Gone to Darkness by Barbara Nickless (Sydney Rose Parnell Book 4)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 3.1 MB
Iraqi war vet and former railway cop Sydney Parnell is now the youngest homicide detective in Denver’s Major Crimes Unit. In the past, gut instinct has served her and her K9 partner well. But it’s not a trait Len Bandoni, her old nemesis turned reluctant mentor, admires. Not until Sydney’s instincts lead to their first case: a man tortured and beaten to death, then left in a refrigerated train car with cryptic messages carved into his body.
The victim is a well-liked member of an elite club called the Superior Gentlemen. At first glance, the club appears harmless. But beneath its refined surface swim darker currents.
As Sydney; her K9 partner, Clyde; and Bandoni investigate the grisly murder, the three develop a bond that carries them through a shocking series of crimes and a horrifying conspiracy that threatens the detectives’ lives and promises to bring their beloved city to its knees.
Maybe the woman was just a poor insomniac, night-haunted like so many of us. But the nearest homes and businesses were miles away. So it was possible she was a jumper. Maybe even a terrorist with derailment in mind.
Heinrich—along with my shield—had gone to investigate.
Now I was also on my way east to get it back before anyone found out I’d lost it. With Denver PD in the crosshairs of local politicians, the new lieutenant was a take-no-prisoners commander who operated on the broken-window theory—any mistake, however minor, was an indication the entire department was going to the dogs. If Lobowitz learned I’d lost my badge, she’d make a note in my file. Two more infractions, and she’d drop me from the detectives’ room to the dreary dullness of midnight patrols in Green Valley Ranch.
I could hear the chatter already. A woman. A railroad cop. Couldn’t hold on to her badge.
On the radio, Hubbard moved on from death to dying. The windshield wipers scraped against the glass. Something else scraped the inside of my skull.
“Blue Train cocktails,” I muttered to Clyde, who was comfortably buckled shotgun. “Whoever got the numbskull idea to ruin champagne with fruit syrup should be shot.”
My partner tipped his velvet-soft ears at me and managed an expression that looked like the K9 equivalent of an eye roll. Belgian Malinois are good at that. You don’t need a guilty conscience when you have a maligator. Someone might put pineapple juice in Clyde’s bowl, but that didn’t mean he’d drink it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I went on.
His brow furrowed.
“No one held a gun to my head, right? That’s what you’d say if you could. But I got you there, pal. Gift of gab.”
Clyde yawned and returned his gaze out the window, putting me in my place. Mals are good at that, too.
There wasn’t much to see outside the cab. Dawn was still a couple of hours away, and springtime in the Rockies had pinned a thick, cottony fog to the bounds of earth. The beams of my headlights looked like underwater ectoplasm.
From the highway I drove north and east along a series of increasingly smaller roads until eventually I hit a dirt track. I buzzed Heinrich again to tell him that I was probably fifteen minutes out. Just in case he was playing choke the chicken and needed to hurry and finish.