THE HIDDEN PARK SNARE

“The court wants a live scent-verification demonstration,” Captain Miller said. “Titan must pick out one designated narcotic or human odor from five planted alternatives while the defense expert watches every move.”

Rainwater slid from the brim of his cap, but his expression stayed hard as stone. “A miss is bad. Titan failing to arrive is just as bad.”

“Then what?” I asked, though my stomach had already tightened around the answer.

“The judge may declare the warehouse entry unlawful,” Miller said. “And Vance’s attorneys will get exactly what they came for.”

The words landed with the force of a body blow.

“Poisoned tree,” I muttered.

Miller gave one grim nod.

“Once that search gets thrown out, anything recovered past that wall goes with it,” he said. “The victims, the records, the biological evidence—none of it reaches the jury.”

My eyes tracked toward the dark trees where the gray-jacketed suspect had vanished.

“Vance walks?” I asked.

“He could be outside by lunchtime,” Miller replied. “And the victim statements could be buried along with the warehouse evidence.”

The entire attack snapped into focus inside my head.

This had never been about hurting a police dog for spite. It was courtroom warfare, planned by someone who understood the value of Titan’s nose.

Destroy Titan. Undercut the alert. Erase the search. Save Marcus Vance.

And to sell it as a freak accident, they had been ready to send Emily into electrified water.

Miller’s gaze swept across the park lot. “Where did you leave your unit?”

“South side. By the pavilion,” I said.

“Get there now,” he ordered. “Secure Titan in the rear kennel and take him straight to the underground garage at Central Precinct.”

His voice cut sharper. “No detours. No food stop. No waiting around for lights if you can safely avoid them.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll have two SWAT officers guarding the K9 area through the night,” Miller said. “Titan stays protected until that hearing.”

He started toward the investigators, then stopped and faced me again.

“Danny, assume anybody can be compromised,” he said quietly. “You trust nobody until Vance is behind federal bars.”

I acknowledged him with a nod, watching him disappear into the cluster of uniforms and crime-scene lights.

Then Titan and I headed for the southern lot.

Evening had begun swallowing the park. Low sunlight stretched the trees’ shadows over wet grass and cracked pavement.

My black Ford Explorer waited beside the pavilion, unchanged at first glance. Its auxiliary system still powered the climate-controlled kennel in back, a soft mechanical hum beneath the fading noise of the scene.

I moved toward the rear passenger door with Titan at my side.

Then he stopped.

He froze several feet short of the Explorer instead of rising toward the handle as he always did.

The fur along his spine lifted. A deep warning vibration rolled out of his chest.

“What do you have, partner?” I asked, my hand sliding toward my holster.

Titan edged closer, nose working hard. He sampled the air around the door seam, neck extended and muscles locked.

Two harsh barks cracked across the lot.

Someone had touched my vehicle.

I drew my weapon and kept it tight against my chest as I circled the SUV. The tinted windows gave me nothing. Tires looked solid. The exhaust showed no obstruction.

I returned to the rear door and bent close to the handle.

A greasy print marked the black paint—one broad thumb impression, faint but unmistakable.

It had not come from me. I cleaned the Explorer every morning, and I used duty gloves whenever I loaded Titan into his kennel.

My pulse slammed hard as I dropped into the damp pavement and aimed my flashlight below the chassis.

I inspected the axles, the wheel wells, every visible line and bracket.

Near the rear differential, my beam caught an unnatural glint beneath the steel frame.

A compact black rectangle clung there on powerful magnets. A tiny red light blinked at its edge.

Military-grade GPS tracker.

I left it untouched. For a second, I could only stare while the truth assembled itself in my mind.

They had not guessed my route. They had been watching my patrol SUV move in real time, which meant Riverside Park had been selected because they knew I was coming.

“Officer Mercer!”

I jerked upright, weapon low but ready.

Rodriguez hurried over from the trees in a white scene-tech suit, carrying a clear evidence bag. I had worked homicide scenes with the young technician before, but Miller’s warning echoed in my ears.

“Lower your voice,” I told him, holstering my weapon. “What did you find?”

He raised the bag. Inside lay the thick yellow electrician gloves recovered near the oak tree.

“I examined the tools the suspect abandoned,” Rodriguez said. “These gloves are not consumer equipment.”

“Tell me what they are,” I said.

He pointed through the plastic at a faded stamp on the left cuff. “They are certified for extreme-voltage municipal grid work. You do not buy this type at a hardware store.”

Rodriguez turned the bag over. “But that isn’t the worst part.”

Faded marker on the inside edge of the other glove formed a code: JPD-EV-4402.

Rodriguez looked at me, pale beneath the hood. “Those trap gloves came from the Jacksonville Police Department evidence room.”