“Safety is our utmost priority,” the young officer said. “From our chief right down to our newest recruits.”
Preach on, kid, Riley thought. Belclare would need every patrol if only half of the chatter about retaliation was true. Chief Jensen was in serious trouble. Via email, the director had kept him in the loop with the most direct threats to help Riley identify the locals who no doubt had to be involved. At the moment, this guy from the historical society was quickly gaining himself a spot at the top of the list.
Riley stepped down the ladder to gather up the next length of evergreen woven with velvet ribbon and colorful ornaments. This town pulled out all the stops for the holiday. He couldn’t see why the police station needed decorating, but the work put him close to the chief. At this stage, she didn’t have a clue that by doing an excellent job as chief, she’d not only protected her town, she’d also put them in more jeopardy.
Though he hadn’t yet seen more than a photo of the lady with the tough-as-nails reputation, Riley admired her efficiency.
The older man with the beef against the chief’s new security requirements was turning red in the face as he continued his protest.
Finished with the doorway, Riley decided a break in the tension was needed. “I’m taking a break for hot chocolate,” he said to no one particular. “Can I get anyone anything?”
The old man swiveled around, scowling at him. “Who are you?” He turned back to the young cop behind the desk. “Do you know him? He might very well be an assassin right here in our midst. Now who isn’t being careful enough?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Riley said, laughing off the accusation. “I just follow the work. Riley O’Brien.” He stuck out his hand, but the older man refused to take it.
“Martin Filmore, president of the Belclare Historical Society,” he replied, a sour look on his weathered face.
“Pleased to meet you.” Riley gave him a big smile and hooked his thumbs into his tool belt. “Can I get you anything from that shop across the street while you wait?”
Filmore rolled his eyes. “The shop is called Sadie’s. Owned by the Garrison family, the building has been a landmark in Belclare since the town was founded.”
“Good to know.” He looked past Filmore to the kid behind the desk. Riley pegged him as early twenties and fresh out of the academy. “How about you, Officer?”
“Call me Danny.” The young cop grinned, relief stamped on his face. “I’ll take a hot chocolate.”
“All right. Marshmallows or whipped cream? Cinnamon on top?”
“Sounds like you’ve been to Sadie’s before,” Danny said knowingly.
Riley shrugged into his down vest. “A man who doesn’t cook has priorities.”
The cop’s expression brightened more, making him look even younger. Riley was grateful to gain an ally in town, even a young one. Since getting hired on, he’d learned that people here were a bit edgy around strangers. The guys on the crew who’d worked previous seasons said it wasn’t normal for Belclare, but they all agreed the folks had good reason. The national news headlining drug bust marked the first serious crime in their community and they were worried that more would follow.
“I take marshmallows,” Danny said. “No cinnamon.”
“Good choice,” Riley smiled. “How about you?” he asked the older man again. “Last chance.”
“No,” Filmore snapped. “Thank you. I am capable of fetching my own coffee.”
Riley paused, one hand on the door. “The girl at the counter said they were doing some sugar-cookie thing this afternoon. What’s that about?”
Danny sighed wistfully. “I asked for the time off but didn’t get it.”
Filmore glared at the kid. “You cannot convince me the police department puts safety first when our officers are more concerned with a sugar-cookie party.”
“It’s a big deal,” Danny defended himself.
Filmore launched right into another snobby rant, complaints and insults flying like fists.
Riley was about to intervene with another dumb new-guy-in-town question when a harsh, earsplitting whistle silenced the argument.
All three men in the lobby turned to the woman in the doorway that led back to the bull pen.
The woman of the hour, Riley decided, soaking up his first live view of Police Chief Jensen. Her blond hair was pulled back from her heart-shaped face and her blue eyes were sharp as lasers as she studied each of them.
Unlike the other officers he’d seen coming and going today, she wasn’t wearing the dark blue uniform. No, she wore a deep green suit with an ivory shirt, tailored perfectly to her curves. Was it some attempt at a civilian disguise or didn’t she lead by example? He took in her slender legs and the high heels and decided he appreciated the view too much to criticize her choice or rationale. Were police chiefs supposed to wear skirts? He knew the formal uniforms for women were that way, but on an average day? He’d seen her on television, had researched the decorated career that led to her current post. None of it accurately portrayed the size of her personal presence. She might be a petite little thing, but without saying a word she had full command of the room.
Her hard gaze moved deliberately from Danny to Filmore to him. He felt it like a touch. After a moment, she settled that tough blue gaze back on Filmore.
“Mr. Filmore, what is the problem here?”
“I need a moment of your time,” he began. “The new precautions are an impediment—”
She held up a hand and he stopped talking. Riley put that skill right up there with a superpower. One fact had been immediately clear: the president of the historical society loved the sound of his own voice.
Her cool gaze landed on Riley again, raked him from head to toe and back up. “You are?”
“Not a part of this,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m just on garland detail.” He pointed to the ladder.
She eyed the ladder and then stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Name and identification, please.”
He hoped this was a stunt for the crotchety Filmore. “Was I hanging garland too fast, ma’am?”
She glared at him.
“I checked his credentials when he came in, Chief,” Danny piped up. “He’s with the design team.”
“Your name,” she insisted.
Riley gave her his friendliest lopsided grin. “Riley O’Brien.” The grin didn’t appear to be any more effective on the police chief than when he’d used it on his teachers in private school.
“You’re Irish?”
“That’s what my parents tell me.” According to his new background courtesy of the Specialists’ technology wizards, he was first-generation American, born of Irish immigrants. As he’d memorized his manufactured past it was as if the techs had somehow tapped the childhood fantasy that carried him through his long years at the orphanage.
“What brings you to Belclare?”
“Steady work,” he replied as she returned his Maryland driver’s license and the work permit.
“And you’ll be leaving when?”
“Actually, I’m thinking I’ll stay.” He looked over to Danny. “Maybe you can point me to a place to rent?”
“The personnel don’t typically stay on after the work is done,” the chief countered before Danny could