"Intense and passionate thriller."
Reviewed by Sabrina Marino
Posted September 16, 2007
Thriller Police Procedural | Suspense | Mystery Woman Sleuth
Marty Hogan might as well have the word "shun" tattooed on
her forehead; her reputation precedes her. Fired from her
job in Chicago and denied interviews with any other police
force, Marty is lucky the small Caprock Canyon, Texas,
police chief has hired her. She hopes the brutal incident
in Chicago has not made the news in this high plains town
in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, Police Chief Clay Settlemeyer has heard
about Marty's past. But he also believes in second chances.
After meeting Marty, Clay has some reservations about her
state of mind. Tensions run high among the small town
police staff and Marty's new co-workers do not welcome her.
They don't think much of an officer who's shown excessive
force, and her response to their cruel behavior is not
acceptable to her new boss. Clay wonders if he's made the
right decision by hiring her. Of course, if he were
brutally honest, his attraction to her may have added
weight to his decision to hire her. Clay relegates Marty to the job of being Rufus the Police
Dog, wearing a dog costume and visiting the local schools.
As much as she hates it and isn't comfortable around
children, she does a great job, especially with Clay's
little girl. As much as Clay knows he shouldn't have a
personal relationship with Marty, he can't help himself.
He's as drawn to her as man is to air. And the feeling is
mutual. Someone has murdered Marty's partner in Chicago, along with
others who were involved in the arrest of the man she beat
up. Now the man's brother and sister are after her. Marty's
past comes barreling into Caprock Canyon putting Clay's
little girl, Erica, in harm's way. Marty can't let anything
happen to Erica, who's worked her way into Marty's heart,
and she can't leave the man she loves without his daughter.
Marty will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. Castillo captures emotions and visualizations in an
intensely interesting story. OVERKILL is an appropriate
title for the agonizing death planned for Marty. Reaching
for a Linda Castillo book guarantees some exciting
hours. It may be quiet where you're reading, but inside the
covers of her books, you're sure to find suspenseful
reading gratification.
Learn more about Overkill
SUMMARY
It started with a case so horrific it sent Chicago cop
Marty Hogan straight over the edge. Unable to put her
disturbing memories behind her, she lost her job and was
forced to flee to small-town Texas, to the only police
department that would hire her. She's about to learn you can't outrun the past . . . Police Chief Clay Settlemeyer knows something about making
mistakes, which is why he was willing to give Marty a
second chance. But when her ex-partner is brutally
murdered, it's clear that Marty's past has come back to
haunt her. And she's the next intended victim . . .
ExcerptChapter 1The sign quivered in a brisk southwesterly wind, welcoming
weary travelers to Caprock Canyon, Texas, population 3500,
where, evidently, one could find the best vistas in the
state. The cheery signpost looked out of place amongst the
scrub and prickly pear that dotted the bleak landscape of
the high plains. Despite the sign's message, Marty Hogan didn't feel very
welcome. The truth of the matter was she didn't want to be
here. She didn't have any interest in the town, its
citizenry, or her new job. She sure as hell didn't have
any inclination to take in the goddamn views. But then
that fickle bitch fate was funny in the way she doled out
wisdom. In the last six months, Marty had had enough
wisdom shoved down her throat to last a lifetime. Sighing, she put the Mustang in gear and started toward
the main drag. Downtown Caprock Canyon was the length of a
football field and just as uninteresting. The red brick
storefronts included Jeb's General store, Hawkin's
Hardware, a western outlet advertising Wrangler jeans, and
the Wagon Wheel Diner where you could get a biscuits and
gravy breakfast for $1.99. Outside the barbershop, two
grizzled old men sat in matching metal chairs, smoking
cigarettes. On the street in front of the diner, three men
in cowboy hats climbed into a big Ford pickup where a fat
Border Collie waited in the bed. Born and raised in Chicago, Marty may as well have landed
on foreign soil. Or maybe Mars. But after thirty-five
resumes and thirty-four thanks-but-no-thanks responses,
she figured she was lucky to have a job at all. After a
single desultory phone interview, the Caprock Canyon PD
was the only department willing to hire a has-been,
renegade cop with a bad reputation and semi-truck full of
emotional baggage. Just Marty's luck she would end up in Bumfuck, U.S.A. Six months had passed since the incident that thrust her
into the national spotlight-and the very top of the
media's hit list. A hostile media that took what should
have been an obscure story and ran it into the ground.
Marty Hogan became an overnight sensation, going from
street cop to the most hated police officer in America.
Depending on your point of view, of course. Her indiscretion put the phrase Police Trauma Syndrome-an
axiom coined by psychiatrists after the Rodney King
debacle in LA-back in the limelight. But Marty had heard
the other not-so-clinical names, too. Rogue cop. Fascist
bitch. Nutcase. The labels shamed her with a passion she
could not express. She wished fervently she could dispute
them. But like her former partner, Rosetti, always
said . . . if the straitjacket fit. In this case, she
thought, the fit was perfect. Just ask the amateur
videographer who'd caught the whole mess on tape and sold
it to the highest bidder. The son of a bitch was probably
sipping mojitos and soaking up the sun in Cancun. In less than twenty-four hours, patrol officer Marty Hogan
became Chicago's new obsession. For weeks, those awful
clips filled the airwaves from Bangor to San Diego and
every po-dunk town in between. Love her or hate her,
everyone had an opinion about the female cop who'd gone
off the deep end and beat a male suspect to near
unconsciousness. It didn't matter that the bastard had shot and killed a
little girl. A nine-year-old hostage guilty of nothing but
being at the wrong place at the wrong time. How horribly
ironic that a kid's murder didn't garner even half the
coverage.
Goddamn vultures. Even now, Marty still received letters-and threats. She
got so much mail, in fact, that she'd changed her address
to a post office box, mostly for personal safety reasons.
She'd changed her phone number, too. Three times to be
exact. But the diehards still found her. In a bizarre
twist, about half of the people who took the time to
contact her praised her actions on that fateful day.
People were tired of crime. Tired of criminals getting
away with murder. Now was their chance to chalk one up for
the good guys. Give the girl a promotion. Pin a medal on
her jacket.
Reality hadn't been so kind. Six days after The Incident, Marty was fired from a career
she'd spent eight years building. She'd been charged with
felony assault. A serious offense that could have garnered
hard time and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. But after an
expeditious trial, the jury had taken into consideration
the extenuating circumstances and the charges were
ultimately dropped. Of course, that didn't help when the
threat of a civil suit still hovered over her head like a
pall.
Sometimes the irony of the whole thing was just too much. Now, having faced professional ruin, incarceration,
financial devastation, and public ridicule, Marty almost
wished Caprock Canyon was on another planet. Shoving thoughts of the past aside, she idled down the
main thoroughfare, which was aptly named Cactus Street.
The old pang sounded in her belly when she passed the
police station. That same emotion twisted inside her every
time she so much as looked at a cop or a black and white.
She could only describe it as a longing for something that
was lost. Dreams were so damn hard to let go of. She watched as a young officer with the requisite crew cut
and Arnold Schwarzenegger physique crossed the sidewalk to
a white Explorer emblazoned with the Caprock Canyon PD
insignia. He looked sure of himself. Cocky. Happy and
secure in his job. A young person with his entire future
before him. Marty had been him a lifetime ago. Don't screw this up, she thought, but cruised past the
building, hating it that she didn't have the guts to pull
in. Berating herself for putting off the inevitable, she
turned around in a Lutheran church parking lot and sped
back through town. The young officer and his cruiser were
gone when she reached the police station. Pulling into the
empty space, she studied the red brick facade. The
structure was a neat, one-story building with double glass
doors and five reserved parking places in front. She
thought about the chief of police and wondered what kind
of man would hire a cop with her reputation. A schmuck, probably. Gripping the steering wheel, Marty broke a sweat beneath
her wrinkled khaki slacks and jacket and tried not to hear
the little voice in her head telling her this was a bad
idea. She needed to go inside; she was already ten minutes
late. Not a great way to make a good first impression. But
she was nervous, seriously depressed, and for the first
time in a long time, she was scared. Really, really scared. The irony of that burned. Up until that day six months
ago, Marty had never been afraid of anything. She could
walk into a dark warehouse with nothing but her Glock to
back her up and barely raise her heart rate. She could
approach a car full of suspected gang members in the dead
of night and not feel the shaky stab of terror she felt at
this moment. Now, fear seemed to be the overriding emotion that drove
her every move. It was her best friend and her worst
enemy. She second-guessed every thought, every decision,
and every action. Not a good state of mind when you were a
cop. Unless you had a death wish. If Marty wanted to be
honest, she'd considered that, too. Sick and tired of the incessant thoughts pummeling her
beleaguered brain, she climbed out of the car and stepped
into sunlight so bright it felt as if it might burn her
eyeballs right out of their sockets. She fumbled for her
shades, shoved them onto her nose. Around her, Caprock
Canyon was as hushed as a ghost town out of some
melodramatic Italian western. She almost couldn't believe
it when a tumbleweed the size of a recliner rolled down
the street. The only thing needed to make the scene
complete was a gunslinger with a poncho, six shooter and
flat-crowned hat. The day wasn't over. Taking a deep breath, Marty smoothed wet palms over her
slacks and started for the entrance. She could hear the
zing of her pulse as she pulled open the glass door and
stepped inside. The smell of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. Seated at
an ugly metal desk, a round-faced person of
indistinguishable gender and frizzy brown hair eyed her
over the top of a computer monitor. The little creature
wore a turquoise jacket with silver conchos, thick-lensed
bifocals that made watery blue eyes look huge, and had the
most wrinkled skin Marty had ever seen on a living being.
Relief skittered through her when she spotted the brass
plate mounted on a chunk of walnut identifying the person
as Jo Nell Mulligan. "Hep ya?" the woman asked. "I'm here to see Chief Settlemeyer." "You Hogan?" "The one and only." "Thought you might be her." The receptionist looked her up
and down, a potential buyer eyeing a beef cow, trying to
decide if it was fat enough to get her family through the
winter. Marty resisted the urge to squirm. "Smaller than I thought, but I guess size ain't no issue
when you're pissed. Heard you broke your hand." A raspy
sound that might have been a chuckle rattled from her
throat. "Fed that sumbitch a sandwich he ain't gonna soon
forget." Marty glanced toward the door, wishing she could run,
knowing once she started she might never stop. She didn't
want to talk to this rude little creep. She could give a
shit about the job. The problem was she had no other
prospects and absolutely nowhere else to go. The woman was still talking, but Marty had tuned out the
brunt of it. ". . . you got that look about you. Cop look.
Guys here all got it. You'd think each and every one
of 'em was Dirty Harry hisself." Phlegm rattled in her
throat when she laughed. "Never seen it on a woman before,
but it suits you just fine." "What suits whom just fine, Jo Nell?" Marty turned at the sound of the deep male voice. Surprise
rippled through her when she found herself looking at a
tall man leaning against the doorjamb of the rear office,
taking in the scene as if he were watching some amusing
sitcom. His arms were crossed. A toothpick jutted from the
corner of a mouth that curved up in a half smile. But what
was most surprising about this man was the black Stetson
perched on his head. A born-and-bred city girl, Marty
wasn't used to seeing men in cowboy hats. She sure as hell
wasn't used to cops wearing them. She knew it was silly to
let that intimidate her. But it did. He shifted and the nameplate affixed to the wall behind
him came into view. Chief Clay Settlemeyer. Marty couldn't
believe he was the man she'd talked to. Over the phone,
Clay Settlemeyer had seemed soft-spoken and . . .
civilized. The man staring her down didn't appear to be
either of those things. He stood well over six feet tall, but with the hat it
could have been twenty. His skin was tanned and far from
smooth, but every line only served to make his face more
interesting than any male face had a right to be. A day's
growth of stubble gave him a rough-around-the edges look.
His eyes were as dark as the West Texas sky at night, an
unusual shade of gray with a hint of starlight. His mouth
seemed to curve easily into a smile. But Marty got the
impression he could snarl just as readily. He wasn't a handsome man; his mouth was too thin. His eyes
were too intense. His brows too heavy. His face was as
hard and angular as the foothills to the west. But the
package as a whole stirred something she couldn't name
inside her. Something that made her pulse quicken, her
heart flutter uneasily in her chest. Marty had experienced
the sensation before and recognized it as a reaction to
danger. Of course, that didn't make sense. She wasn't in
danger. Damn it, she wasn't some fragile debutante who
shrank away from a dangerous-looking man. She'd grown up
with cops. Hung out with them most of her life. She could
hold her own in any situation-just ask the poor bastard
she'd put in the hospital six months ago. But this man unnerved her in a way she'd never been
before. His stare penetrated her cop suit of armor with
the proficiency of a double-edged sword, tore away the
faade she used to protect herself. He made her feel
stripped bare because he was looking at her as if she were
a woman at the end of her rope and facing a very long fall. "I was just about to buzz you, Chief." "My office is ten feet away and my hearing's just fine, Jo
Nell." "Guess I'll yell next time." He sniffed. "You've been smoking again." "I have not," she said deadpan. Marty couldn't help it; she snickered, drawing a dark look
from the chief-and a wink from the very busted Jo Nell. He pointed at Marty. "You're late." Six months ago, a smart-assed reply would have sailed off
her tongue with the ease of a bird taking flight. Today,
she had to work at it for a full two seconds. "Traffic,"
she said. Clay Settlemeyer stared at her for what felt like a full
minute, his heavy, black brows riding low over those weird
gray eyes. His mouth remained as flat as the Texas plain.
Marty was usually adept at reading people, but this man's
expression revealed none of his thoughts. Fearing she'd
ticked him off, she was considering another tactic when he
shook his head and let out a chuckle. "In that case come on in." He motioned to his office. Squaring her shoulders, Marty gathered the jagged remains
of her composure and entered, keenly aware that he was
right behind her. "Have a seat," he said. She lowered herself into the vinyl chair opposite his desk
and tried to relax. Closing the door, he rounded his desk. "How was the drive?" The fifteen-hour drive had been long and boring and Marty
had had way too much time to think-something she tried not
to do too much of these days. A recent insomniac, she'd
left at midnight and driven straight through. "No
problems." "When did you get in?" "Ten minutes ago." "You find a place to live?" "Rented a house on the south side." "Nice area. Close to the canyon. You'll get some wildlife
out there." Since the extent of Marty's experience with wildlife
centered around the occasional bar fight or domestic
dispute, she had to ask. "Wildlife?" "Deer mostly. Coyotes occasionally. A few skunk." He
raised a brow. "If you own a cat or dog you might want to
keep them inside at night." She found herself thinking of the .22 mini magnum revolver
she'd packed in her trunk. "I don't have any pets." "Probably a good thing. Old man Hardeman'll be a good
landlord." She wanted to know how he knew who her landlord was when
she hadn't even told him where she'd be living. But Marty
figured in a town the size of Caprock Canyon, you didn't
need a genius power of deduction to figure things out. It
freaked her out a little to think of living in a place
where everyone knew everyone else's business. More than
anything, Marty craved anonymity. She had the sinking
feeling it was one of many things she wouldn't find here. She watched as he pulled a manila folder from his desk
drawer. Her eyes went to the tab, found her name printed
in bold blue on the label. She wondered what was in the
file, if he'd done his homework, and she tried not to
fidget.
"So what made you accept a job here in the Texas
Panhandle?" The word bumfuck floated inappropriately through her mind.
Marty smiled, but she wasn't the least bit amused by any
of what was happening. "You're kidding, right?" His eyes narrowed, sharpened. "It's a simple question." She reminded herself he'd already hired her. She hadn't
signed anything, but as far as she knew it was a done
deal. Stillthey hadn't talked about The Incident. Surely
he knew about what happened in Chicago. Didn't he?
"I was ready for a change." Trying to play it nonchalant,
she lifted a shoulder, let it drop. "I sent out quite a
few resumes. You made the best offer." The only offer, she
silently amended, but decided it probably wasn't a good
idea to point that out. "Going to be a big change for you." "I'm getting that." Realizing that sounded flippant, she
nodded. "Like I said, I'm ready for something different." Reaching into the breast pocket of his denim shirt, he
removed a pair of reading glasses, then opened the
folder. "In case you're wondering, we have television here
in Deaf Smith County." He looked at her over the tops of
his glasses. "We also have cable TV, satellite TV and
newspapers. Most of us can read, too." All Marty could do was stare. "I saw the video," he said softly. "I talked to your
superiors. I know what happened." "So why did you hire me?" "Any reason why I shouldn't?" She couldn't curb the laugh that broke from her
throat. "For starters, I beat the hell out of a suspect." "Jury evidently didn't see it that way." "I can only assume they took into consideration the
extenuating circumstances." "Must have been a fair-minded jury." Frowning, he leaned
back in his chair. "For future reference, just because
this is a small town doesn't mean we're dumb hick cops." "I didn't think that." "Yes, you did." He said it without rancor. Because he was right, Marty looked down at her hands,
willed them not to shake. But she could feel her temper
winding up. Nothing new there; she was like a walking time
bomb these days. She hadn't driven all the way from
Chicago to Texas to get raked over the coals for some
penny-ante job where she would more than likely spend as
much time herding cows as she did directing traffic. Settlemeyer turned his attention back to the file. "You
have good credentials, Hogan. SWAT experience. Your
marksmanship scores are off the chart." He glanced at her
over the top of the paper he held. "I talked to the chief
of detectives of the Fourth District." "I'm sure he had some interesting things to say." "As a matter of fact, he did." Here it comes, she thought, the deal killer. Her heart
plummeted into her stomach. James DeLuca hated her; there
was no way this man would hire her after speaking to
DeLuca. He'd wanted to crucify her, her partner, and
another first responder who'd been on the scene that day.
He'd called for a Division of Public Integrity
investigation. The next day he'd demanded her resignation.
Lucky for Marty the jury had been in a charitable mood
when she'd had her day in court or she'd be sitting in a
jail cell right now. DeLuca and the rest of the suits
hadn't been quite so forgiving. She stared at Settlemeyer, knowing he was about to drop
the hammer. The son of a bitch had changed his mind. He
was going to fire her before she even had the chance to
prove herself. If things went south here, she'd have
nothing. No job. She'd broken the lease on her apartment
in Palatine, forfeited the deposits. Now, she had no place
to live. No way to pay her bills. Or her lawyer. Her only
friends were cops, most of whom wouldn't be caught dead
associating with her. Marty was poison to the world right
now. Fuck Clay Settlemeyer. Fuck DeLuca. Fuck them all. Heart raging, Marty shoved away from the desk abruptly,
her chair screeching across the tile floor as she stood.
She stared at Settlemeyer, knowing now was the time to say
something. To defend herself. Her actions. At the very
least she should tell him to get screwed for letting her
drive fifteen hours only to have this last chance yanked
out from under her. But Marty's throat was so tight she couldn't speak. There
were so many emotions jamming her brain that she couldn't
begin to identify them or put them into words. Not that
anything would make a damn bit of difference now.
"Thanks for your time." Turning, she started for the door. "Hogan." Marty didn't stop until she put her hand on the knob. Even
then she didn't turn to face him. She didn't want him to
see what she knew resided in her eyes. Didn't want him to
see just how much this opportunity meant to her. "Just so you know, DeLuca gave you a favorable
recommendation." She heard the words, but the only thing that registered
was the hard pound of her heart, the heat leaching into
her face, the tingle in her fingertips as she gripped the
knob. Holding herself together by the sheer force of
desperation, Marty turned. "What?" Settlemeyer's chair creaked when he leaned back. Lacing
his hands behind his head, he studied her as if she were
some lab experiment that wasn't quite coming together the
way he'd envisioned. "I don't know if this matters to you,
but I'm one of those people who believes in second
chances." Something akin to panic fluttered in her gut. Marty was
adept at keeping a handle on her emotions. She'd been
doing it for too many years to count, and couldn't
remember the last time she'd cried. Certainly not
throughout the fiasco of the last six months. Growing up
with two older brothers and working in a male dominated
profession, she'd learned early in life that tears never
accomplished a damn thing. Most law enforcement types saw
them for what they were: a sign of weakness. Marty was a
lot of things, not all of them good, but she wasn't weak.
But certain things had a way of wearing you down. It was
ironic, but most often it was common kindness that undid
Marty. She wasn't sure what that said about her as a
person. She stared at Settlemeyer, not sure what to say. But she
knew what she felt. Another swirl of panic went through
her when telltale heat surged behind her eyes. Not now, damn it. "I don't need your charity." The words came out
surprisingly strong. She wanted to add some smart-assed
reply, just to show him none of this mattered. She wasn't
some emotional basket case. She could start over. Maybe in
security. But for the life of her Marty couldn't find the
words. "This has nothing to do with charity," he said. "I need a
cop. You've got the credentials. A good recommendation. As
far as I'm concerned, those two things override what you
did six months ago. As long as you can keep a handle on
your temper, the job is yours." "I'm a good cop." "That appears to be the general consensus." "There's more to what happened six months ago than the
media reported." "Sometimes the whole story doesn't sell good airtime." He
took off his glasses. "So is that a yes or a no?" "I need the job." "I'll take that as a yes." Reaching into a drawer, he
removed a .40 caliber Glock, leather holster, an
antiquated cell phone, and a shiny new badge and laid them
on the desk. "Get your uniforms from Jo Nell. I think
there's a form or two you'll need to fill out. Taxes and
health insurance and such. You start tomorrow, second
shift." Marty stared down at the badge and gun, hating it that the
images wavered through unshed tears. Her hand trembled
when she reached for them. When she looked at Settlemeyer,
his eyes were already on hers. "I've already got a cell phone," she managed. "Now you have two. That's the one I'll be reaching you on
24/7." He closed the drawer. "Any questions?" Marty shook her head. "Shift starts at 4 P.M. and ends at midnight. Half hour
for dinner. You'll be riding with someone for a few days
until you get your feet. For starters you get Monday and
Tuesday off as well as one Sunday per month. Friday is
payday. You getting all this?" "I got it." "In that case, welcome to Caprock Canyon, Officer Hogan."
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