Dark Blue (South Island PD Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

afternoon, he was already discarding his own emotions in favor of cold professionalism. Still, his MDT screen told him that a woman had called claiming her husband had hit her.
    He hated the pieces of shit who beat on women and children.
    They were all the same, and he would’ve hated them no matter what, even if he’d grown up behind a white picket fence with a Brady Bunch-type family.
    But he hadn’t, and that leant a personal element to his hate.
    He kept his sirens silent but let his lights flash as he sped through traffic toward the address displayed on the screen. Getting there a minute faster might mean the difference between a bruise or a broken jaw, a concussion or a fractured skull. Even life and death.
    Within minutes, he arrived at a stucco ranch house. It was modest, maybe a thousand square feet, but the columned porch looked freshly-painted and potted ferns hung from its rafters. Brass numbers next to the door told him he had the right address.
    Glancing at his screen, he hit On Scene and exited his Charger.
    The sun beat down on the back of his neck and a familiar stiffness swept down his spine. He was aware of the Glock on his hip as he approached the house. Sometimes domestics were nothing more than tears and melodrama. Sometimes they were serious. And occasionally they threw curveballs: he wouldn’t be the first officer to be assaulted or even shot at by a possessive, violent asshole angry at police interference.
    When he reached the door, he stood to the side and knocked, listening for the sounds of an argument or violence.
    All was silent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he hoped he wasn’t too late.
    “Police,” he called, and knocked again.
    A couple more seconds and the door swung inward.
    There was no sign of the woman who’d called in. A dark-haired man in his thirties stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a white undershirt. He stared at Jackson as if he’d never seen a police officer before.
    “The hell?” He peered past Jackson, at the cruiser. “Something going on?”
    “Got a call about a domestic dispute at this address. Who else is home?”
    The man’s jaw dropped, then tightened visibly. “There’s no dispute here.”
    “A caller named Kate says differently. That your wife?”
    His face began to redden. “Get back in your cruiser, Calder. There’s no problem here.”
    Calder . As his name left the other man’s lips, realization clicked.
    “Sanders.” He was an officer with the South Island PD, though he belonged to a different platoon than Jackson.
    Sanders gave an irritated jerk of his head, which might’ve been intended as a nod, then began to shut the door.
    Jackson planted a hand against it before it was halfway closed. “I need to speak to your wife.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “She doesn’t have anything to say to you.”
    “She called 911 asking for help. Says you hit her.”
    For a few seconds, they both stood frozen with hands on the door, gazes locked. A sour taste filled Jackson’s mouth, and if the expression on Sanders’ face was any indication, he was experiencing something similar.
    “You gonna make me call for back-up?”
    Sanders sneered, then twisted to yell over his shoulder. “Kate!”
    A thin brunette in capris and a cotton tank top emerged from the hallway beyond the kitchen. She was pale, and her dark eyes looked huge in her small face. Her hair had fallen – or been pulled – halfway out of a bun, and as she stepped into the light, the redness rimming her eyes became apparent.
    “Calder here needs to hear from you that there’s no problem.”
    Her gaze darted to her husband, then to Jackson. When her eyes locked with his, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
    It wasn’t hard to tell when someone had really been abused. Not for someone who’d lived it. And the look in Kate’s eyes planted bitter certainty in Jackson’s mind.
    They were wide, pleading – as if she were trying to communicate with him without words. He