As much as he wanted to reassure her, she needed the truth.

“The FBI in Chicago feel you’re in danger, Violet. You’ve been digging into Mafia business. The mob silences anyone who comes too close.”

A terrible visual flashed though Clay’s mind. Swallowing the bile that instantly filled his throat, Clay blinked twice, relieved to find a flesh-and-blood and very much unharmed Violet standing in front of him.

Clay noted her drawn drapes, needing to turn his focus back to security issues instead of the way his pulse quickened whenever he was near her.

PROTECTING THE WITNESSES:

New identities, looming danger and forever love in the Witness Protection Program.

Twin Targets—Marta Perry, January 2010

Killer Headline—Debby Giusti, February 2010

Cowboy Protector—Margaret Daley, March 2010

Deadly Vows—Shirlee McCoy, April 2010

Fatal Secrets—Barbara Phinney, May 2010

Risky Reunion—Lenora Worth, June 2010

DEBBY GIUSTI

is a medical technologist who loves working with test tubes and petri dishes almost as much as she loves to write. Growing up as an army brat, Debby met and married her husband—then a captain in the army—at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Together they traveled the world, raised three wonderful army brats of their own and have now settled in Atlanta, Georgia, where Debby spins tales of suspense that touch the heart and soul. Contact Debby through her Web site, www.DebbyGiusti.com, e-mail debby@debbygiusti.com, or write c/o Steeple Hill, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Killer Headline
Debby Giusti

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Special thanks and acknowledgment to Debby Giusti for her contribution to the Protecting the Witnesses miniseries.

I lift up my eyes to the mountains:

From where shall come my help?

My help shall come from the Lord

Who made heaven and earth.

—Psalms 121:1-2

To my precious family

For your love, support and encouragement

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

MEMO: TOP SECRET/TOP PRIORITY

To: FBI Organized Crime Division; U.S. Marshals Office

From: Jackson McGraw, Special Agent-in-Charge, Chicago Field Office, Federal Bureau of Investigation

Date: February 5, 2010

Re: Operation Black Veil

According to the FBI informant who wears a black veil and has recently come forward, the medical condition of the head of Chicago’s Martino crime family, Salvatore Martino, continues to decline. The family’s operation is now run by his son, Vincent Martino, currently out on bail and scheduled to stand trial for murder in June.

Activity within the family compound has increased significantly. Many of the major capos have visited Vincent at his Chicago home. Speculation on the street is that Vincent needs to prove himself to his father before the elder don dies. Whether the capos are paying allegiance to their new don or planning a change in their current operation is not known at this time.

The U.S. Marshals Office in Billings, Montana, notified the FBI concerning two women in Witness Protection murdered within the last month. Both had green eyes and ties to organized crime. Their deaths indicate growing Mafia activity in that state and may have been botched attempts to kill Eloise Hill, presumed to be in Montana. Hill has green eyes and testified against Salvatore Martino twenty-two years ago, resulting in his incarceration.

A Missoula news reporter contacted Detective Clay West, Chicago P.D., seeking information on the Martino family in reference to the murders. Action is now being taken to ensure the reporter focuses her interests elsewhere.

Law-enforcement personnel are instructed to notify SAC Jackson McGraw, FBI Chicago, with information pertinent to the Martino family, organized crime and/or the two murder cases.

ONE

Reporter Violet Kramer looked up from her laptop—relieved the drapes were drawn and the doors locked—as the car passed her house yet again. The sound of the souped-up engine and pounding bass cut through the otherwise still night.

A gang of rowdy troublemakers had moved into Missoula, prowling the streets and bringing a wave of crime that worried local residents, especially the older folks who lived in her neighborhood. Concerned though Violet was about the increased crime, her attention tonight was focused on her computer screen and the information she’d compiled over the last few weeks.

Violet could smell a good story, and this one was as strong as Limburger cheese. She just had to keep digging until she uncovered all the bits and pieces that would turn a good beginning into a great front-page spread, sure to improve her current odd-man-out status at the Missoula Daily News.

Even more important, the story would warn other women who might be in danger. Women who had somehow tangled with organized crime. Like Ruby Summers Maxwell and Carlie Donald, both murdered in Montana. Both young and attractive with the dubious distinction of having testified against the mob.

Another interesting similarity, both women had green eyes. An important clue or coincidence? Violet wasn’t sure.

She had little to go on concerning Ruby’s death, except a funeral announcement and an e-mail from a reporter friend who worked on the local rag in the town where Ruby had been killed. The full story never appeared in print. Women in Witness Protection didn’t make the headlines in the morning news.

Luckily, Violet’s diligent search of area newspapers had paid off with a photo of Jade Summers—the very-much-alive twin sister of the murder victim—standing next to her beau, Deputy U.S. Marshal Micah McGraw. In the forefront of the picture sat swarms of preschoolers watching a clown at the library where Jade worked. The kids were cute, but Violet was only interested in the woman at the marshal’s side. Slender frame, expressive eyes and a crown of russet hair that swept over her shoulders. At least now, Violet knew what Jade’s murdered twin—Ruby Summers—had looked like.

Inserting her flash drive into her home laptop, Violet pulled up the file containing Carlie Donald’s autopsy report—acquired through another contact.

…remains of a slender female…cause of death strangulation…abrasions and contusions of the anterior neck…no foreign materials evident beneath the fingernails…graphite noted on the right hand…froth in the trachea and bronchi…

Closing her eyes, Violet tried to block out the details playing through her mind. Her day had started early with a five-mile run before church. She had spent the afternoon working on the story, which had stretched the long day into an even longer night.

Right now, she needed to go to bed and forget about the two Mafia hits in-state since the New Year. And it was only February. Most folks believed bad luck came in threes. So, who would be the next to die?

Life was sacred, and those who preyed on the weak needed to be apprehended and brought to justice. If the police couldn’t handle the job, Violet would.

Her cell rang. She glanced at her watch—twelve-fifteen—and reached for her phone, noting the caller’s Chicago area code. “Kramer.”

“It’s Gwyn.”

“I planned to check online in case you left a message,” Violet said. The informant had told her never to phone lest her boyfriend—a mobster who worked with the Martino family—answer the call.

“Angelo’s away for the night. I bought one of those nontraceable cell phones. Wanted you to know the latest.”

Violet’s stomach tightened, hearing the wariness in Gwyn’s voice. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Angelo’s acting strange. He said everyone’s on edge. Vincent Martino’s making changes. Angelo knew where he stood when the old don, Salvatore, was in charge. With Vincent, things aren’t so clear. Angelo said the new don has to prove himself to his father before Salvatore dies. Somehow it involves those women who were killed in Montana.”

Just as long as Gwyn didn’t get hurt.

Although Violet had never met her informant in person, she and Gwyn had connected online a little over a year ago when Violet had researched a possible story lead on the mob. She’d never completed the story, but the mobster’s girlfriend had kept in touch, providing more and more insider information. With Violet’s encouragement, Gwyn had recently admitted she wanted to make a new life for herself free from Angelo and the mob.

“Some of the capos are upset,” Gwyn said. “Evidently, the hit men went after the wrong women.”

“You mean, Ruby Summers Maxwell and Carlie Donald weren’t supposed to die?”

“The target was someone else. A gal named Eloise Hill. At least that’s what Angelo heard. She testified against Salvatore years ago.”

“And Vincent wants her dead to gain favor with his ailing father?”

“Vincent lacks Salvatore’s charisma. Some say he’s more interested in women than in running the organization.”

“Can you find out more about Eloise for me? And let me know if any other women are being targeted?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Pulling in a deep breath, Gwyn continued. “Remember Cameron Trimble, that sleazy pimp I told you about?”

“The guy who’s in the hospital?”

“That’s right. He’ll be laid up awhile thanks to the undercover cop you know.”

A rush of warmth fluttered over Violet’s midsection. “You mean, Clay West? We met a couple times, that’s all.”

“Whatever.” Gwyn paused for a moment. “You called him, didn’t you?”

“Three nights ago. I thought he’d tell me something new about the shake-up in the Martino family.”

“Did you…?” Gwyn’s voice hitched. “Did you mention my name?”

“Of course not. I promised you the first time you contacted me that I’d never divulge your identity. I told Clay I’d heard his cover had been compromised, that’s all.”

“No one’s upset about Cameron getting hurt. What they’re upset about is your cop friend infiltrating a portion of the mob operation. Evidently, Clay West was after the guy who runs prostitution in the city. The cops had a sting planned that would have exposed him.”

“So because Clay went after Cameron, the cops lost their opportunity and had to back off?”

“That’s right. Now the mob’s worried Cameron might talk. The family sent in one of their high-power lawyers who plans to have the pimp sue for damages. A concussion, three cracked ribs and a broken jaw constitute police brutality. At least that’s the argument the lawyer will use.”

Violet hated hearing about any law-enforcement officer shoving his weight around, but Clay West didn’t seem the type to lose his cool. There had to be more to the story.

“What about that feature you’re writing?” Gwyn asked. “You said it would be picked up by papers across the country. The mob would be forced to lay low for a while, which would give me a chance to make my break from Angelo.”

“An overview of the story is on my editor’s desk. I’m hoping he’ll give me the go-ahead soon. As I’ve told you before, Gwyn, if there’s any way I can help you, just let me know.”

Once Gwyn had disconnected, Violet placed the phone back on the cradle. The main obstacle keeping the story from print would be her editor. Stu was more interested in local news than what was happening in Chicago. Hopefully, the tie-in with two in-state murders would make the difference.

Three nights ago, Violet had called Clay, hoping he would provide additional information to beef up her submission. But instead of helping, he’d accused her of being an idealist. Not the worst name in the books but her spine had stiffened when he threw naive into the mix. Déjà vu of what he’d told her two years ago in Chicago.

Of course, back then, she had been naive and foolish. Closing down her computer, Violet smiled at her own audacity the night she’d stopped by the hole-in-the-wall Chicago bar and grill some of the Martino soldiers had been known to frequent. Luckily, God had been watching out for her.

Instead of the Mafia, she’d found Clay. Scruffy beard. Unkempt hair. Piercing black eyes. The guy in the corner had “don’t mess with me” written all over him, along with rugged good looks that made him impossible to forget.

He’d stopped by her table long enough to warn her she was out of her element and to hightail it back to safer parts of the city. A hardcore Mafia-type wouldn’t have worried about her safety. The concern she heard in his voice had said more than words.

Putting the investigational skills she’d learned in journalism school to the test, she’d come upon an old photo of the graduating class at the Illinois Police Academy. The too-considerate mobster was none other than Detective Clay West.

Once she had a name, she learned he’d married young and divorced soon thereafter. His ex had died a few years later. The handsome cop fought crime with as much passion as Violet had searching the Internet for clues to the mob’s corrupt control.

Realizing the wealth of information an undercover cop could provide if they teamed up, Violet had staked out the grill and tried to follow Clay home a few nights later. She’d lost him on the street, never suspecting he had doubled back. When he’d pulled her into a nearby alleyway and had given her a piece of his mind, she’d been hard-pressed to focus on his anger.

Standing way too close in the shadows, she’d noticed the scent of his leather jacket and the woodsy smell of his aftershave, as well as the tiny nick on the cleft of his chin. He’d tried to convince Violet she was in way over her head and getting into his business could cause problems for both of them.

Despite his raw appeal that had caused her heart to trip along her rib cage, the story came first. Violet had ignored his warning and planned to dig deeper into the mob’s activities. All that ended a few days later when the permanent position she had hoped to land at the Gazette went to another intern. With no other journalism openings in the Windy City, Violet had accepted a position on the Missoula Daily News, where she’d languished for the last two years.

Fast-forward to a few days ago when Gwyn had mentioned an undercover cop named Clay West. Since Violet and the cop had a history of sorts, she had phoned him, hoping he’d provide more information about the murders in Montana. Clay’s terse responses to her probing questions confirmed calling him had been a big mistake.

Monday morning, Violet was still thinking about her Mafia story as she stood at the end of her editor’s desk, listening to Stu Nelson lecture her about staying on task. As much as Violet wanted to set Stu straight, she needed to pick her battles.

Keep the editor happy.

Violet had imprinted those words on her brain in Chicago. She was a good writer. Stu had said as much on more than one occasion. But he refused to assign her the hard-hitting features she wanted to write. Two years on staff and she continued to get the fillers and fluff stories.

Anyone could pull together a litany of facts and feed them to the readers. Violet’s strength was finding the story within the story. She prided herself on going deeper, thinking bolder, writing stronger than anyone else on staff. And that wasn’t egotism. It was fact.

A fact her editor didn’t seem to realize.

“The number of cops on the force has decreased while crime is on the rise,” Stu continued, his slightly this-side-of-sixty face wrinkling like a prune. “That’s the story I wanted you to write. Not your biased opinion of the chief of police.” Stu wagged his finger close to her face for emphasis.

Aware of the office door hanging open, Violet knew her peers had overheard his lambasting.

“Did you happen to look at the information I typed up concerning the two murders?” Violet threw the question into the mix.

Stu raised his brow, and his finger returned to the aforementioned position. “There you go again, chasing windmills. The fact that two women died on opposite ends of Montana has no correlation to anything you think might be happening in Chicago, Illinois.”

“The mob exists, Stu.”

“Maybe in Chicago, but we’re over twelve-hundred miles away. If you change the slant of a story I assign again, you can head back to Chicago. As I recall, the Gazette didn’t ask you to stay on staff.”

Oh, yeah, Stu was on a roll and had just gone in for the kill. “It was an internship after college,” she offered in self-defense. “There was never any promise of permanent employment following the nine-month training period.”

Backing her way to the door, she grabbed the knob, and when Stu waved her off, she slipped out of his office, feeling as if she’d just missed a head-on collision with a tractor trailer on Interstate 90.

Her heels clipped across the tiled floor. Quinn Smith looked up from his computer as she passed his cubicle and gave her a thumbs-up. “Keep the faith, Violet.”

She tried to smile back at one of the Missoula Daily News’s lead reporters. Medium height but athletic for a midfifties guy with a receding hairline, Quinn seemed to understand how she ticked.

Violet threaded her way across the length of the newsroom to her small desk, tucked along the far wall. One of the realities of her position was her distance from the editor’s office.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Stu would see her in a more favorable light after she turned in the completed story that tied the Chicago crime family with the two women who had died in Montana.

A story he had just rejected, her voice of reason cautioned. Advice she chose to ignore.

She slipped behind her desk, into the swivel chair that had lost its swivel probably last century, kicked off her shoes and logged on to a Web site she’d created in college.

A lone partition separated her desk from the main hallway leading to the elevators where Jimmy Baker now stood, peering down at her. Gangly tall with a school-boy smile, the junior reporter was a friend from her University-of-Montana days.

“Sounded bad.” He smiled with encouragement as he rounded the partition and sidled up behind her desk.

She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “FYI, I’m on to something big.”

“Ah, Violet, you’re gonna get into trouble. I can feel it coming.”

“Not if the story increases subscriptions and establishes the Daily News as the number-one rag in Montana.”

“Before success goes to your head, check your voice mail. Your phone rang off the hook while you were in with Stu.”

Violet pulled the receiver to her ear and punched the message button.

He had her at hello.

No mistaking Clay West’s voice or the ripple of excitement that tingled down her neck. Something about the way he enunciated each syllable clearly and distinctly sent a mental five-by-seven glossy to hang in the recesses of her brain. Tall, dark and dangerous was the image that came to mind.

Now, here he was on her answering machine, saying they needed to talk. Not once, but three times. If the man had any fault, likely it was impatience.

Jimmy peeked over her shoulder at her computer screen. “Good grief, Violet, is that the same Web site from our college days?”

She minimized the page, but that didn’t stop Jimmy.

“After all this time, do you seriously think someone will come forward with information about your Aunt Lettie’s murder? Weren’t you six when she died?”

“I was seven,” Violet corrected. So young, yet she still felt responsible for her aunt’s death. If only she’d had the courage to run after her that night, Lettie might still be alive. Instead, fear had overpowered Violet. She’d returned to the security of her home and had never seen her aunt alive again.

“The cops couldn’t find the killer. Doubtful you’ll have better luck.” Tenacious to a fault, he did the math on his fingers. “It’s been what? Eighteen years?”

“Jimmy, let it go.”

He leaned close to her ear. “I will if you stop with the Mafia story. I heard what Stu said. You’re doing it again, Vi. Stepping on toes. Going against authority. It could cost you your job.”

“Would you please back off?” Even friendship had boundaries and recently Jimmy was stepping a little too close to the line.

Her phone rang. She pulled the receiver to her ear. “Kramer.”

“Violet, it’s Clay West. I was wondering if we could talk, perhaps this evening. I’m not sure you understood the urgency of what I told you the other night when you called. You’re getting involved in something you shouldn’t be. We could discuss it over—”

Violet looked up at Jimmy, who failed to get the message to back off. As much as she wanted to talk to Clay, she didn’t need to listen to a third lecture in one day. Especially with Jimmy hovering close by.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll call you back.”

Violet disconnected and glared up at the guy who refused to take a hint. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”

“Later.” Turning on his heel, he sauntered back to his desk that sat five rows closer to Stu’s office.

Violet groaned. Because of Jimmy, she’d hung up on the very person who could provide information about the Martino family.

She made a mental note to call Clay as soon as she got home from work. Maybe they could smooth out the rough edges of their rather tenuous relationship. She’d enjoy being on firmer footing with the handsome and mysterious cop.

Violet transferred data for the revised article Stu wanted on the local police department on to her flash drive, as well as the information she’d compiled on the murdered women in Witness Protection.

Pulling her coat tight, Violet left the Plaza Complex hours later and made her way to the now-empty parking deck, her breath hanging in the frosty February air. Her car sat in the last row, farthest from the door, another sign of her standing at the Daily News.

She slid behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper, exited on to the main thoroughfare and snaked her way across town to the older neighborhood where she lived.

A crescent moon hung in the night sky, casting a band of light over the mountains that wrapped around the city. The stark beauty of God’s creation wasn’t lost on her this night despite the lousy day she’d had at the paper. Violet loved Montana’s fertile valleys and snow-covered mountaintops. Perhaps God had known what she’d needed two years ago when she failed to land the job at the Gazette. Undoubtedly, He was guiding her path even now. Hopefully, something good would come from all her hard work.

Please, God, make it happen.

Turning on to her street, Violet angled into the alleyway and parked in the freestanding garage situated at the rear of her property.

Leaving the warmth of the car, she tugged the coat collar up around her neck and hastened along the cement walk to the mailbox out front.

Glancing up and down the empty street, Violet grabbed the stack of bills and shivered, not from the cold but from an immediate sense of foreboding. Usually she had nerves of steel. Tonight her steel had turned to rubber.

She clutched the mail tightly in her hand, mildly comforted by the rhythm of her footfalls along the sidewalk, as if the sound could spook away the unwelcome and unwanted sliver of concern that shimmied down her spine.

Moonlight spilled over the rear of the house, but the front remained cloaked in darkness. Stopping short at the bottom of the porch steps, Violet noticed for the first time how the windowpanes, huge squares of opaque blackness, stared back at her like faceless gargoyles, taunting her for her foolish fear.

She should have left on a light.

A stiff wind blew at Violet’s back, causing her hair to billow around her face. She yanked the flyaway strands into submission and climbed the stairs.

The sound of a car engine broke the silence. Headlights turned on to her street. Violet’s neck tingled a warning.

She jammed her key into the lock then glanced back as the car slowed. The driver’s face, hidden in shadow, stared in her direction.

Violet turned the key, seeking the protection of her home. The door inched open, and she slipped into the dark interior.

A floorboard creaked. She glanced toward the kitchen.

A hooded, bulky form stood backlit in moonlight.

Violet screamed.

The man opened the back door and disappeared into the night.

Heart pounding like a snare drum, Violet dug for the cell phone in her purse. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the cold metal. Before she tapped in 911, a rustling sounded on the porch behind her.

Warm breath fanned her neck and a hand touched her shoulder.

Violet pivoted, ready to strike, and screamed once again.

TWO

“Violet, it’s Clay West.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide, limbs shaking.

“What happened?” he asked.

She gasped for air. “A man. In my kitchen. He ran out the back door.”

“Call the cops. Stay inside. Lock your doors.”

Clay raced through the house and out the kitchen door. A dog barked.

Searching the darkness, he saw movement in the distance and raced into the alleyway. A fleeing figure turned on to the main road.

Clay ran to the corner. The guy climbed into a late-model SUV, dark paint job, parked along the side of the road and drove away. Clay stood for a long moment watching the vehicle disappear then, hurrying back to Violet’s house, he tapped on the kitchen door.

“It’s Clay. Open up, Violet.”

She inched the door open and peered out at him from the shadows. Eyes wary, face drawn. His heart went out to her. For all her bravado, she looked scared to death.

“I called 911,” she said. “The police are on their way.” As if in response, a siren sounded in the distance.

“Did you see the guy?” Clay stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Not his face.”

Clay glanced around the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place. Moving into the living room, he flipped on the overhead light.

The home was an eclectic assortment of mix-and-match furnishings. Comfy and cozy. Bright colors, soft pillows and knock-off artwork blended into a warm and inviting atmosphere he instantly liked. A desk in the far corner held a laptop, table lamp, phone and an assortment of papers.

Violet wrapped her arms around her waist. The color had drained from her pretty face. She raised a hand to her throat, her breath ragged.

“What…what are you doing here?” she asked.

As much as he wanted to reassure her, she needed the truth. “The FBI in Chicago feel you’re in danger. Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw asked me to pay you a visit. You’ve been digging into Mafia business, Violet. The mob silences anyone who comes too close.”

Her brows rose. “This wasn’t the mob. A bad element’s moved into the city. This was local, Clay.”

“And you came to that conclusion because—?”

“Because the intruder fled. The mob would have killed me.”

A visual flashed through Clay’s mind. He envisioned her bound and gagged with a gun to her head. Swallowing the bile that instantly filled his throat, Clay blinked twice, relieved to find a flesh-and-blood and very much unharmed Violet standing in front of him.

“You can’t be sure it wasn’t the mob.” Clay noted her drawn drapes, needing to turn his focus back to security issues instead of the way his pulse quickened whenever he was near her. “Are all your windows and doors locked?”

“Of course.” Then she hesitated. “Except in the laundry room.”

Violet stepped into the hallway and opened the door to a small room containing a washer and dryer. “I keep the window open to let out the hot air from the dryer.”

Just as she’d said, the window was open and the screen unattached. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll let the cops check it out. That might be the way the guy broke in.”

The siren neared. Clay and Violet returned to the living area. He opened the door. A beefy cop, short hair, wearing a bulletproof vest and named O’Reilly shook his hand and then Violet’s.

Clay explained he worked for Chicago P.D. and quickly detailed what had happened. After O’Reilly checked the house, he and Clay walked outside. Shining a flashlight around the laundry-room window and ground below, they found no evidence to prove or disprove the window was the point of entry.

Following the cop’s suggestion, Violet did a quick search of her valuables. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

The officer took Violet’s statement while Clay stood to the side, his attention focused on the pretty reporter. Everything he remembered about Violet had been true. She was fresh and young and beautiful and full of life and unaware of the effect she had on him.

Two years ago, he’d picked her out in the crowd at the Chicago bar and grill and known immediately the low-rent dive wasn’t the place for her dimples and curls and curves and the angora sweater that had hugged her body and made him want to wrap her protectively in his arms.

He still wanted to protect her. That’s why he’d been on the road for the last forty-eight hours on special assignment from the Chicago FBI.

Pay Violet Kramer a personal visit so she gets the message to back off, Jackson McGraw had told him. Violet had made too many inquiries into the Chicago mob’s activities. Bottom line, according to Jackson, she needed to stop investigating the Martino crime family and allow law enforcement to do their jobs.

Clay had tried to make that perfectly clear three nights ago when he’d received her unexpected phone call requesting information about the murdered women in Witness Protection.

Somehow, Violet had pieced together bits of information about two seemingly random crimes in Montana and deduced the Mafia’s involvement.

She had beeped a warning on the FBI’s radar, and if they knew about her inquiries, the Mafia did, as well. Wouldn’t take long for organized crime to put a strangle hold on Violet Kramer—literally.

Clay’s job was to get to her first.

Finished with his paperwork, Officer O’Reilly handed a business card to Violet. “Keep that laundry-room window locked, and if you remember anything else, give me a call. You heard cars driving up and down the street. Someone’s been casing the neighborhood, but the intruder never expected you to walk in on him tonight.”

O’Reilly nodded to Clay. “Having you in pursuit probably scared him, as well. Doubtful he’ll hit this house again.”

Violet and Clay thanked the officer and walked him to the door. Once he drove off in his patrol car, Clay checked his watch. He still had a job to do.

“I know it’s late, Violet, but we need to go over some security measures you can take to protect yourself.” He pointed to the table lamps. “Leave a light on so you don’t come home from work to a dark house. Install dead bolts on your front and back doors. Lock all windows, even the one in the laundry room.”

She nodded, her mouth pursed. “I won’t leave it open again.”

He glanced at the phone on her desk. “Call home before you pull into the garage. If someone’s inside, the sound of the phone might encourage them to flee.”

She squared her shoulders. “I can take care of myself, Clay.”

He smiled at her flair of independence. “Seems to me you weren’t quite so confident about an hour ago when the guy was standing in your kitchen. Just as I mentioned earlier, it could have been the mob.”

“Could have, but wasn’t. The officer agreed with me. It was local riffraff.”

“In either case, don’t leave your notes on organized crime where someone can read them.” He pointed to the desk where her laptop sat, along with a stack of papers. The notes on top chronicled some of the Martino family’s most recent exploits, which he’d noticed when Violet was occupied with the cop.

She dropped her hands to her hips. “You have no right to rifle through my papers.”

Seems she was feeling a bit more confident now.

Violet cocked her hip. “Don’t tell me you drove over twelve hundred miles just to give me a security briefing.”

“I had a few days off and planned to take you out to dinner so we could discuss your security face-to-face.” He kept his voice calm. She had been through a lot this evening. He needed to cut her some slack.

“You’re probably hungry,” Clay said. “We can discuss how you’re going to stop gathering information on the mob over Chinese or Mexican. Maybe Thai?”

Anger flashed from her eyes. “You can’t tell me what to do, Clay.”

“For your own safety.”

“The mob isn’t the problem right now. You are.” Her voice was razor sharp.

“You’re upset,” he said. “Surely once you’ve eaten—”

“Leave now or I’ll call Officer O’Reilly and tell him I have another problem.”

“Violet, you’re acting irrational.”

He should have weighed his words.

She pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Clay.”

Things had certainly taken a turn for the worse. As much as he regretted upsetting her, Violet needed to realize her own vulnerability.

If a local punk could break and enter, the mob could, as well. Only they would have ensured she got the message to back off loud and clear, and their way of handling problems was usually fatal.

Hopefully, once Violet had time to process everything that had happened, she’d realize Clay’s advice was sound. He had made his point. One she’d remember. Better to leave while he was ahead.

“I’ll let myself out.” Clay headed for the kitchen door. The cold night air swirled around him when he stepped outside. A scrap of paper blew along the walkway. Clay bent to retrieve the note he hadn’t noticed earlier.

He unfolded the paper and read the typed message. Back off!

Had the man who’d broken into Violet’s house intended to leave the warning? Violet’s scream had frightened him, and the paper had probably fallen from his hand as he ran away.

The Mafia didn’t usually warn its victims, yet someone in Missoula knew Violet’s curiosity was taking her in a dangerous direction.

Was the mob using someone local to put the heat on Violet? If so, they wouldn’t let up until she was quieted once and for all.

Clay glanced at her home. The light from her kitchen window spilled into the darkness. He wouldn’t disturb her again tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

His first duty was to convince Violet to stop digging around in Mafia business. The second was to learn where and how she got her information. The third was to ensure her safety. If the mob showed up in Missoula, he’d add a fourth bullet to the list.

Keep Violet alive.

Violet locked the door behind Clay, feeling relieved to have him out of her home. But when she looked at the spot where the intruder had stood, she wished she hadn’t been so hasty sending Clay away. He offered security and a voice of reason. She regretted her outburst. Of course, she wasn’t thinking clearly.

Having her home broken into had thrown her usual levelheaded composure into a tailspin. Clay’s insistence on turning her misfortune into a teaching moment had rubbed her already stretched nerves to the point of breaking.

Peeved as she was at Clay, she knew he was right. Her inquiries about the mob could be her downfall if the Martino family found out. She needed to be careful.

Violet rechecked her front and back doors to ensure they were locked. As an added precaution, she wedged a straight-back kitchen chair under each doorknob to provide another obstacle should tonight’s mystery guest return or Clay’s warning about the mob prove true.

What had brought him to Missoula? Something more than her phone call the other night. The big guns in Chicago wouldn’t have sent Clay on a wild goose chase to Missoula if she hadn’t ruffled a few feathers in Illinois or stepped on someone’s toes.

Her dark mood brightened. A knowing smile slipped across her lips. Score one for the home team.

Not bad, Vi. Not bad at all.

Officer O’Reilly had assured her tonight’s intruder wouldn’t be back, which was a relief. In addition, Clay’s warnings wouldn’t change her mind.

The undercover cop from Chicago hadn’t scared her off. In fact, he’d made her more convinced than ever to continue the course she was on. She must have uncovered something that the cops and the Feds didn’t want exposed. This story about the mob could be bigger than even she had expected.

Kicking off her heels, Violet settled into her desk chair and booted up her computer. She pulled up her e-mail and started a new message.

Her cursor followed each keystroke as she typed in Gwyn’s address and Need more info as the subject line. In the message box, she typed, Tell me everything you know about Clay West.

“Thank you, Clay,” she mumbled. “If it hadn’t been for you, I might have given up on this story about women killed by the mob.”

But nothing, not even a handsome cop, would stop her now.

Clay hustled down the dark street to where he’d parked his car. Sliding behind the wheel, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Chicago.

FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw answered on the second ring.

“Someone broke into the reporter’s home. I chased the guy a couple blocks but lost him.”

“One of Martino’s guys?”

“The cops suspect locals. They’ve had a number of recent petty crimes in the area.” Clay told Jackson about following the perpetrator, and the note Clay found when he left Violet’s house later that night. “Doubtful the mob would have left a warning message.

But they may have alerted someone local to keep her under watch. If the guy’s being strong-armed to do the mob’s bidding, he may have thought scaring Violet off would work to his advantage.”

“Which is exactly what we’re trying to do, as well.”

“I drove home the point about her security issues. In fact, I conducted a little training exercise within the home as you requested.”

Jackson chuckled. “Let me guess. Violet wasn’t impressed.”

“Irritated would be a better word to use.”

“You pushed hard, eh?”

“Which seems to be my modus operandi.” Clay thought of the hot water he’d landed in recently. “I’m not convinced she’s willing to back off.”

“Ms. Kramer has a history of charging headlong into situations without weighing the consequences. At least that’s what I picked up from a friend on the Chicago Gazette.”

“I got the same story before I left town. Someone who works with the internship program filled me in. The woman knows no fear.”

Clay thought of Violet standing in her living room. His presence had startled her, yet she’d recovered faster than most. Later, after the danger had passed and the cop had left, she’d pulled an extra layer of attitude around her slender shoulders. When that hadn’t worked, she’d let her temper get the best of her. Through it all, she’d put up a tough defense.

“I’ve got a motel room for the night located near the highway coming into town. I’ll spend tonight watching her house in case the guy decides to come back.”

Clay glanced at the modest but comfortable homes lining the street. “Tomorrow, I’ll look for a place closer in. If I stay a few days, I can keep an eye on her and find out what she knows. Remember the old adage about never underestimate the enemy?”

“From the sound of your voice, I take it the woman got under your skin.”

Clay straightened and squared his shoulders. “Absolutely not.”

“Just make sure she understands the mob plays for keeps.”

“Anything new on your end?” Clay asked.

“We’ve had additional confirmation the two women’s deaths were tied with the Martino family. No news about Eloise. If we can’t trace her, I’m praying the mob can’t, either.”

“I’d feel better if you knew she was safe,” Clay said.

“Micah’s helping us.”

“Convenient to have a brother who’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal in Montana.”

Jackson chuckled again. “Unless sibling rivalry gets in the way.”

Clay wouldn’t know. No siblings, no parents, no wife or ex-wife, for that matter. Family reunions were a one-man show.

“Remember the baby Eloise gave up for adoption?” the agent asked.

“Of course, I remember Kristin. You arranged for her to be adopted by a family named Perry. He was a lawyer from Billings.”

Jackson was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “How do you know that information?”

Clay let out a lungful of air. “Look, Jackson. Eloise was important to me. Like family. I wanted to ensure the child’s life wouldn’t be tainted by the mob. You did everything by the book.”

“Hopefully the mob wasn’t as determined as you were to track her down.”

“Hasn’t Kristin been safe all these years?”

“Yeah, you’re right. But her adoptive parents died recently, and she’s trying to find her birth mother. Kristin paid Micah a visit not long ago.”

Clay thought of Violet. “So another woman’s sticking her nose where she shouldn’t?”

“Exactly. Micah told Kristin to go home and let the Marshals find Eloise.”

“I hope Kristin’s not as headstrong as our friend the reporter.”

“There’s another complication. The Billings newspaper ran an article on Mr. and Mrs. Perry, including a color photo of the family. Kristin looks like her mom, green eyes and all.”

“You think the Martino family might see the article?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“What’s your brother say?”

“Micah’s convinced the Marshals can find Eloise. Although his main interest recently has been another woman. Seems my dear brother’s fallen in love. You heard about Ruby Summers Maxwell?”

“The woman in Witness Protection murdered last month?”

“That’s right. Micah met her twin sister, Jade, while he was investigating the crime. One thing led to another. Now they’re talking marriage.”

“Which should be good news. How come I hear frustration in your voice, Jackson?”

When the FBI agent failed to respond, Clay filled in the blanks. “Has to do with Eloise, doesn’t it?”

Jackson inhaled sharply. “She was long ago, Clay. A man has to move on.”

“But you haven’t.”

“I still think about her.”

“Doubtful I could have survived the Southside Foster Home without Eloise. You would have thought I was her long-lost kid brother the way she showed me the ropes and made me feel included.”

Not that Eloise hadn’t made her own mistakes. She’d given her heart to the wrong guy, gotten pregnant and ended up witnessing Salvatore Martino shoot two men in cold blood. One of the victims had been the father of her child. Jackson had been the rookie agent assigned to her case.

Although he rarely talked about his feelings, Jackson had fallen in love with Eloise. His job demanded he place her in the Witness Protection Program, which meant he’d never see her again.

“Keep me updated on your progress with Ms. Kramer,” Jackson said. “And watch your back. After what happened to Cameron Trimble, I’m sure you’re not on the Martino family’s list of favorite people. I wouldn’t want a supposed get-away trip to Missoula, Montana, to cost Chicago P.D. one of their finest officers.”

Clay appreciated Jackson’s support. Especially when his future on the force still hung in the balance.

“Thanks for going to bat for me.”

“Cameron was a brazen punk who deserved what he got.”

“Unfortunately, the inquiry board may not see it the way you do.”

“They know you’ve been under a lot of pressure working undercover, Clay. Coming face-to-face with Trimble put you over the edge.”

“A mistake I shouldn’t have made.”

“The chief said a road trip would do you good. ‘Blow off steam’ were his exact words. That was after I explained the inquisitive Violet Kramer needed to be stopped. Since she called you the other night demanding information on the mob, you’re our go-to guy. Plus, you’ve got a history with her.”

“We had a couple run-ins in Chicago, nothing more.”

“Okay, but she knows you. That helps. Call me if you find out anything new. When people push hard there’s usually a reason.”

Clay thought of Eloise, who had been forced into Witness Protection, and Sylvia, who had turned her back on their marriage. He had lost both of them, but that was the past, and he needed to focus on the present.

Currently, his number-one priority was ensuring Violet Kramer didn’t get hurt. Maybe he needed to change tactics. If he worked with her, she might let down her guard and tell him what she knew about the Martino family and the Montana murders.

Some duties were easier than others. Hopefully, getting close to the feisty Ms. Kramer would be a piece of cake.

THREE

Clay wasn’t as convinced as Officer O’Reilly had been about tonight’s perpetrator running scared. If the guy took orders from the mob, he’d be back. This time, Clay would be waiting.

He parked down the street from Violet’s house where he had a full view of her property, including the garage in back of the house and a portion of the surrounding yard.

Violet turned on the rear flood lighting before the house lights flipped off.

“Sleep well, honey,” he whispered.

The backyard was swathed in brightness, which should deter anyone approaching from the alley. The night was still, and the sound of a car engine would travel in the frigid air. Clay’s mind wandered as the hours passed. He thought back to the foster home and Eloise who had tried to talk him into accepting Christ into his life.

He’d taken the first steps and had become somewhat comfortable dialoguing with the Man upstairs until Eloise’s situation had taken a negative spin. Didn’t take long for Clay to reconsider his opinion of the Lord.

A few bad choices only compounded Clay’s feeling of alienation. Married too young and divorced before he knew what being a husband was all about added to his hesitancy to depend on anyone, even God.

Now he faced at least two more weeks of probation until the board of inquiry made their decision. “Slam dunk,” most of the guys on the force had said, slapping his back and praising him for the way he’d handled Cameron.

Not what they would have done, of course. But then none of them had an ex-wife who had been pimped and mainlined with heroin until she didn’t know the difference between right or wrong.

Clay let out a frustrated breath.

After all that had happened, Jackson’s request had surprised Clay almost as much as hearing Violet’s voice the other night. Hard to imagine the FBI would want him to pay the sassy reporter a visit and that Chicago P.D. would let Clay go. Of course, every law-enforcement officer in the Windy City knew Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw usually got what he wanted.

Clay’s cell phone chirped. He flipped it open, read the caller ID and smiled. “I was just thinking about you.”

Jackson chuckled.

“What’s up?”

“I contacted the local chief of police after your last call. His name’s Walter Howard. Wanted him to know you were in town.”

“Did you mention Violet?”

“He knows her. They’re from the same hometown. I told him we were concerned the Mafia might be spreading its muscle into his neck of the woods.”

“Which probably caught his interest.”

“He said he didn’t need or want any more trouble. Seems the local P.D. has a retention problem. Slots vacated by older officers who’ve retired haven’t been filled. Younger guys sign on for a few years then transfer to better-paying lines of work. He’s understaffed and worried.”

“Sounds typical of a lot of areas of the country.”

“Despite the low recruitment, the chief said to call if you need anything. He sounds competent. Don’t hesitate to contact him, Clay.”

“What about the Martino family?”

“More activity at their compound. Change is definitely in the air. Just wish we had a better handle on how it’ll go down.”

“Might be time to put a task force together.”

Jackson’s silence was telling.

“Okay. I get the picture.” Clay smiled. “You’ve already got one in place, right?”

“Just proves, we think alike. I haven’t mentioned it before, but there’s a safe house in the local area. Worst case scenario, of course. Just keep her safe. I don’t want another woman killed in Montana.”

Clay flipped his cell closed, the gravity of Jackson’s statement hung heavy on his shoulders. Clay had a job to do no matter how attractive Ms. Kramer happened to be.

The sound of a car engine caught his attention. Clay trained his eyes on the road ahead. Headlights approached from a distance.

The car swerved as it rounded the corner. A late-model SUV. The vehicle made a large swath around Clay’s car then pulled to a stop at the far corner. The driver cut the engine.

The door opened, and a man dropped to the pavement. Illuminated for a moment by the interior lighting, Clay made note of the guy’s jeans, dark sweatshirt zipped over his chest and a beanie pulled low over his hair. He appeared close in height to the man Clay had chased earlier. Could he be the same guy, returning to drive home the point he’d tried to make with Violet?

The man eased the driver’s door closed then glanced at the row of houses, his gaze lingering longer on Violet’s home than the other modest dwellings on the street.

Clay’s gut tightened.

Beanie-man headed for the shadows. The guy was definitely up to no good.

Clay grabbed his cell and placed a call to police headquarters. The dispatcher said she’d notify a cruiser in the area.

Silent as a cat, Clay crawled from his car and grabbed the guy from behind.

“What the—” the punk groaned. He jerked but couldn’t pull free from Clay’s grasp.

He shoved him toward the street and slammed him against his car. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, man.” He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen.

Clay tugged at his arms. “Don’t lie to me, kid. What’s your name and who are you working for?”

“Jamie…my name’s Jamie Favor.” He shook his head. “I don’t work for no one.”

A siren screamed in the distance. The sound grew louder. Flashing lights broke through the darkness as a cruiser turned on to the street and braked to a stop in front of Clay’s car. O’Reilly got out just as a second police sedan approached from the opposite direction.

“Hey, man, I didn’t do nothing wrong,” the punk moaned.

“Did you plan to break into someone’s house?” Clay demanded. “Frighten someone? Steal a few valuables?”

The kid shook his head. “No way.”

“Got yourself a live one, eh, Clay?” Officer O’Reilly said as he neared.

Clay nodded toward the SUV. “The kid parked down the block then headed this way. He hugged the houses, staying in the shadows.”

“What are you doing, young man, this time of night?” O’Reilly asked.

“Visiting my girlfriend.”

“She lives on this street?” The Missoula cop feigned surprise.

Jamie nodded. “I thought she did.”

O’Reilly patted him down.

“Look what I found.” He yanked an automatic from the punk’s waistband.

“Ah, man,” the punk lowered his head.

Pulling out handcuffs, the officer rattled off Jamie’s Miranda rights then clicked the cuffs in place. “Let’s get you down to headquarters, Jamie, and see what else you might want to tell us.” O’Reilly passed the kid on to the second officer who herded Jamie into the backseat of the cop car.

Clay slapped O’Reilly’s shoulder. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“No problem. You think he’s the guy who broke into 518 earlier?”

Clay followed the cop’s gaze to Violet’s house. “Hard to tell. Instinct tells me that first guy was bigger, but I didn’t get close enough to know for sure. Find out if Jamie has ties with anyone in Chicago. The Mafia’s caused some problems in Montana. The FBI suspects they’re interested in someone in-state.”

O’Reilly pursed his lips. “And the reporter? How’s she play into the mix?”

“Ms. Kramer’s a bit more inquisitive than she should be for her own good. The mob doesn’t like anyone on their heels. She’s gotten a little too close.”

“I’ll have the guys on patrol keep watch on this neighborhood. There’s been rumor of someone dealing drugs a block over. Jamie may have been heading that way. If he talks, we may be able to close down the operation. Appreciate the help you provided tonight.”

Clay gave the officer his cell-phone number. “Call me when you find out what the kid was doing.”

“Roger that. Stop by headquarters later, if you’ve got time. I’ll tell you what we learned.”

Clay appreciated O’Reilly’s invitation.

Two men up to no good in one night. Every cop knew coincidences didn’t apply to law enforcement.

Trouble had found Violet Kramer twice. In Clay’s opinion, that was two times too many.

He turned at the sound of a front door opening to see Violet step on to the porch. Her hair swirled around her oval face in tiny ringlets wound as tight as she seemed.

She wore jeans and a parka and a pair of hot pink, fuzzy bedroom slippers that slapped down the stairs and sidewalk as she stormed toward him.

“What in the world is going on, Clay? Sirens and flashing lights in the middle of the night? How can anyone sleep?”

She glanced at the crowd of neighbors, many of them senior citizens, who gathered on the opposite side of the street and were watching with interest. One sweet older lady waved. Violet smiled a greeting before she turned back to Clay, the smile gone.

He stepped toward her. Did the woman have no fear?

“Everything’s under control, Violet. No need to worry. The police have the perpetrator. They’ll get to the bottom of what he was doing on your street.”

“And what was he doing, Clay?”

He heard the sharpness in her response. Probably due to the late hour or maybe the number of folks who were watching and wondering about her involvement in the drama.

“He appeared to be casing the neighborhood. Officer O’Reilly’s checking on any ties he might have with Chicago and the mob.”

“The mob?” She stared into the patrol car, squinting her eyes against the flashing light. “He looks like a kid.”

“The mob isn’t comprised of only old men. They recruit teens whenever they can.”

Her mouth pursed as if she didn’t appreciate his condescension, then her expression softened. “Have you been out here all night?”

He nodded, noting the confusion that instantly clouded her face.

She hugged her arms. “It’s got to be below zero.”

“Actually, it’s a bit warmer. The weatherman on the radio mentioned five degrees above zero about an hour ago.”

She let out a long sigh. “Then I should offer you my thanks.”

“A cup of coffee would help.”

She smiled and the night warmed.

“One cup and I promise I’ll let you get back to sleep,” he said.

“Come on, then.” She turned about-face and slapped her slippers up the steps and into the house.

Clay followed, noting the scent of vanilla as she lit a candle on the coffee table and hurried toward the kitchen. Working quickly, she poured coffee into the basket of the dripmaker. The smell of fresh grounds mixed with the candle into a rich blend as he pulled a straight-backed chair from the table and slipped into the seat.

He eyed her makeshift attempt to secure her back door with one of the chairs. For all her external bravado, the earlier break-in had bothered her.

Violet placed cream and sugar on the table and poured two mugs with the hot brew.

“Thanks.” He raised his mug and eyed her through the steam. Her lips were swollen with sleep and her cheeks puffy. Sitting across the table from her, Clay felt that Violet had lowered some of her earlier barriers.

“You think the second guy had ties to the mob?” she asked, her voice filled with question.

Clay shrugged. “Hard to say. But he didn’t belong on this street. Plus, he was packing an automatic.”

Her eyes widened. “A gun?”

“That’s right. A gun.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Missoula’s had problems, Clay. A bad element has infiltrated the city, and the police are struggling to handle the increased crime.”

“They responded both times we needed them tonight,” he said in their defense.

“Well, it’s been a problem.”

“How’s Stu feel about law enforcement in the city?”

“He thinks they’re handling the situation the best they can, but—” She hesitated.

“But you don’t?”

“I have a natural concern about the tactics they use.”

“What kind of answer is that, Violet? You’re either for the cops or you’re not. Has there been graft or corruption?”

She shook her head.

“What about racial profiling?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Sounded as if the main problem with law enforcement was Violet.

Clay took a sip of coffee, allowing the stillness to settle around them. “When I left you earlier, I saw a scrap of paper outside your back door.”

She cocked her brow.

“The words Back off were typed on the note. The guy may have dropped it as he ran away.”

“Wouldn’t Officer O’Reilly have seen the paper when he was checking outside the house?”

“Easy enough to miss a scrap of paper.”

She looked down and nodded. When she glanced back up at him, her face was pulled tight with concern. “So, you think the break-in was a warning from the Martino family?”

“They may have contacted someone local to put pressure on you. As I mentioned, Violet, my advice is to stop making any inquiries into mob activity. Lie low until things die down.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to be frightened off from doing my job.”

“You’ve got to use some common sense. Let the FBI and the cops handle the mob. They’ll bring the Martino family down, but it will take time and good investigative skills.”

“Which you’re saying I don’t have?”

“Of course not.” He wasn’t getting anywhere tonight. He glanced at the wall clock. Four-fifteen. Violet needed to crawl back into bed, and he needed to head over to police headquarters. He wanted to learn what O’Reilly found out about Jamie Favor. The cops would keep watch over Violet for the rest of the night. Besides, dawn would be here soon enough.

He placed the mug on the table and pushed back his chair. “Coffee hit the spot. Thanks.” He glanced at the chair wedged against the doorknob. “As I said earlier, might be a good idea to have dead bolts installed.”

“I will.”

She followed him out and waved goodbye as he walked down the front steps. Violet Kramer was stubborn and from what she’d said tonight, evidently, she didn’t like cops.

That didn’t put him in good stead. He wasn’t one to let things bother him. But for some reason, Violet’s opinion was important.

Violet was still thinking about everything that had happened the next morning. A break-in and another man apprehended in her front yard. Were both incidences tied with the mob? Surely not, no matter how much Clay West tried to convince her they were.

The Chicago FBI wanted her out of the picture, and Clay was determined to scare her into backing down. He’d learn soon enough that she didn’t scare easily.

Violet finished writing a short article on the Missoula Women’s Circle and their philanthropic work, which Stu had requested last week. Hopefully, he’d find the information to his liking.

Task completed, she checked her old college Web site where she kept hoping someone would leave a comment with information on Aunt Lettie’s long-ago murder. But just as always, that in-box remained empty. Violet opened her working e-mail and found it void, as well.

Her phone rang.

She pulled the receiver to her ear, wondering if she’d hear Clay’s voice. Not that she was interested, of course.

“Hey, Vi, it’s Ross Truett. I got my hands on that photo you requested. Should arrive in your e-mail momentarily.”

She smiled. “I owe you.”

“Let me buy you dinner and we’ll call it even. I’ve got business in Missoula on Friday.”

“Sounds great. Call me when you get to town.” Violet hung up and drummed her fingertips on her desktop, waiting for the incoming e-mail.

Ross was a college friend from a moneyed family who had rapidly worked his way up to assistant editor of the Yellowstone County Reader. The young editor had everything going for him. At least that’s what her mother would say. She’d also say how happy she’d be if Violet connected with Ross on a permanent basis. Correction. Her mother would be thrilled. But as far as Violet was concerned, he wasn’t Mr. Right.

Clay West came to mind.

Talk about Mr. Wrong.

Hopefully, he’d be heading back to Illinois in a few days. Cute as he was, the detective had a cocky, smug attitude. She’d teach him a lesson or two about trying to change a woman’s mind when she had her course set. Once she had gathered enough evidence to complete the Mafia story, Clay would realize she played hardball.

Then she had another thought. What if she wasn’t the reason Clay had come to Montana? What if law enforcement suspected a third woman would be murdered? Made sense they’d want their undercover cop in place when surveillance learned of an another impending Mafia hit in the Treasure State. Perhaps this time in Missoula. The cops and the Feds wouldn’t want Violet snooping around for fear she’d interfere with their operation.

And the next victim? Shouldn’t she be warned?

Clay would probably remind Violet she was in danger, too. But the Mafia hadn’t found her yet. Despite what he had said.

The message from Ross appeared on her screen along with an attachment. His comments were almost identical to what he’d said over the phone. Dinner the next time he was in Missoula. Attachment for your eyes only. Keep the photo under wraps.

Violet saved the file to her flash drive then glanced around the newsroom. The others—occupied in their own work areas—either chatted on their phones or had their eyes focused on their monitors.

Clicking on the attachment, she watched the photo unfold across her screen. A woman lay on the floor, her neck scraped and bruised. Death by strangulation was never pretty.

Carlie Donald. May she rest in peace.

Would there be a third victim? If so, God help her, as well.

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