Page 49 of Montana Justice

“Tripod marks,” I said, crouching to examine the impressions. Photography equipment left distinctive patterns, and these were textbook. “How many spots?”

“Three so far. All with clear sight lines to different parts of the property.” Beckett pulled out his phone, showing me photos he’d already taken. “This one overlooks the main delivery entrance. That one has a perfect view of the back training field where they park the trailers. And the third covers the employee parking area.”

I stood, scanning the tree line. Someone had done their homework, finding the exact spots that would give them maximum coverage of Pawsitive’s operations. “Cigarette butts?”

“Over here.” He led me to a fallen log about ten feet from the tripod marks. Half a dozen cigarette butts littered the ground beside it, all the same brand. “Marlboro Reds. Fresh enough that morning dew hadn’t broken them down yet.”

I bagged a couple of the butts, though I doubted we’d get usable DNA. Still, procedure was procedure. “Tire tracks?”

“Back at the access road. Someone pulled off and parked behind those bushes. Would’ve been invisible from the main road, especially at night.”

We made our way back to examine the tracks. Deep impressions in the soft ground, the tread pattern clear enough to photograph. “Looks like a truck. Heavy one.”

“That’s what I thought too.” Beckett rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I recognized as his thinking pose. “Whoever this was, they spent hours here. Multiple cigarettes, multiple vantage points. They were thorough.”

“Too thorough for casual interest.” I took more photos, my jaw tightening with each shot. “They were mapping the place. Learning routines, delivery schedules, shift changes.”

“Which brings us back to the timing.” Beckett’s voice dropped. “That Highway 37 checkpoint came up empty. Now, someone’s scouting businesses that would make perfect trafficking covers. It’s connected, Lach. Has to be.”

I couldn’t argue with his logic. The pieces fit too well to be coincidence. “Speaking of connected, I’ve been running some preliminary checks on department computers. Looking for anything unusual in access logs, email patterns, that kind of thing.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing obvious. But I’m not exactly a computer expert. I can run basic queries, check log-in times, but if someone’s being clever about it…” I shrugged, frustrated by my own limitations.

“You need Travis.”

I’d been thinking the same thing, but hearing Beckett say it out loud made it real. Travis Hale was Warrior Security’s secret weapon—a computer genius who could find digital needles in virtual haystacks. He was also a hermit who’d built himself a compound on the south side of town and rarely left it.

“Think he’d do it?”

Beckett nodded. “For something like this? Yeah. Travis may be antisocial, but he’s got no tolerance for dirty cops or drug dealers. Plus, he can investigate without anyone at the department knowing. Complete electronic surveillance without leaving a trace.”

“Set it up.” The words tasted bitter. Having to investigate my own people, suspecting someone I worked with every day of betraying their oath—it went against everything I believed in. But I believed in protecting this town more.

We spent another hour documenting the scene, but we’d found everything there was to find. As Beckett loaded his equipment back into his truck, I glanced toward the main barn where I knew Piper was working.

“I’m going to check in with Lark,” I said. “Let her know what we found.”

Beckett’s knowing look said he saw right through me, but he didn’t call me on it. “I’ll reach out to Travis. With any luck, he’ll have something for us within a day or two.”

After he left, I walked toward the main part of Pawsitive Connections, taking the long route past the training rings and smaller barns. I spotted Lark in the distance, working with one of the therapy dogs, and gave her a wave. She returned it but stayed focused on her training session.

As I approached the main barn, I heard something that made me stop in my tracks.

Singing.

Not just any singing—Piper’s voice, clear and sweet, carrying through the afternoon air. I’d never heard her sing before. Hell, I’d barely heard her sound happy. But there she was, her voice lifting in what sounded like an old folk song about horses and mountain meadows.

I eased closer to the barn entrance, staying in the shadows just inside. She was in Duchess’s stall, brushing the pregnant mare while Caleb watched from his carrier propped safely on a hay bale. Every few verses, she’d turn to our son, singing directly to him, making him wave his tiny fists.

“That’s right, sweet boy,” she said between songs, her voice lighter than I’d ever heard it. “Duchess likes the music, doesn’t she? Makes her calm for when her baby comes.”

The mare stood perfectly still under Piper’s ministrations, occasionally turning her head to nuzzle at Piper’s shoulder. It was like watching a completely different person—this Piper was relaxed, open, genuinely happy in a way I’d never seen.

She laughed—actually laughed—when Duchess lipped at her pocket, looking for treats. “I already gave you two carrots, you greedy girl. You’re worse than Maverick, and he’s supposed to be the difficult one.”

This was who she could be without whatever weight she carried. Young and free and finding joy in simple things. She looked her actual age instead of someone who’d lived too much life too fast.

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