Page 19 of K-9 in Pursuit

Brian was aware of his fellow patrol members darting glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking during Tuesday’s morning meeting. This was his first day back, after spending Sunday in jail and Monday, his scheduled day off, skiing backcountry in an attempt to run away from the stares of his neighbors and his own racing thoughts. The other patrollers had questions—he could see it in their eyes. But they didn’t ask them. In fact, no one said anything to him. His stomach knotted. Was he a pariah now?

On one hand, he was grateful that Connor didn’t say anything about his recent arrest and release at the morning meeting, but he would have expected his coworkers to at least acknowledge him.

“The snow up on the Apex runs is good enough to open that terrain for the weekend,” Connor said. “Brian, I want you to head up that way and dig out the T-bar.”

The old T-bar carried skiers up to a half dozen steep, rocky expert runs. It only ran a few weekends a year, and there wouldn’t be anyone else over there. Was Connor purposely sending Brian there to keep him away from public scrutiny? If so, Brian didn’t know whether to thank him or insist that he had nothing to hide.

“Okay.” He glanced at the others, but no one was looking at him. Maybe Connor only wanted to keep Brian out of the way because it didn’t look good to have a murder suspect on ski patrol.

The silent treatment continued as he gathered his gear and prepared to head out after the meeting. He had just stepped outside when someone blocked his way—a weedy man wearing aviator sunglasses, an acid-green jacket and gray snow pants, phone in hand. “Are you Brian Weeks?” the man demanded.

“Dave!” Nina shouted. Brian looked up to find her waving. “Come ride up with me.”

At first, Brian thought she was talking to the guy in the green jacket, but then she hurried over and took his arm. “Come on,” she said. “I want to get started.” As she pulled him away, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Play along. That guy is a reporter and he’s looking for Brian Weeks, so today you’re Dave.”

The man in the green jacket had already turned away and was headed toward Chase Sargeant. Brian followed Nina onto the lift chair. On the chair, Brian felt for his name badge. Surely the reporter had noticed that. “Your badge is in Connor’s desk drawer,” Nina said. “I swiped it while you were feeding Daisy. We thought it would be better if you went undercover today.”

“I guess it’s not the best look, a possible criminal on ski patrol,” he said.

“You’re no criminal. And you shouldn’t have to deal with being hassled by vultures simply because the sheriff took you in for questioning.” The fierceness in her voice surprised him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. Just remember—today your name is Dave.”

At the top of the lift they parted company, and Brian headed for the T-bar.

No one said anything as he maneuvered among the few skiers on this part of the mountain. He couldn’t help thinking how different things were from only a few days ago, when everyone had greeted him. If Sharee ran up to him now would he be gentler with her—or more quick to warn her off?

He would probably have nightmares about the moment they accused him of killing Sharee for the rest of his life. He still had the number Stacy McCrae had given him for a defense attorney in Grand Junction, but he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to call her. He didn’t really have the money to pay a lawyer—and calling one would make this whole nightmare more real.

It took forty-five minutes to ski over to the T-bar, working his way down a series of steep chutes, around rock outcroppings and through the trees to the old-style lift, the metal T-bars suspended in a line overhead.

With the runs leading to this lift closed he had the terrain to himself, and the deep snow and thick trees muffled the sounds from the rest of the resort. Brian started shoveling snow from beneath the lift’s path up the mountain, and had soon shed his jacket.

Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the skier’s approach until she spoke. “You’re a hard man to find.”

He staggered back, almost falling, and gaped at the helmeted figure in sleek black ski pants and jacket. Chloe pushed up her goggles. “Are you trying to avoid someone in particular?” she asked.

“You startled me.” He stabbed the shovel into the snow and faced her. “There’s a reporter looking for me, so yeah, I guess I’m hiding out for a bit. What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you.” She looked around, at the deep snow and silent lift. “It took me half the morning to find someone who would tell me where you were. You’ve got a very protective bunch of coworkers.”

“I don’t need them to protect me.” Though he was grateful for their thoughtfulness, too. He reached for his jacket and put it back on. “Why did you want to find me?”

“I’m not convinced the sheriff’s department is going to try hard to find out who killed Sharee, now that they’ve decided you’re the likeliest suspect,” she said.

Did this mean she really didn’t believe he was guilty? Relief washed over him, followed by more panic as the rest of her words sank in. “You think they’re still going to come after me?”

“You’re the one person they’re sure had a reason to want to silence Sharee. And there’s the glove.”

“But I didn’t kill her. I swear.” How many times would he say that before people listened to him?

“Then we need to find out who did.”

“We?” He stared at her, unsure he had heard correctly. “You’re trying to figure out who killed Sharee yourself? Who’s helping you?”

“Will you help me?”