Page 63 of Lock ’N’ Load

“I’ll park on the next block. I just wanted a look at the place before we go in.” And to check for vehicles parked out front. But there were none clearly associated with the address, and no garage in which a vehicle could be hidden.

He cut the engine, and Sheba let out a gruff snort, uncertain as to what was going down. “Patience, girl.”

He leaned over to grab a leash from the glove compartment. “I want you to stay close behind me. Take this.” He handed Trista the burner phone. “If everything goes to shit, call 911. Got it?”

She nodded, then swallowed. “Got it.”

“Good.” On impulse, he dropped a quick kiss on her lips and was rewarded with a smile that gave his insides an unexpected jolt. It felt good to make her smile, nearly as good as kissing her. And God help him, he wanted to kiss her all night long.

Outside the truck, he let down the tailgate, and as soon as he’d hooked the search harness and lead onto Sheba’s collar, she leaped from the truck, excited as hell to be going to work. Working was like playtime for the dog. It was what she lived for. That, and now for Trista’s ear massages. He’d have to keep a tight rein on that so his dog didn’t go soft and get lazy.

“Let’s go.” Holding on to Sheba’s leash with his left hand, he reached for Trista’s hand with his right, coming to love the feel of her small fingers entwined with his.

Sensing where they were heading, Sheba led the way onto the sidewalk, then turned onto the walkway leading to the reporter’s house.

At the front door he knocked, and when no one answered after a full ten more seconds he knocked again. Again, no answer. Releasing Trista’s hand, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked, but he didn’t push it open. Sheba tensed, her hind legs poised to catapult her inside the second he opened the door.

“Stay behind me,” he reiterated, gratified when he felt Trista’s hand at the small of his back. He eased the door open, wincing as it creaked.

“Police K-9,” he said in a raised voice as he crossed the threshold. “Mr. George?”

No one answered. The living room was empty. Of people, that was. Every surface was littered with books, magazines, and newspapers. Not unexpected for a man who made his living writing articles. A printer and a stack of white paper were visible on a small desk tucked under the stairwell. A loose cable from the printer dangled off the side of the desk. No laptop, he noted.

Sheba trotted briskly around the sofa and armchairs, ears erect. She sniffed the air and the floor, looking, listening, and smelling for signs of another human being in the house.

Matt cast a wary glance up the stairway, then over his shoulder at Trista to verify she was following him.

Sheba led them into the kitchen. A pizza box sat on an oak table, along with a dirty plate piled high with pizza crust. A can of coffee sat on the counter beside a coffeemaker. Matt touched his hand to the machine, which was cold. The door leading from the kitchen to a small, unkempt backyard was wide open. The yard was empty, save for weeds and overly tall, un-mowed grass.

“Where do you think he is?” Trista asked. “Do you think he left?”

Matt put his finger to his lips, indicating she should remain silent.

Sheba trotted from the kitchen back into the living room to continue searching for people. There was still no sound from anywhere in the house, but something wasn’t right. Not only hadn’t the reporter kept his appointment with them, but for a guy who was clearly suspicious, his house was wide open.

“Call him again,” he whispered in Trista’s ear. “Don’t put it on speakerphone.”

She pulled the phone from her back pocket and hit redial. A few seconds later, a phone rang somewhere upstairs.

A thump came from above them on the second floor. Sheba lowered her head and placed one paw on the bottom step. The only reason she didn’t bound upstairs was that she was waiting for his command.

Hair on the back of Matt’s neck prickled, and he yanked up the hem of his shirt, pulling his Glock from the holster. Beside him, Trista’s eyes went wide.

“Get behind me,” he whispered in her ear. “Stay close.” He leaned down to the dog, again whispering. “Revier.”

Sheba was so fired up for the search she practically pulled him up the stairs. Luckily, the carpet runner muffled his boots and her nails. At the top of the stairs, he pointed his gun in every direction, clearing the hallway. His heart thumped in a fast but controlled rhythm as his eyes darted in every direction.

The moment he unclipped Sheba’s leash, the dog trotted into the first room. He and Trista followed closely behind, and Matt quickly determined the room was empty. They repeated the same procedure in the second bedroom, then Sheba picked up her pace, bolting toward the third open door at the end of the hallway. He knew the signs his dog was giving him.

Someone was in that room.

“Zustan,” he whispered, and Sheba froze, her ears pricking into sharp points.

Matt pushed past Sheba and eased around the doorjamb. Before he’d even crossed the threshold, he smelled it.

Death.

He aimed his gun into the room. Sheba bounded in beside him, pausing briefly to sniff the man lying face down on the floor. No blood was visible, but he was dead just the same. Matt was sure of it.