Free The Shadowkiller by Matthew Scott Hansen Page B

He’d come back when someone else was with him. Lots of someone elses.
    But for now, all he knew was Screw the hikers, I’m getting the hell outta here.

10
    A t the offices of the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Department, Mac Schneider was just finishing off the main course of his dinner, a six-inch Subway turkey breast with Dijon dressing, when Karl Carillo leaned over their facing desks.
    â€œAny chips left?” asked Carillo.
    Mac had not yet touched his small bag of barbecue chips. He liked to save them for last.
    â€œGo for it,” he waved.
    Carillo grabbed the bag, tore it open, dropped most of the contents into his hand, and sat back down. Mac rationalized the loss of the chips as less time in the gym. At thirty-three, Carillo had eight years on him and could burn it off faster.
    â€œYou washinthehkstmmrrw?” Carillo asked through a mouth clogged with potato pulp.
    â€œAgain…in English?”
    Carillo swallowed. “You watchin’ the Hawks tomorrow?”
    Mac knew Carillo was a rabid fan of the Seattle Seahawks. Though Mac had moved from L.A. three years earlier, he was still a Rams and Raiders fan, even though both teams were long gone from L.A.
    â€œI hate football.”
    Carillo eyes went wide in disbelief. Then he caught the slightest twinkle in Mac’s eye and knew he’d been had. Mac and Carillo had only been partners six months.
    Carillo took a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the desk. “Friendly wager. I’ll take us, you take the Eagles.”
    Mac looked out the window at the rain-slicked asphalt parking lot. “I think you got the idea of a ‘friendly wager’ mixed up. Oh, yeah, and the Hawks are favored by seven. Let’s not bet and say we did.”
    Carillo snorted, grabbed his twenty, and sat down. “Pussy.”
    Mac was used to Carillo’s macho bluster. Although they both carried good-sized caseloads that they worked individually, they often worked as partners. Carillo was an ex-Marine who still sported a jar-head buzz cut. Though four inches shorter than Mac’s six one, Carillo loved to pump iron in the gym and spent a lot more time on the firing range. Bottom line, Carillo was just more typical of the man drawn to law enforcement. Sporting a cropped mustache, Carillo drove a sizable pickup truck, rode motorcycles, and drank a lot with the other cops. He’d made detective faster than anyone who had worked their way up the hard way in the department and was tireless at running down leads.
    Mac thought cycles were dangerous, didn’t like the way he looked in a mustache, and wasn’t particularly mentally stimulated when socializing with his brethren in law enforcement. Mac didn’t even appear to be a cop. As a sheriff’s detective he worked plainclothes, wearing a sport jacket and dress pants just as he had when he was with the LAPD. Black Irish handsome, he came across more like a therapist or even a low-keyed trial attorney and had the attentive air of someone who listened from the moment you opened your mouth. His intelligently sensitive hazel eyes said, I respect your point of view, I understand your feelings.
    The phone rang and Mac grabbed it. “Schneider.”
    It was Mel Benedict, sergeant in charge of search and rescue.
    â€œJust got a call from the boss,” Benedict said. “Two hotshot Seattle lawyers with friends in high places are MIA on a hike up in east county. Probably nothing, but one of our patrol guys found the car’s door clicker up a trail.”
    â€œMaybe they just dropped it. Why you calling me?”
    â€œCould you take it? I’d really appreciate it.”
    â€œTake it? Take what?”
    â€œWe need to make an effort here, Mac, at least till they’re found.”
    â€œNo. No way. MPs are one thing but this is just hikers. I don’t do hikers.”
    â€œLook, I’ve got my in-laws. Plus you’re the