It’s not a very good lie, because the temperature hovers somewhere around eighty degrees and there’s a pleasant breeze. I wish I’d told him I’d tied one on last night.
“I’m used to it,” he says easily. “LaShonda’s been throwing up for four months now. Her first trimester was—” He cuts off the word in mid-sentence.
A tense silence ensues, as if all the oxygen has been sucked away. I stare at Glock, willing him to take the words back. My mouth is open, but I can’t seem to close it. All I can do is stand there, stupid and mute, certain my well-guarded secret is written all over my face.
Glock raises his hands. “Hey, it’s none of my business.”
My stomach is still quivering when I cross to him. “You find something?”
He holds up a baggie containing a dozen or so dirt-covered .22 caliber cartridges. “Looks like they’ve been here awhile.” He motions to the place he’d been searching. “People have been shooting out here, but I thought these might be worth a look.”
“You find bones?”
“A lot of them.” He points to the corner of the structure. “Looks like whoever euthanized the animals just piled up the carcasses and left them to rot.”
“Might be why all these cartridges are here.” I think about that a moment. “Nolt’s remains showed no sign that he’d been shot, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Let’s bag them just in case.”
We’re interrupted by the crack of our dispatcher’s voice on the radio. “Chief, I’ve got a ten-ten over at McNarie’s Bar.”
Glock and I exchange looks. “Fight,” he mutters. “We done here, Chief?”
“I just need to finish up that far north side.” I cock my head, alerted by some inner voice that he’s reluctant to leave me. “Go ahead and take the call. I’m out of here in a few minutes.”
He hesitates.
“Glock, for God’s sake, I’m a cop.”
He looks uncomfortable, then sighs. “Look, Chief, I know you’re as capable as the next guy, and I don’t want to get in the middle of anything … personal, but Tomasetti asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Of course he did.”
“In light of the shooting the other night, I thought it was a good idea. You know, buddy system.”
I pat the .38 strapped to my hip. “And just between us, I’ve got a .22 mini Magnum in an ankle holster.”
“Damn, Chief, I’m impressed. Kind of jealous, too.”
I laugh outright. “Take the call before McNarie beats the shit out of someone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Turning away, he jogs toward his cruiser, speaking into his lapel mike as he goes. “Ten-seven-six.”
*
I’ll be the first to admit the shooting left me shaken. Still, I’m not sure if I’m irritated or appreciative that Tomasetti asked Glock to look out for me. Being a small-town chief of police isn’t excessively dangerous. The risks of my position are minimal compared to the dangers faced every day by big-city cops, sheriff’s deputies, and state highway patrol officers. Tomasetti has every reason—and every right—to worry. But do I want him speaking to my officers without my knowledge? Does it undermine my authority? How is he going to react when my pregnancy becomes more apparent?
I finish sweeping the north end of the building, finding nothing more than a rusted pair of pliers and an old horseshoe. I’ve just reached the loading dock and started toward the interior, when I hear the front door creak. Vaguely, I wonder if one of my other officers took the call at McNarie’s and Glock has returned to help me finish.
I call out to him. “If you came back to help me finish, you’re too late.”
Looping the carry strap of the metal detector over my right shoulder, lifting the canvas bag with my other hand, I start toward the door. I’m midway there when it strikes me that he should have responded. Stopping, I set the canvas bag on the floor and lean the metal detector against the rail of a pen.
“Glock? You there?”
A minute sound makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. In that instant I know it isn’t Glock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Identify yourself!”
My words are punctuated by a gunshot. Adrenaline shoots like fire through my body. Crouching, I draw my .38, raise it, my finger twitchy on the trigger. A dozen thoughts slam into my brain at once. I’m not sure where the shot came from. I have no cover where I’m standing.
Hitting my lapel mike, I back toward the steps. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shooting in progress!” I shout out the address of my location.
A second shot pings off the concrete two feet from my boot. I can’t see the shooter, but I’m pretty sure the shot originated from the front offices. I fire my weapon three times.
“Ten-thirty-three!” I shout into my mike. “Shots fired! Ten-thirty-three!” To the shooter: “Police! Drop your weapon!”
Another gunshot rings out, followed by the zing! of a ricochet. I need to get off the loading dock. I step back. My rear bumps the steel pipe that runs along the edge of the dock. A sickening crack! sounds as the steel posts give way. And then I’m falling backward into space.