Read Online Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online
Authors: Vicki Delany
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on her parents?”
“Certainly not. She’ll be able to take you straight to the unofficial center of local politics, that’s all I’m saying.”
Winters eyed his half-finished sandwich. If he continued to insist that he didn’t want to work with Molly Smith, Paul Keller would replace her. But he was getting strong signals from the Chief Constable that he didn’t want that to happen. And despite Keller’s insistence that he wanted Smith involved because of her local knowledge, Winters wondered if he expected her to rat out her parents, if that became necessary. Smith was ambitious; was she that ambitious?
“Okay, I’ll give it another couple of days. Maybe I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow, and all of this political shit won’t matter. The wife might be worth looking at—I can’t see her doing the deed herself, but she has some proclivities that might lead somewhere.”
“That would be good, John. Close to home—a nice neat domestic incident.”
Winters’ finger moved to disconnect the call; the tinny voice called him back. “Sorry, Paul, I missed that.”
“Do whatever you can to keep media attention away. We haven’t had a murder here in more than twelve months. If this turns out to be a domestic, it won’t look as bad as a political.”
“I hear you.” Winters hung up. Small-town politics. Not much different than the big city, after all. Maybe a bit worse—after all, the stakes were so much smaller. He made a quick call to the voice mail of a friend from his days on the Vancouver PD to request a peek into the state of Montgomery’s business, finished his orange juice, and went to join his wife in bed. Perhaps she’d not be too deeply asleep and he could still salvage something out of their twenty-fifth anniversary.
***
Smith pulled off her uniform and put on jeans and a T-shirt. She’d love to take her Glock, go around to Charlie’s place and blast a few holes in his knees. That would keep him away from Christa, all right. Unfortunately, the Trafalgar City Police frowned on independent thinking of that sort.
She picked up the photograph sitting on her bedside table. Graham smiled at her, trapped forever in an organized scatter of colored dots. It had been taken on the beach at Tofino. The sky was dark—a storm moving in, fast. There was no color in the ocean. A wave reared up behind him. His smile was wide, his teeth white, his body young and full of life. They’d danced in the waves, laughed at the storm, held their arms out to the wind, and their mouths to the rain. They’d run back to the B&B and made love while the storm crashed all around them. When both weather and lovers were sated, they’d gone in search of crab chowder, whole wheat bread, good beer.
She blinked back a tear, returned the picture to its place, and ran downstairs. The light over the chair in the living room was switched off, the kitchen deserted.
She grabbed the keys to her mom’s car off the hook by the kitchen door.
Smith drove Lucky’s beaten-up old Pontiac Firefly. down the highway and crossed the long black bridge into town. Trafalgar was an old town; old for western Canada. Streetlights shone through the thick leaves of large walnut trees. The pavements were uneven, most of the houses were originals, many in ill repair. So many transients passed through town, and there wasn’t much in the way of apartments, that many of the historic houses at the foot of the mountain had been broken into flats. She pulled up in front of Christa’s building. A black cat sat on the steps of the house next door, its eyes yellow pools against the dark fur.
Smith knocked lightly, knowing that the neighbors could be nasty if disturbed. Her hand was still raised when the door opened, Christa peeking out from behind it.
The two women climbed a narrow staircase and made a sharp right into Christa’s flat.
Christa threw herself onto one of the two bean bags that, along with three milk crates, made up her living room
“Certainly not. She’ll be able to take you straight to the unofficial center of local politics, that’s all I’m saying.”
Winters eyed his half-finished sandwich. If he continued to insist that he didn’t want to work with Molly Smith, Paul Keller would replace her. But he was getting strong signals from the Chief Constable that he didn’t want that to happen. And despite Keller’s insistence that he wanted Smith involved because of her local knowledge, Winters wondered if he expected her to rat out her parents, if that became necessary. Smith was ambitious; was she that ambitious?
“Okay, I’ll give it another couple of days. Maybe I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow, and all of this political shit won’t matter. The wife might be worth looking at—I can’t see her doing the deed herself, but she has some proclivities that might lead somewhere.”
“That would be good, John. Close to home—a nice neat domestic incident.”
Winters’ finger moved to disconnect the call; the tinny voice called him back. “Sorry, Paul, I missed that.”
“Do whatever you can to keep media attention away. We haven’t had a murder here in more than twelve months. If this turns out to be a domestic, it won’t look as bad as a political.”
“I hear you.” Winters hung up. Small-town politics. Not much different than the big city, after all. Maybe a bit worse—after all, the stakes were so much smaller. He made a quick call to the voice mail of a friend from his days on the Vancouver PD to request a peek into the state of Montgomery’s business, finished his orange juice, and went to join his wife in bed. Perhaps she’d not be too deeply asleep and he could still salvage something out of their twenty-fifth anniversary.
***
Smith pulled off her uniform and put on jeans and a T-shirt. She’d love to take her Glock, go around to Charlie’s place and blast a few holes in his knees. That would keep him away from Christa, all right. Unfortunately, the Trafalgar City Police frowned on independent thinking of that sort.
She picked up the photograph sitting on her bedside table. Graham smiled at her, trapped forever in an organized scatter of colored dots. It had been taken on the beach at Tofino. The sky was dark—a storm moving in, fast. There was no color in the ocean. A wave reared up behind him. His smile was wide, his teeth white, his body young and full of life. They’d danced in the waves, laughed at the storm, held their arms out to the wind, and their mouths to the rain. They’d run back to the B&B and made love while the storm crashed all around them. When both weather and lovers were sated, they’d gone in search of crab chowder, whole wheat bread, good beer.
She blinked back a tear, returned the picture to its place, and ran downstairs. The light over the chair in the living room was switched off, the kitchen deserted.
She grabbed the keys to her mom’s car off the hook by the kitchen door.
Smith drove Lucky’s beaten-up old Pontiac Firefly. down the highway and crossed the long black bridge into town. Trafalgar was an old town; old for western Canada. Streetlights shone through the thick leaves of large walnut trees. The pavements were uneven, most of the houses were originals, many in ill repair. So many transients passed through town, and there wasn’t much in the way of apartments, that many of the historic houses at the foot of the mountain had been broken into flats. She pulled up in front of Christa’s building. A black cat sat on the steps of the house next door, its eyes yellow pools against the dark fur.
Smith knocked lightly, knowing that the neighbors could be nasty if disturbed. Her hand was still raised when the door opened, Christa peeking out from behind it.
The two women climbed a narrow staircase and made a sharp right into Christa’s flat.
Christa threw herself onto one of the two bean bags that, along with three milk crates, made up her living room
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