Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, entered.
The room was small. Four desks were cramped inside and topped with computers. Windows looked out onto the parking lot. Two females, late twenties, were seated in civilian clothes behind two of the metal desks. Angie guessed one to be the art director, the other the graphic designer-videographer. A very pregnant cop wearing an MVPD-issue maternity smock over her black uniform pants stood at a row of bookshelves. The shelves were stacked with glossy brochures, flyers, books, rows of DVDs—so-called MVPD collateral, Angie presumed. The pregnant officer glanced up and smiled. She waddled forward, her left hand supporting the small of her back as she extended her right hand. “Welcome. Marla Pepper—social media relations officer.”
Only three hundred and sixty-four more days.
“Pallorino,” Angie said, shaking the officer’s hand. Then as an afterthought, she added, “Congratulations. How far along are you?”
“Any day now.” Another smug smile. “Can’t wait to get out of here and put my feet up. Next week can’t come fast enough—you should be up to speed by then. Let me start by giving you the basic rundown, and then you can just start shadowing me, ask questions as we go. Good enough?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s nothing too complicated, really. This is Diana Bechko, the unit’s art director.” Pepper motioned to the woman at the first desk. “And her graphic designer, Kosma Harrison.” Both women offered their greetings, smiled, but Angie could see that they were eyeing the newcomer in their midst with curiosity, maybe even a level of wariness. No doubt they’d been fully apprised by the MVPD grapevine of her quick temper, her proclivity toward rage, violence. Her punishment. Angie returned the necessary pleasantries but without a smile. She was not here to be their friend. She was here to get through her sentence. Sooner they cottoned on to that and left her alone, the better.
“And this will be your station,” pregnant Officer Pepper said as she showed Angie her own desk, at which she’d pulled up a spare chair. “You can use the laptop for now, then transition to my desktop once I’m on mat leave.”
Angie set her hat on the corner of the desk and said nothing. An awkwardness entered Pepper, which was good because it took the edge off her annoying pregnant perkiness.
“So . . . basically these are the tools of my trade—the computers, I mean,” Pepper said. “You’ll be responsible for managing the MVPD Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram accounts and for updating the events page on the MVPD website. You’ll also craft posts for the Day in the Life blog.” Pepper offered another smile, but more hesitant now, her gaze weighing Angie a little differently. “Social media is such a huge component of an organization these days. Something I take very seriously.”
Angie nodded in silence. Pepper cleared her throat, then tried a different tack. “I was in operational policing myself for six years. Most of those driving a K9 SUV, tracking bad guys with my police dog. But many of the basic elements of policing still play here. I jumped at the social media opportunity as soon as we decided to try and fall pregnant, of course.”
Angie’s eyes snapped to Pepper’s. The woman was from another planet as far as Angie was concerned.
Pepper’s cheeks flushed. “I couldn’t in good conscience be out there endangering an innocent civilian, a baby’s life. A bullet-suppression vest goes only so far, you know?” A pause. Her blush deepened. “Kids are important. They’re our future.”
The memory of Jenny Marsden’s words slapped Angie cold in her face. She inhaled, her mind shooting to Tiffy Bennett, the toddler she and Hash had been unable to save last year, to that old Kodak photograph of herself as a child with the cut and swollen face in Saint Peter’s Hospital. To all the other kids—special victims she’d met through sex crimes. Guilt at her judgment of Pepper twinged through her. She smoothed her hand over her hair. “Right.”
Pepper weighed Angie, reading her shift in tone. “It’ll be okay,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.” She held her hand toward the chair. “Take a seat.”
As Angie seated herself, Pepper pulled up the various MVPD social media accounts. “In addition to overseeing these, you will work closely with the MVPD’s two spokespersons. Technology and news cycles no longer require a daily press conference, but our unit does field hundreds of calls every week from local, national, and international media for information and interviews. You’ll channel those requests accordingly . . .” A movement outside caught Angie’s eye.
Maddocks and Holgersen leaving the building, striding toward his Impala.
She felt hot, swallowed, tried to focus as Pregnant Pepper droned on. But all she could think of suddenly was her coupling with Maddocks last night. Self-recrimination snaked through her. She was trying to hurt him. She needed to find a way to make things right again. As she watched the Impala drive off, she resolved to find Maddocks after she punched out today. Maybe they could go grab a bite to eat.
“Our unit also produces the print publication Beyond the Call of Duty—collateral that plays a major role in crime prevention. What I’ve found on Twitter is that there are two basic camps—those who love the police and those who despise us. I’m talking about those who detest law enforcement on principle and who let us know it via our social media threads.” Pepper glanced at Angie. “Nothing I can say is going to change the minds of those trolls.”
Social media one-oh-one—play nice.
Angie glanced at her watch as Pepper prattled on. Only seven more hours before she could clock out, maybe meet up with Maddocks, go home, and start working on Voight’s case files.
CHAPTER 21
At 4:35 p.m. Angie found herself sitting momentarily in an empty office. She reached quickly for her phone and dialed Maddocks. Her spirits lifted when he picked up right away.
“Hey,” she said. “I was wondering—”
“Ange, can I call you right back? I’m—”
“I’ll be quick—want to meet for dinner later? Rain check for last night?”
“I . . . I can’t. Got a date with Ginn. I promised her—”
“It’s fine. I’ve got stuff I need to do.” She killed the call and sat at her desk holding her phone, a strange cocktail of emotions circling through her. Fuck it. She slotted her phone back into her duty belt she was now wearing sans firearm.
Stupid mistake, calling him. I knew he was busy.
She returned to struggling with her blog post. She was determined to finish it before she punched out in a few minutes.
“Detective Pallorino?”
Angie glanced up.
One of the civilian MVPD receptionists stood in doorway. Big breasts. Big, bouncy eighties hair—bleached blonde. BB is what Angie mentally called her.
“There’s an RCMP officer here to see you, ma’am,” the woman said. “He’s with someone from the Burnaby coroner’s office.”
Angie frowned, then came sharply to her feet. “They say what they want?”