for his offer but declined. He gave her his card, told her he’d be in touch and scratched Nicoh behind the ears as he turned to leave.

Violet, like a brewing storm, he decided—that was the color of the flecks in her eyes.

Detective Ramirez quickly put me at ease as he questioned me and for the first time in a long while, I found another person’s company strangely comforting. In fact, I didn’t relish the thought of him leaving, but holding him hostage with my feminine wiles wasn’t an option, considering the circumstances.

I kicked myself. Seriously? Thoughts like that were so unlike me, I must have been suffering from exhaustion. I sighed to myself and let Ramirez go before I made a complete i***t out of myself. Well, almost.

“One last question?” I asked.

Ramirez looked at me intently. “Shoot.”

“You got a first name, Detective?” Eck, I mentally winced at my obviousness.

Ramirez broke into a small smile. “Jonah. Goodnight, Ms. Jackson.”

“AJ,” I countered.

“Goodnight, AJ.” And with that, he strode out of the gate, just as easily as he’d come in.

Nicoh peered at me—a glint of mischief in his eyes—and for a moment, I thought he was going to follow. I know how you feel, buddy, I thought. I know how you feel.