Cleetus picked up the pace when the white clapboard stables came into view. His hefty hooves were muffled by the few inches of snow on Market Street.
Brick did what he did best, focused on the tasks at hand and let all the what-ifs and what-could-bes go. With his mount fed and tack stowed, he shouldered the saddlebags—his version of a briefcase—and headed up the street. He ducked into the coffee shop conveniently located halfway between the stables and the station where he picked up the usual, a box of assorted pastries.
The small talk between the staff and the two other customers reminded him that no matter where he went on the island, he wasn’t going to escape mention of the troubled redhead.
Yes, he did hear that Remi Ford was back.
No, he didn’t know how long she was staying.
Yes, he supposed she did look just as pretty as the last time she’d been home.
While he’d made a place for himself here, she’d been born into one. The entire island looked forward to her visits because everything was just a little bit brighter, a little more fun with Remington around.
She was the kind of girl that when she gave a guy a nickname, the entire town was still using it over a decade later.
He kept his shoulders hunched against the gusts of wind that funneled between buildings and hurried the final few hundred feet to the station.
The white, two-story building on Market Street always reminded Brick of a church. However, instead of Sunday sermons, it was home to the Mackinac Island Police Department, town hall, and town court.
Slipping in the side door, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them both on designated pegs. There was only one other parka on the rack so far that morning. In season, the tiny department swelled to include dozens of cops policing the streets of Mackinac on foot, bikes, and horseback. But off season, only a handful stayed on to serve the full-time residents.
He took the pastries into the break room, where he found the boss pouring a fresh cup of coffee into her It’s Called Snow, Get Over It mug.
“Morning, Brick.”
Chief Darlene Ford was a formidable woman. A lifelong resident of the island, a windchill of eight degrees didn’t faze her. Not much of anything did. She was tall and athletically built. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was scraped back in its usual short, serviceable tail. Her eyes were a cool, assessing green. The rangy build came from a rigid adherence to daily weight training. She could do more push-ups in one shot than most of the rest of the small force.
Brick excluded, of course. He made it a point to be able to out-work, out-ride, and out-shoot any other officer.
“Morning, chief.” He poured his own mug.
“What did Duncan do this time?” Darlene asked, perusing the pastry selection. She selected a bacon-topped bear claw then offered him the box.
He shook his head, heading for the fridge instead, where his protein shake waited. “Ramped his brand new Polaris into a fence and took out the stop sign on Huron Road.”
“Dang fool is gonna get himself killed one of these days,” she said.
“Anything happen overnight?” Brick asked, taking a hit of coffee.
“Remi’s home.” She glanced down at the protein shake and didn’t bother hiding her shudder.
“I heard. She okay?”
Those green eyes landed on him and held. “Seems to be. Surprised us on the front porch yesterday morning. Got herself a broken arm from some fender bender. Looks tired, but who isn’t this far into winter?”
Brick grunted, swallowing the questions he had.
“That reminds me. Family dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Be there.” Darlene started for the door. “And don’t bother telling me you’re too busy or you don’t want to intrude.”
Damn it. There went both his best excuses.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good. Bring bourbon. Gil’s moved on to Manhattans,” she said over her shoulder. “And eat a damn pastry to wash down that shake. A man can only have so much discipline before it’s unhealthy.”
He settled in at his desk, a dented, green metal throwback that he’d grown attached to over the years. While his computer booted up, he downed half of his shake and fired off a text to Darius, knowing full well his partner at the bar wouldn’t be awake for a few hours yet.
Brick: Won’t be in tonight.
It wasn’t his night to work anyway. But he liked checking in. The more in tune he was with the bar, the fewer surprises there were.
Refusing to think about spending an entire evening across the table from Remi, Brick got to work. Wincing at the 10 a.m. slot on the department’s calendar, he logged Duncan’s accident, then perused the afternoon’s welfare checks. Community policing involved more “driving seniors to church on Sunday” tasks than chasing down criminals.
He enjoyed the adrenaline of the high-season with all the challenges one million tourists brought with them. But he preferred the winters when he felt he was doing his part, not just keeping the island safe, but making sure everyone had what they needed.
He plotted out a route for the welfare checks and found nothing pressing in his email inbox. By the time he hit the bottom of his shake, he’d run out of willpower.
With his gaze on the chief’s office, he typed the name he’d been trying his entire adult life to forget into the database and sat back while the engine populated results.
Remington Ford had five traffic violations. Not a surprise.
She’d also been arrested twice.
He’d known about the first. Hell, he’d been the one doing the arresting.
The second arrest was more recent. He skimmed the report. It stemmed from a protest in Philadelphia three years ago. The charges had been dropped. Also not surprising.
What did surprise him was the fact that there were zero motor vehicle accidents listed. An accident with injury warranted a report and a victim name.
He glanced toward the chief’s office again. Darlene was on the phone, boots propped on the desk as she shot the shit with a few members of the chamber of commerce on a Zoom call.
Since the boss was still busy and he was already looking, he decided to dig a little deeper. He expanded the search and skimmed the rest of the results.
Pay dirt.
Four days ago Remington Honeysuckle Ford, 30, was transported from an apartment in Chicago to the emergency department of St. Luke’s Hospital for a “severe asthma attack.” Edging closer to the screen, his elbow caught the empty shake bottle, sending it tumbling to the floor. Snatching it up, he shot a guilty look in Darlene’s direction then shifted his attention back to the monitor.
The emergency responder report ended there. Without a warrant, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the hospital’s records department.
Had she passed out from the asthma attack and broken her arm in the fall? If so, who had been at her apartment to call 911? And why would she lie about a car accident?
The side door burst open, and Brick sent his shake bottle flying again.