Love Under Fire. Frances Housden
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resisted an envious sigh and instead, unfolded her six-foot length from the driver’s seat.
Once, she’d been secure in the knowledge of her own personal worth, her own capabilities. Not anymore. Living in Nicks Landing had done a number on her ego. A few more friends might have sweetened her stay, made her feel less of an outsider. Maybe…
With Ginny skipping to keep up with her longer stride, Jo glanced at the white station house. Two years on and she still hadn’t gotten over her first impression. That down-home, country look didn’t quite gel with what went on inside. Friday and Saturday nights were the worst. That’s when the drunks came out to play. The local innkeeper couldn’t seem to tell when they’d had enough. Oh, he’d excuses aplenty. Personally, Jo figured it had more to do with getting back at them for still being cops while he’d been made redundant, though no one else saw it that way. Hell, maybe her prejudice was showing.
Since it was closer, she shepherded Ginny to the back entrance.
“Coming through.”
The warning left barely enough time to pull Ginny to the side of the ramp as Seth McAllister, the cop who manned the reception, ran past. “Where’s the fire?” she called to his back view.
“Personal emergency.”
Jo could have said, “Again?” but kept her own counsel. Seemed Seth had one of those emergencies at least once a month. The fact that he and his wife were desperately trying to conceive a child couldn’t have anything to do with it. And pigs could fly!
The air in the station house rang blue with curses. Someone was putting the boot into one of the metal cell doors. The lockup was pretty rowdy considering it was only two in the afternoon. She noticed Ginny wince and hardened her heart against an urge to erase the fear she could see in her young eyes. Fist clenched close to her thigh, Jo’s emotions warred between duty and empathy. There was a lesson for Ginny to learn here. A lesson that would do the girl more good than harm. Jo swallowed the tightness clogging her throat as she guided the teenager to a bench on the wall. Jo remembered the first time she’d visited the cells. Yeah, she knew what it felt like.
“Sit.” She squeezed out the command, aware of how brusque she sounded. And when Ginny bobbed up again, hovering nervously a few inches above the seat, added, “Stay.” Ginny’s blue eyes paled against the whites as they widened. Blood drained from her face and promoted her carrot-colored frizz from unusual to startling.
The color of that hair was one reason Jo had known the kid couldn’t seriously have intended to steal. The idea of pink barrettes holding back such riotous brilliance put the mind on hold. Though she allowed there was something about pink that tempted with its sheer femininity. That was something else she’d remembered since picking up the girl.
Gently, she pressed Ginny down to the bench. “You’re okay here. No one will hurt you.” Jo nodded toward the desk. “See the sergeant over there? He’ll look out for you.”
As always, Jo’s first glimpse of Senior Sergeant Harry Jackson reminded her of her father. Maybe it was the silver buttons sparkling against the navy uniform, or an echo in the mannerisms. After all this time, the subject was still up for discussion.
Her first memories of her father had to be of those buttons. She’d sit on his knee, feel the scratchy wool under her skinny little legs, and play with the shiny baubles while he told her about the events of his day. Of course he’d always been the knight in shining armor, rescuing fair maidens, locking the bad guys up.
Even after he’d made detective, she’d waited for his stories, sometimes falling asleep before he got home. Two weeks into the job she’d realized he’d always given her the abridged edition.
The day he died had felt like they’d amputated her soul.
Four sons and one daughter he’d had, and out of them all, she was the only one following in his footsteps. Maybe being the youngest, she’d been the only one not taken in with their lies about him.
Jo caught her bottom lip in her teeth, stifling a grin at the way Harry ignored the clamor around him. He looked up as she approached, putting down his pen.
“Busy day, Sergeant?”
“Just a couple of local bad guys Bull and Jake caught growing cannabis in a house they’d rented. A right pair of smart-asses! They lined the walls with foil and grew the weed under lights.”
Jo’s hearing pricked up at the mention of drugs. Features bland, she prevented her longings from showing. Those kinds of cases seldom came her way now, and though her homicide training might have given her an edge in that area, no one had been murdered in Nicks County since the day she’d arrived.
Her immediate superiors seemed to be under the impression shoplifting and breaking-and-entering were more her speed. It wasn’t as if she’d never protested. She had, long and loud. Which was one reason why the boys had handed over the one case they hadn’t known she wanted. The one they’d decided would never be solved. An assault on Rocky Skelton, local innkeeper, purportedly by satanists who’d torched his house with him inside.
It was the kind of tale that made her eyes roll. Satanists in Nicks Landing…it sounded like a play on words, but when she’d mentioned “Old Nicks Landing,” no one had laughed.
She’d had her eyes on Skelton from the moment she’d hit town. Finding her father’s ex-partner running a bar in Nicks Landing had been like striking gold. And landing the case had been finding the mother lode, as if some power was at work, nudging her on, helping her to resolve the past. So what if her means of getting to Nicks Landing had come through a sideways demotion? They’d blamed her for what happened to Rowan. But in comparison, none of that mattered now. She’d been in the right place at the right time. Her father had been innocent and this might be her chance to prove it.
Harry’s expression grew paternal, a ridiculous state of affairs as barely eight years separated them. “Nothing to worry your head about, little lady,” he said in reference to the drug bust.
Maybe it was just Harry’s protective instincts, and if so the disease was endemic. Where once she’d found it amusing, slightly endearing, now she felt smothered by living in male-chauvinist territory. If anyone in Nicks County had ever heard of equal rights for women, they’d quickly forgotten it.
Nicks Landing was about two hundred and fifty miles from Auckland where she’d worked before, and about fifty years backward in time. Located on New Zealand’s East Coast, it was the sort of place needing a detour—and a damn good reason—to visit. It certainly wasn’t on anyone’s way to anywhere else.
The reasons she’d been transferred there were solid, nothing to be proud of, and she’d taken her licks, no sense in making excuses. She hadn’t expected to be the only woman working out of the station house, or that she’d still be the only one today.
“Who have we got here?” Harry asked, nodding toward Ginny.
Jo’s mind shifted gear and she told Harry. “Ginny Wilks. The owner of the Two Dollar Shop caught her slipping some plastic barrettes into her pocket. He didn’t want to press charges, though, just give her a warning. Can you call this number and get her mother to come pick her up? She should be all right sitting here with you. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Call me when her mother arrives.”
Jo had just turned away when she remembered. “Someone stole my space again.”
“I keep telling you, take one of the other guys’.”
Shaking her head, she didn’t pursue it. Harry didn’t realize she couldn’t do the very thing she was complaining of to someone else. She couldn’t be that hypocritical, or dishonest. Twelve years’ service and she still felt the need to mind her p’s and q’s.
“I just wondered who owned the S-type Jag.”
Harry’s smile deepened, becoming more knowing than friendly. “Go on upstairs and find out for yourself. He’s in your office.”
The words your office