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    Continental Divide
    Continental Divide
    Continental Divide
    Ebook279 pages4 hours

    Continental Divide

    By Laura Harner and Lisa Worrall

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Detective Remington frickin’ hates the missing persons detail, but a cold fury builds in the pit of his stomach when he realizes that over the past three months six boys have disappeared from the smaller communities that surround the greater Phoenix area. All reported to be runaways looking to escape their shitty lives, but Remy’s starting to put together a different picture and he doesn’t like it one damn bit.

    Inspector Jamie Mainwaring stares at the six reports, willing them to make sense. Six boys, six months, all from just outside of London, which meant six different investigations. All of the boys were between the ages of ten and fifteen, all purportedly runaways from dysfunctional families. Something was rotten in Denmark.

    There are always runaways. Every small town loses them—every big city collects them. Kids look for freedom and discover they have more to lose than they ever thought possible. London and Phoenix, culture and cowboys, nothing linking these two sprawling metropolitan areas. Nothing except a hit on a computer data search.

    Two cops, one a cowboy, the other a Lord. A secret government agency, human trafficking, and a blazing hot mutual distraction.

    What the hell have Remington and Mainwaring gotten themselves into?

    More best selling erotic romances from Laura Harner:

    Highland Destiny Series (MF):
    Highland Shift
    Highland Pull
    Highland Push
    Highland Destiny*

    Honey House (Paranormal/Contemporary)

    Forbidden Love (Mystery/Suspense)

    Three Allowed (MMF Contemporary/Suspense):
    Whiteout
    Rescued
    Salvation
    Retribution
    Reunion

    Willow Springs Ranch Series (MM Contemporary/Western):
    Ty Hard
    Hold Tight
    Taking Chance
    Ty'd Down
    Hanging Chad
    Park's Lot*
    Rock Steady*
    *Coming soon

    Altered States Series (MM Paranormal/Contemporary):
    Deep Blues Goodbye
    Deadly Shade of Gold
    Free Falling Crimson*

    Separate Ways (MM Mystery/Contemporary):
    Continental Divide
    Oceans Apart
    Moving Mountains*

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLaura Harner
    Release dateSep 28, 2013
    ISBN9781937252595
    Continental Divide
    Author

    Laura Harner

    Laura lives on waterfront property in Arizona because she's always wanted to be an oxymoron. She once enjoyed hobbies such as gardening and travel—now the characters in her head compel her to tell their stories, so she writes. (It doesn't actually help quiet the voices—but it keeps the folks in the white jackets at bay.)She shares her home with an ever-revolving cast of characters—some of whom are actually real—and is living her dream of building her own version of the Willow Springs Ranch.With over fifty published novels and novellas, Laura is an international bestselling author of erotic romances, romantic suspense, urban fantasy, and Highland romances. Her books can be found at all major online retailers.Connect with her online at:http://lauraharner.com

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    Reviews for Continental Divide

    4/5

    27 ratings3 reviews

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    • 4/5
      3.5 -4 stars. Great story; interesting plot and I loooved Jamie & Colt. Hated the ending. I think I'll wait until this series is complete before reading the next books. (though I WILL be reading them!)
    • 2/5
      Making fat women clueless and ridiculous. That's irritating. Nothing about the story had been good enough to keep me going once I hit that line
    • 2/5
      Somehow mediocre. I couldn't really warm up to the story and the MCs. It was not a great suspense/crime novel and the romance part was ok at best.

    Book preview

    Continental Divide - Laura Harner

    Continental Divide

    Separate Ways: I

    Laura Harner and Lisa Worrall

    Continental Divide is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

    Copyright © 2012 by Laura Harner

    Cover Art by Laura Harner

    All rights reserved.

    Smashwords edition published in the United States by Hot Corner Press.

    ISBN: 978-1-937252-59-5

    Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

    Contact the publisher for further information: Hotcornerpress@gmail.com

    Contents

    Acknowledgements

    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

    About the Author

    Also Available

    Acknowledgements

    The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:

    Harrods: Harrods Limited

    Styrofoam: The Dow Chemical Company

    Marriott: Marriott International, Inc.

    M3: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

    Tiptree Preserves: Wilkin & Sons Limited

    Corona: Cerveceria Modelo, S.A. de C.V. Corporation

    Weetabix: Weetabix Limited Corporation

    eBay: eBay, Inc

    The Plaza: Plaza IP Holdings LLC

    Armani: Giorgio Armani S.p.A.

    Stoli: Spirits International BV

    Grey Goose: Barcardi & Company

    Star Trek: Paramount Pictures Corporation

    Diamondbacks: AZPB Limited Partnership

    Oreos: Kraft Food Global Brands

    Bud: Anheuser-Busch, LLC

    TASER: TASER International, Inc.

    Chapter One

    Jamie, we’re off down the Dog and Duck for a beer, are you coming?

    Glancing up at the young detective peering around his open office door, Jamie shook his head and indicated the file in front of him. I’ve got some stuff I want to finish up thanks, Barry. I’ll catch you up if I’m done before closing.

    Jamie returned his attention to the papers spread across the oak veneered top of his desk and growled in frustration. Too many. Too many missing boys. Who was taking them? What was their objective? It wasn’t murder, no bodies had turned up, and with the number of teens missing from the streets of London, there should have been a few more John Does on the coroner’s table. But that wasn’t the case. So where were they?

    Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head and stretched. His head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, an intense ache in his temples distorted his vision and he rubbed at his eyes. This case was killing him. The last boy had disappeared six days ago and there were still no leads. It was as though the kids had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Would another homeless teenager be plucked from the street on this balmy Friday evening? Friday…Friday? Bollocks!

    Jamie jumped to his feet and grabbed his jacket. If he was late again this week, he would be joining the missing, because his mother would make sure they never found the body. Slamming out of his office, he ran down the hall to the lift and pressed the call button, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other as he waited for it to arrive. Friday night was family night and his mother insisted that he, his older brother, and younger sister stop whatever they were doing, wherever they were doing it, and be home by eight o'clock.

    Barely giving the lift doors a chance to open all the way, Jamie stepped into the metal box with its faux granite walls and stabbed at the button for the garage level. He leaned against the wall and straightened his tie, ran a smoothing hand down his shirt, and then shrugged into his jacket. Glancing into the mirrored back of the lift, he frowned at the bird's nest that used to be his hair and feathered his fingers through it. He rolled his eyes and poked out his tongue childishly at his reflection. No matter what he did, his mother would find fault with his appearance, his tardiness, his manicure, his everything; so the primping was pointless. And yet, you still do it…

    Calling a goodbye to the constable on reception, Jamie pushed through the double doors and jogged down the first few steps before stopping in his tracks. Oh, come on, she sent the bloody limo? He sighed heavily and stomped down the rest of the steps to the pavement like a disgruntled five-year-old. So what if it wasn't very attractive in a thirty-one-year-old, he couldn't believe his mother had sent a car for him. Didn't she trust him to show up under his own steam?

    Good evening, Master James. The tall, distinguished looking, if somewhat elderly man standing by the sleek black car, opened the door and touched the peak of his cap.

    For God's sake, Bernie, Jamie mumbled, ignoring the open door and walking around the bonnet to the passenger door. If I have to ride in this monstrosity, I'm not doing it in the back by myself. He chuckled as Bernie protested under his breath and slammed the back door while Jamie settled himself in the front beside the driver's seat. What are you winging about?

    Master James, Bernie said firmly as he slid behind the wheel. You know Madam doesn't like it when you ride up front.

    Don't worry, Bernie old chap, Jamie replied with a grin and leaned over to pat the elderly man's leg as he started the engine. You can stop before we go up the drive and I'll get in the back, it'll be our little secret. Unless she's finally bugged the limo. He glanced over his shoulder at the smoky glass privacy petition. She hasn't finally bugged the limo, has she?

    Not yet, sir. Bernie chuckled as he pulled out into a gap in the heavy London traffic. But I believe it's on Her Grace’s to do list.

    Really? Jamie's voice was sour but he couldn't help the intonation. You'd think she'd be too busy with world domination and balancing her Harrods charge card. He kept his gaze on the windshield, even though he could feel the weight of the glance that Bernie threw at him, accompanied by the concerned frown. Bernie knew him far too well, and why shouldn't he? He'd worked for the Mainwaring family since before Jamie's elder brother, Hugo, was born, had been a stalwart support through most of Jamie's family crises, and was basically the only person in Mainwaring house for whom Jamie had any respect.

    Rough day at the office, dear? Bernie said teasingly as he reached to press play on the CD player in the dashboard.

    Jamie smiled gratefully at the other man when the delicate strains of Chopin created a calming ambience around them on their journey out of London. His favorite. It amazed him how Bernie always seemed to know when his battered psyche needed soothing. Rough as old arseholes, Bern my good man, rough as old arseholes, Jamie sighed, dropping his head onto the leather rest behind him and closing his eyes.

    You know her Ladyship doesn't like your interestingly vulgar turns of phrase, Bernie admonished as he pulled down on the peak of his cap. Any break with the missing lads?

    Jamie shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. He'd spoken to Bernie last week about the case he was working on—obviously no details, he had taken an oath after all—but just generalizations on what had been happening in their city. Bernie had certainly been the only one who had supported his choice to enter the police force and he had been the one standing proudly, in his best pinstripe, to watch him on his passing-out parade. His mother, as he recalled, had needed to lie down for twenty-four hours in a fit of the vapors because he had dared to sully the Mainwaring name with such menial employ. He was an Earl for heaven's sake and he'd become, heaven forbid, a 'copper'.

    Not just a 'copper' now though. He'd worked hard, busted his arse, and moved up the ranks to inspector faster than some who'd been working the force for years; and he was pleased to say it had all been done on his own merit. His mother would not have dared to use her influence or money in any way, shape, or form, because then everybody would know what he did for a living. And we couldn't have that, could we? Good God, no. James Tristan Mainwaring, forty-second Earl of Fordham, an officer of the law? How positively ghastly. His mother was such a supercilious snob, it drove him crazy. The throbbing in Jamie's temples had stepped up to a hammering and he groaned in annoyance.

    James? Bernie's voice broke into his thoughts.

    Sorry, another blasted headache courtesy of this sodding case, Jamie replied smiling briefly to reassure the other man that he was okay. We've had another report of a regular face not turning up to the shelter, or not being seen at his known haunts. He’s a new kid, hasn’t been around long, but still…. That's six, Bernie, six. In just a few months. What the fuck is going on in this city? It's as if they're being beamed up by bloody aliens or something. Not one single body of the missing who've been reported has turned up. That's unheard of for God's sake. I mean, you could expect a few to be disposed of and never seen again, but every single one? This is the most bizarre case I've ever worked on and my head is about ready to explode.

    Just don't do it at her Ladyship's dinner party.

    Jamie's gaze flew to Bernie and he noted the flush in the man's cheeks. What are you not telling me? His gaze narrowed and acid crept up his throat as his anxiety level spiked. Bern— Jamie's mouth snapped shut as understanding flooded through him from the single glance Bernie allowed him. Fucking hell, say it ain't so, Joe. Who is she trying to fix me up with this time? Another glance had his worst fears coming true. Not Marjorie bloody Attwater again? Give me strength.

    The other bone of contention that his mother had with her middle child was his single status. Her constant matchmaking attempts were endless and exhausting; mainly because Jamie was a homosexual, gay, queer, a poof, bent as a two bob note. He'd tried explaining it to his mother using every type of vernacular he could think of, but she refused to listen. And twelve years after he'd received and given his first blowjob, both in the same night of course, she still refused to accept it. Despite the fact that she was the one who'd caught him with David Montague's cock in his mouth while the other boy jerked him off in the last stall of the stables.

    Closing his eyes again, Jamie spent the last half an hour of the journey in silence as he psyched himself up for the dinner from hell. One where he would be forced to make polite chit-chat with Marjorie Attwater, who only had one topic of conversation: her livery stable. His mother was going to find herself off his Christmas card list if she didn’t stop her interference in his love life.

    Come on then.

    Bernie’s voice broke through the calming influence Chopin had been having on him, and a frown creased his brow as he opened his eyes. Come on what? He glanced out of the window and noted that they were in the copse of trees that led to the wrought iron gates of Mainwaring House. Turning his gaze back to Bernie and the smug smile the older man wore, Jamie groaned loudly. Bernie, he protested. I was joking, it was a joke for Pete’s sake.

    After another few moments of complaining, he mumbled insults beneath his breath as he climbed out of the limo and slammed the passenger door. Slumping into the back seat and pulling a face at the privacy partition, he closed his eyes as they pulled through the opening gates and headed toward the house.

    Four hours later Jamie was back at his desk on the fourth floor of Scotland Yard. His cheeks ached from smiling politely and he’d check his ears for any sign of a brain bleed when he’d gotten in the front of the limo, ignoring Bernie’s protests. Marjorie had been her usual vivacious self, regaling him with a blow-by-blow account of her new foal’s birth and his mother had looked on benevolently, planning the wedding in her mind. He’d made his excuses as soon as the coffee had been poured, and Bernie had dropped him back at the office at his request.

    Staring at the computer screen, he frowned. Something Bernie had said kept playing in his head. Just a passing statement, but the cogs were turning and he wanted to check it out. Is it only in London? That’s all Bernie had said, five simple words; and now he was looking at Interpol’s home page, having just typed in the details of the missing teens and pressed enter.

    The details appearing on the screen were way too similar to his own cases, but they had occurred in Phoenix, Arizona. If it weren’t for the fact that they were happening thousands of miles away, he would have been hard pressed to tell the difference between the notes on the screen and the files on his desk.

    What the fuck had he stumbled into?

    ****

    Detective Remington stared at the six folders spread across his desk. There would always be runaways, he knew that better than most. Every small town lost them, every big city collected them. Kids looking for freedom, wanting to get away from whatever it was that haunted them. Drugs, sex, abuse, running away or running toward. Didn't much matter. What mattered was these kids, these six who disappeared from his city. Or more precisely, from the smaller cities that surrounded Phoenix.

    A door swung open with a bang, hard enough to rattle the glass enclosure of the small office that stood in the center of the large squad room. Remy's head snapped up at the sound, instantly alert, mind back on his surroundings. Shit. Nothing good ever came his way when the captain had that look on his face. The look that clearly said, Remington, you have fucked up for the last time.

    It didn't take a mental genius to figure this one out. He'd thought he could count on another week before the boss found out he'd gone around departmental procedures. It didn't matter he'd done it for a good reason. All that mattered to Captain Oswald was that Remy had colored outside the fuckin' lines, again. The captain stepped on anyone he could on his path to the top, and he didn’t like anything that might leave a mark on his unblemished backside.

    Get in here, Remington.

    With an ill-disguised sigh, Remy pushed his chair back with a rougher than necessary kick, hitched up his jeans, and took a slow and deliberate saunter away from the captain's office toward the coffee pot.

    Be there in a minute…Boss.

    No doubt his computer search had triggered some sort of cyber-alert that filtered through to the IT geeks, and they’d gleefully informed the captain that the troublesome Detective Remington had once again broken their security protocol. Rat bastards.

    He put fresh grounds in the filter, refilled the water reservoir and then pressed the brew button. He supposed he would have to come clean and tell the captain what he'd found, although that went against his every instinct. Oswald was a bad cop and a glory whore, the worst of all combinations, as far as Remy was concerned. Not only wouldn't the man be able to see the pattern of the disappearances, he would resent that Remy had.

    With the top solve rate of any murder cop in the state of Arizona, Remy had been bumped to Missing Persons six months ago because he'd failed to keep his captain informed of his progress in solving the Campbell Murders. It was a three strikes situation, the case was high publicity because of the social standing of the vics, the killer was an undocumented alien, feeding into the current anti-immigration craze, and the press got to Remy before the public affairs office could rein him in. A combination that led to Detective Remington, and not Captain Oswald, getting the glory.

    If these missing boys were connected, then the captain would want to claim the cases for himself. Remy didn't give a shit about the glory. All he wanted was a shot at the sick bastard who was snatching the runaway boys from the street. The bastard who was most likely a cop. If that meant he had to swallow his pride and offer to work as the captain's second on the case, he would. This case needed to be solved right-the-fuck now, and Remy would do anything he could to keep the captain's mouth shut so Internal Affairs didn't start nosing around. That was why he'd gone outside of the Department's resources to begin with.

    Resigned to sucking up to his boss long enough to keep the case, Remy poured Oswald a cup of coffee and carried the two mugs to the glass cubicle in the center of the of the room. The better for everyone to see me was Oswald’s mantra. He entered without knocking, put the coffees on the edge of the desk, and avoiding the metal folding chair the captain reserved for his underlings, he plopped himself into the leather visitor's chair.

    You wanted to see me, Cap?

    Oswald ignored the peace offering and focused on protocol instead. Captain.

    Right. Sorry 'bout that, Cap'n. What can I do for you? He leaned back, crossed a booted foot over a denim-clad knee, rubbed at his two-day beard, then ran a hand through unruly brown hair that was a month overdue for a trim.

    Only after he’d made sure to draw attention to each and every violation of the squad’s business-casual dress code did he look up to meet Oswald's gaze. He was surprised at the wide grin that split the other man's face. There was undisguised amusement in the raised eyebrows and quirk of lips.

    Get your fucking ass out of my chair, Remington. You are hereby directed to collect your personal belongings and to report to the office of Senator McCloud. You just earned your way into the driver's seat, just like you always wanted. Only now, you're driving the Senator when he's in town.

    Remy set his mug down with a thunk and sloshed coffee onto the polished wood. What the fuck are you talking about? he asked. He swallowed hard around the bile that was trying to rise in the back of his throat. I've got cases—

    Not any more you don't. Oswald grinned. Smith and Tieriny already have your files. He nodded toward the action that was taking place in the squad room. Remy's head whipped around in time to see the two detectives walking away from his desk, their arms full of folders. Then his gaze rested on Markins from IT, who was clearly disconnecting his laptop from the docking station.

    He whipped his head back to Oswald, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The only thing Remy had in his life was his career as a cop. The only thing. Somehow, this smug bastard had gotten him pulled from Homicide and shunted to Missing Persons. Now he was sending him into hell. Assignments to the VIP details might coveted by others who hoped to get a leg up on their careers. He didn’t need any help. He was living his dream, working alone, solving crimes. Remy had no designs on the captain’s job, or anyone else’s. He just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

    It was on the tip of his tongue to quit, but he wouldn't give the prick the satisfaction of hearing the words. If he was going to go out, it would be with a bang. When Oswald rose to follow him to the door, Remy curved his mouth into a semblance of a smile.

    No hard feelings, Cap, he said and put his hand out, as if to shake. The captain's smile slipped a few watts, and a frown creased his forehead. As his hand came up to shake, Remy shoved his palm into the other man's gut doubling him over. In one fluid motion, he pushed Oswald's head into his own quickly raised knee, then lowered the dazed Oswald to the ground.

    No hard feelings at all, he repeated, turning to find an unsmiling man dressed in a shiny black suit waiting beside his desk.

    Fuck. All right. I suppose you're here to escort me out. Let me grab my memory stick. I don't have any other shit. He took the silver thumb drive from his desk and the two of them turned toward the elevator.

    Oswald moaned, and climbed to his knees as the two men walked past his cubicle, but no one spoke. Once inside the elevator, shiny suit said, He was a prick. He deserved that, no? in accented English.

    Remy threw back his head and laughed. I like the way you think. He eyed his escort with more than a little idle curiosity. Not Internal Affairs escorting him out, that was for sure. He struggled to place the accent…maybe one of the Slavic languages, he mused. Something about the manner in which the man moved, never putting his back to anyone, the tension in his muscles, the wariness in his eyes, all spoke of one thing…a military background. Unless he missed his guess, this man was not associated with the Department. That left the Senator’s office.

    You the Senator’s personal bodyguard? Remy asked, wondering why the Senator would send someone to pick him up.

    His escort merely grunted, leading the way from the elevator. Follow.

    Remy was a good cop, he stayed alive in part because his instincts were sharp. And right now, mental alarm bells were ringing all over the place.

    Last night he’d accessed the Interpol Trafficking in Human Beings database and input the information about his six missing boys. He’d

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