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get a reduced sentence based on the testimony of his other neighbors. He could claim the camper shell blocked his view, or that the dogs distracted him . . .
    Tap-tap-tap. What the hell were those fingernails made of—iron?
    He sighed and rolled down the window. She grinned and leaned in, folding her arms over the sill, thrusting her breasts toward him. Despite the fact that the mid-September weather was a little too cool for it, she was wearing her usual ensemble, a skimpy black swimsuit top and pair of tight faded denim shorts that barely covered her ass. It was probably an appealing outfit the first time she wore something like it forty or fifty years ago. She was still slender, but Ben figured she must have spent most of those decades in the sun, because as far as he was concerned, these days she just looked like beef jerky in a bikini.
    â€œI’m in a real hurry, Alice,” he said brusquely, leaning away from her. “Mind stepping back from the truck?”
    â€œHello, Professor!” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. She flipped her straight, shoulder-length hair—with a slight green tinge from the chlorine in her pool—away from her face and looked back at the bloodhound and the German Shepherd. “Hi, Bingle! Hi, Bool! Going on a search?” He knew where her own searching eyes would look next, and felt himself tense. Someone unaware of her particular proclivities might have mistaken the direction of her gaze. But Ben knew she wasn’t staring at his crotch. She was staring at his lower left leg.
    He was grateful that he had jeans on today, not because they hid the prosthesis he wore, but because he knew that Alice was hoping to catch a glimpse of the point where his left leg had been amputated below the knee.
    â€œBen, why don’t you come over for a swim?” she said, still not looking at his face.
    â€œAlice!” he shouted.
    She blinked and shook her head, as if he had awakened her from a trance.
    â€œI have to leave right now,” he gritted out. “Immediately. I’m in a hurry.”
    â€œOkay. Well, come on by later.” She took one step back.
    He wasn’t going to waste this chance. He put the truck in reverse, glanced behind him and backed out. He drove off, not looking in the rearview mirror until he was sure he was too far away for her to run after him. She stood motionless in his driveway.
    He noticed Bingle watching him from his crate. The dark, longhaired shepherd (shepherd and some other breed—no one was quite certain of the mix) was cocking his head to one side.
    â€œI don’t know what to do about her, either, Bingle,” Ben said.
    Bingle—whose first of three owners had named him Bocazo, Spanish for “big mouth”—began to answer at length with a series of sounds that Ben was convinced were an attempt to imitate human vocal tones.
    Bool thumped his tail against his own crate. The bloodhound was an amiable fellow, not half as bright as Bingle, but nevertheless excellent at his work. Together, there were few search situations they couldn’t cover.
    That was thanks to David, he knew. Ben had taken over the handling and training of the dogs after his close friend and colleague, David Niles, had been murdered by the same man who had left Ben an amputee. Ben was adjusting to life with a prosthesis—he had returned to work, was active, was in a great relationship with a woman who also trained search dogs. But David’s death still haunted him.
    No day passed without a reminder of him. The dogs were the strongest reminder, of course. David had survived a childhood of physical abuse—in part, he had told Ben, because the aunt who raised him after his abusive father’s death had interested David in training dogs. David used his knowledge of dog training and anthropology for volunteer search and rescue work, and for cadaver dog work—to search for the missing, or their remains.
    Ben