Working Title

PROLOGUE

         After the tourists and shoppers and business people went home, the pedestrian mall known as the 16th Street Mall in Denver, Colorado, went black.  The street lights were the only source of lighting and they cast a somewhat eerie orange glow over the shuttered shops.  Homeless men who spent the majority of their day panhandling on the Mall bedded down in the doorways of the buildings, with the occasional fights breaking out over the best spots to spend the night.

         Orson Ray had found a great place to sleep.  It was quiet, sheltered from the elements and strategically located between a coffee shop and sandwich place.  He'd discovered that if he showed up at the coffee place as soon as it opened, which was 6:00 am, he could get one of the first cups of the day and the manager usually gave it to him for free.  The sandwich shop manager was equally as nice and would give Orson the occasional sandwich that wasn't made exactly the way a customer wanted it.  All in all, the doorway of the bankrupt t-shirt shop was the perfect alternative to spending the night in a shelter.

         As Orson, who had been living on the streets of Denver for nearly ten years and was known by many of the Mall's shop owners and regulars as a kind, but chronically drunk, man, lay under his Army-issue sleeping bag, he was startled awake by the growling and snuffling of an animal.  At first, Orson thought it was a hallucination caused by DTs, but then he saw the hulking shape crawling around on the sidewalk opposite his doorway. 

         Orson carefully sat up and peered into the darkness, convinced it was a homeless dog sniffing around for scraps.  Then the “dog” stood up...and up...and up.  The creature now towered over the benches that lined the mall.  Orson shrunk back into the doorway, his boots making a scuffling sound on the concrete and the creature's head whipped around to stare directly at him.  It cocked its head and hunched down, its arms hanging loosely at its sides now.  Orson noticed that the arms ended in something that resembled cat's paws; indeed the thing looked like some horrible cross-breed between Arnold Schwarzenegger and a tiger.

         The creature slowly started forward, a low, subsonic growl emitting from between lips skinned back to reveal three-inch-long fangs.  The thing was covered in orange and black stripped fur and its long tail lashed angrily back and forth between its legs.  It was definitely male, Orson noted, and was moving right towards him.  Orson scrabbled backwards, clutching the ragged sleeping bag to his chest as if it were a shield that might hold off the stripped death that was headed right for him, and whispered the Lord's Prayer, almost subconsciously.  Then his back hit the door and he knew he was dead.  In that second, he knew this thing stalking him would rip him limb from limb and probably eat his liver, too.

         Orson closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the claws or teeth to end his life.  He waited...and waited...and waited.  Nothing happened.  Orson slowly opened one eye and then the other and looked around.  The sidewalk in front of him was clear; the creature had disappeared.  Orson released an explosive breath, nearly wetting himself with relief.  “That's it,” he said with a shaky voice.  “I'm off the sauce tomorrow.”

         “Mmm, sauce,” growled an inhuman voice to Orson's right.  “I wonder if it would make you more palatable?”  Orson slowly turned his head and found himself face to face with the creature.  He screamed, a sound that was quickly cut off with an awful bubbling as the creature tore out his throat with one powerful swipe of its paw.  There was a horrible ripping and tearing and then silence, occasionally punctuated by gulping and chewing noises.  The creature left Orson's doorway and ran west, towards Coors Field, leaving Orson's mangled, mutilated body lying in a slowly widening pool of his own blood.  He would be discovered the next morning by a patrol cop, who promptly contaminated the crime scene by puking up his breakfast all over the body.


CHAPTER ONE

         By mid-morning, the 16th Street Mall was swarming with cops – uniformed officers were directing traffic and keeping gawkers from getting too close, black-jacketed crime scene techs were dusting and scraping and taking photos, the ME and her assistant were stuffing the remains of Orson into a body bag, and two plainclothes homicide detectives were standing back, watching the action.  One detective, a short, stocky Hispanic man dressed in black cargo pants, a white Denver Broncos sweatshirt and a black leather jacket, cradled a Styrofoam cup of hot chai tea while the other detective, a tall, muscular blond dressed in blue jeans, a black Ramones t-shirt and a denim jacket chain-smoked Marlboro reds.

         “Those things will kill you, Deke,” said the Hispanic detective.

         The tall blond, Detective Deacon Lindley, smirked and ground out another butt before lighting his seventh of the morning.  “Yeah, I know, Gopher.  But they're just so tasty”  The Hispanic, Detective Christophe Ramirez, just shook his head and continued watching as the body was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled to the ME's van.  “Any ID, Doc?” Deacon asked.

         The ME, Dr Amelia Cork, shook her head.  “The cop who found him said he knows him, though.  Vic's name is Orson Ray.  Been living down here for close to a year.  Good luck tracking down next of kin.”  She stripped off her gloves and slid in behind the wheel of her van as her assistant shoved the gurney into the cargo hold and slammed the doors closed.

         Deacon sighed, “Great,” and then glanced over at Christophe.  “Did you get Puke's statement already?” Deacon asked.

         Christophe smirked at the moniker.  “Yeah, but the punk wasn't exactly helpful.  Fresh out of the Academy, you know.  First DB he's ever seen up close and personal.”
         
         Deacon chuckled and glanced around, taking in the scene, looking for cameras in the front windows of any of the stores near-by.  He spotted one in the window opposite the doorway where the body had been discovered.  He made a note of it and looked back at Christophe.  “What the hell happened here?  This whole scene is totally FUBAR,” he said quietly.

         “I have no idea, Deke.  I'd say it looks like a fucking lion got loose from the zoo, except we'd have heard about that, don't you think?”

         “I sure as shit hope so.  Feral dog pack, maybe?”

         Christophe shrugged.  “Guess we'll have to wait for Doc Cork's report and the rest of forensics.  Speaking of forensics, ain't you taking out that lady lawyer tonight?”

         “Oh, shit.  I forgot about that.  Yeah, tonight's our first date.  It would have sucked if I stood her up.”  Deacon smiled sheepishly.  He'd first met Chief Deputy District Attorney Riley O'Rourke when he was still a patrol officer and she'd been fresh out of school, labouring away at the bottom of the totem pole.  Now she was one step away from ruling the DA's office and had finally, after three months of dogged determinism, agreed to go out with Deacon.

         “Yeah, especially after you been hounding her for three months.”  Christophe looked up as one of the crime scene techs ambled over, carrying a plastic evidence bag.  He held it out to Christophe.  “Looks like animal hair, Detective.”

         Deacon's left brow arched upwards.  “Animal hair?”  He reached over and plucked the bag out of Christophe's fingers and held it up, studying the contents.  There were four or five long, orange hairs inside.  “What kind of animal?” Deacon asked the tech as he handed the bag back to Christophe.

         “No idea, sir.  Gotta analyse them before I can answer that.”  He accepted the bag from Christophe and then ambled back to his kit, knelt down next to it and carefully stored the evidence bag away.

         Deacon frowned.  “What kind of dog has fur like that?”

         “Golden retrievers?  Salukis?  Borzois?”

         “Saluki?  Borzoi?  What the hell is a Saluki, Gopher?  You making that shit up?”

         Christophe chuckled.  “No, I swear.  They're like those Afghan dogs.  You know the ones with the real long legs and pointy noses?”

         Deacon gave him a disbelieving look and shook his head.  “Dude, your head is too full of useless crap.  How does Rosa stand it?”

         “Hell, Deke, that's why she married me.  C'mon, let's get out of here.  I got an interview with a witness on that Frey case in an hour.”

         They walked to their unmarked Crown Victoria and Christophe climbed in behind the wheel and drove back to the District Six station, just a few short blocks north of the crime scene.  Deacon paused outside the front doors just long enough to extinguish his ninth cigarette of the day and then followed Christophe inside.  They made their way through the bullpen, headed for the elevator bank on the far side of the room, and rode up the the homicide section on the third floor.

         The room was mostly empty, as it was only 10:30 on a Saturday morning.  Two or three other detectives sat behind their computers, hammering out reports.  Deacon sank down in his desk chair and glanced at his phone.  The message waiting light was blinking at him.  He picked up the phone, wondering who'd called.  Bypassing the menu, he dialed directly into his voice mail.  The first message was from a detective at District 1, located in the far northwestern corner of Denver.  They had a guy in custody who fit the description for the suspect in the Frey case.  They'd be willing to hold him for questioning.  He forwarded the message to Gopher and went on to the next one.  A sexy feminine voice with a strong Boston accent said, “Hey, Deacon.  It's Riley.  I was just calling to remind you of our date tonight.  I'm sure you're wicked busy but if you get a chance, gimme a call.  Bye.”  Deacon smiled and listened to it again, picturing Riley in his mind – tall, willowy, slightly slanted Japanese eyes, long dark brown hair, legs that went on for miles.

         “What's with the dopey look, Sarge?”  Deacon hung up the phone and looked up at the speaker.  Scott Corvasce, another detective who typically worked the overnight shift, was leaning against Deacon's desk with a smirk on his face.  The fact that Deacon was taking an attorney out tonight was an amusing bit of scuttlebutt amongst his co-workers.

         “Musta got a call from that lawyer chick,” Christophe said.  “Either that or Angelina Jolie called to tell him she's leaving Brad Pitt and wants to hook up later.”
         
         Scott snorted.  “Yeah, as if he'd be that lucky.”

         “Don't you got a home to go to, Corvasce?  Your shift was up almost three hours ago,” Deacon said, bristling.

         “I was just closing a case, Sarge.  Got the file all ready for you right here.”  Scott dumped a large file onto Deacon's desk and then patted him on the back.  “Happy reading.  I'm going home to bed.  Catch y'all Tuesday morning.”

         Deacon groaned and shifted the file to the bottom of a pile of similar files on the corner of his desk.  “Fucking paperwork's gonna drown me,” he muttered.  “I didn't sign up for this!”

         Christophe chuckled from his desk next to Deacon's.  “Yeah, you kinda did when you took that promotion, Sergeant Lindley.”  He stood up and gathered his keys and gun, slipping the gun into his shoulder holster.  “All right, Sarge.  I'm off to interview that suspect they're holding for us over at One and then to get that witness's statement, too, after.  I'll be back in a couple of hours.  No mooning over pretty lawyers while I'm gone.  You've got work to do.”

         Deacon smirked.  “Yes, Mother.”  He pulled his scene notebook out of his jacket pocket and made a call to the shop where he noticed the camera and requested a copy of the security tape from that morning.  The girl who answered the phone at the shop said she'd talk to her manager about it and then send it over later that day if she could.  Deacon patiently explained that he needed it as soon as possible as it could help with identifying a murderer.  The girl promised to do her best and then hung up.  “Christ on a cracker,” Deacon muttered under his breath.  Then he slid the top file towards him and began reading it.  He cringed at some of the spelling, grammar and punctuation.  It must be from Adams – he was probably single-handedly responsible for the dumbing down of America.  He was a great cop, but Deacon worried about his intellectual capabilities.  Deacon had to resist the urge to go through Adams' reports with a red marker and return them to him for corrections.

         After clearing out half of his in box, Deacon looked up at the clock.  It was nearly one 'o clock and past time for lunch.  Then he looked around the squad room.  It was silent and empty.  All the other detectives had long since gone home to spend their Saturday with their families and girlfriends.  “Well, crap.  Looks like it's gonna be delivery again,” he muttered.  Just as he was reaching for the phone, it rang.  Deacon jerked his hand away, startled, and then cautiously answered.  “Lindley.”

         “Hey, Deke.  It's Baron.”  Baron Fonterra was Deacon's best friend.  He worked with the DA's office as a lead investigator, a position he'd held as long as anyone could remember.  Baron had been with the office through three regime changes and he'd probably be there through at least three more.  No one really knew anything about him except that he was from the South somewhere, possibly Tennessee or Kentucky, and he wasn't married.  He never talked about himself and had a knack for deflecting personal questions with panache.  The only things Deacon knew about him were that he was an excellent listener, always gave great advice and was generous with information.

         “Hey. Baron. What's shaking?”  Deacon slid some delivery menus out of his bottom desk drawer and started going through them, searching for something that appealed to him.  Chinese or deli?  Oh, wait.  It was Saturday; the deli was closed.  Chinese it was then.

         “Heard about that catch you made this morning.  Was it really as nasty as it sounds?”

         Deacon smirked.  “Depends.  Who'd you hear it from?”  Kung pao chicken, house fried rice and some crab Rangoons.  Deacon's stomach began growling.

         “Crime scene tech.  Said the uni who found the vic ralphed all over the scene.”

         “In his defence, it was his first DB and he's like a week out of the Academy, Baron.  But yeah, it was pretty heinous.  Dude was torn to shreds.”

         Baron was silent for a moment.  Then he said, “Animal attack?”

         “Yeah, CSI found animal hair or something on the body.  Could be dog, could be an escaped tiger from the zoo.  Hell, Gopher said maybe it's a Saluki,” Deacon joked.

         “Saluki?  What the hell is a Saluki?”

         “That was exactly my response.  He said it's some kind of dog, like an Afghan hound or something.  I think he's making it up.”

         Baron laughed.  “Knowing Gopher, he probably read about them somewhere.  Coach's tonight?  Red Wings are playing the Flyers at the Joe.  6:30, first round's on me.”

         Deacon groaned.  He was a hard-core Detroit Red Wings hockey fan and tried to catch every game he could.  “Man, I'd love to, but I got a date.”

         “A date?  With who?  How much did you pay her?”

         “Ha fucking ha.  Yeah, a date.  With your boss, actually,” Deacon responded.

         “You're taking Charlie out tonight?”

         Deacon sighed dramatically.  “No, you dope.  Riley O'Rourke.”

         Baron whistled.  “Wow.  She's kinda out of your league, Deke.  How'd you manage that?”

         “Dogged determination, flowers and an irresistible smile.”

         “Ah, so you stalked her?”

         “I'm hanging up now, Baron.  I'll talk to you tomorrow.”  Deacon hung up the phone, cutting off the sound of Baron's evil laughter.  He called in his lunch order to the Golden Phoenix restaurant and then started in on the rest of the pile of work that sat waiting for him.  He typically hated working the week-end shifts, but at least Saturday mornings were typically quiet and gave him a chance to tackle the mountains of paperwork that accumulated during the week.