To Love a Cop. Janice Johnson Kay
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tempt him. After a moment, Ethan wandered on, leaving a cluster of men staring covetously at the shotgun and listening to the vendor expound on its virtues. His gaze continued to rove the exhibit hall, and he half listened to the buzz of conversation around him, picking out snippets here and there.
He wasn’t a collector, and wasn’t in the market for a new weapon. Like many in law enforcement, he carried a fourth-generation Glock .40 caliber and was accustomed to its feel at the range and on his hip. He had friends who liked to upgrade more often than he replaced his vehicles, and, sure, there were some nice handguns out there. Once in a while at the range, he’d try out something new and always handed it back without any inclination to whip out his credit card. His Glock had saved his life, and that was good enough for him.
He was here today to keep an eye on the crowd, not the merchandise. It was something of a personal mission he’d taken on the past few years, after watching and reading coverage of too many mass shootings, the weapons purchased at gun shows like this. He hadn’t told anyone else what he was doing. Odds were against him ever witnessing anything significant. Big as this exhibition hall at the Portland Expo Center was, a deranged individual could be buying an armory worth of weapons right this minute two aisles away without him seeing a thing.
Still...there hadn’t been anything special he’d wanted to do today. And you never knew.
To avoid standing out, he needed to look at something besides faces, though. He actually enjoyed studying some of the antique guns. In fact, a minute later he was contemplating a Confederate revolver, imported from England into New Orleans in 1861. He knew the A.B. Griswold revolver was often carried by Confederate officers. This one was in good enough condition to have a price tag of $9,500. He winced again.
“Man, that is so cool.”
He turned slowly, his attention caught by how youthful this voice sounded.
And, yeah, it was a kid standing at the next vendor, looking down at a semiautomatic rifle. Ethan carried a similar one in his police vehicle. The one for sale was equipped with a fixed sight. It looked, and was, lethal, manufactured for the tactical professional. The kid’s expression was eager enough to bother Ethan.
“You don’t look old enough to be shopping for anything like this,” the vendor said easily, and to his credit. Plenty of people brought their kids to gun shows, but Ethan didn’t see a parent nearby.
“Huh?” The boy lifted his head. “Oh, my dad’s around. I was just getting bored.”
“Ah.” The vendor, a middle-aged, balding man, started talking about the DDLE duty rifle’s effectiveness and versatility. The kid seemed to be drinking up every detail.
Ethan drifted on, but not far. He wondered a little about the boy, who, at a guess, might be thirteen, fourteen at the oldest. Hard to tell, when some boys shot up way younger, and others lagged. This one was skinny, five foot seven or eight, with dark hair and eyes. Seemed early for him to be out of school, but middle schools and high schools did let out pretty early in the afternoon. Still, Ethan didn’t see any other kids yet. Today was Friday, and the show had opened at noon. Right now it was—he checked his watch—barely two thirty. Most of the business would come on Saturday and Sunday, although the crowd so far was respectable and he’d seen a few sales taking place already.
The boy moved on, too. He appeared uninterested in the antique weapons, although he paused briefly to study a World War II “Liberator” .45 pistol, a strange looking, stubby weapon made by General Motors to be air-dropped to Resistance fighters in Europe. Maintaining a little distance between himself and the boy, Ethan paused to look at that one, too.
Mostly, the kid was fixated on semiautomatic handguns. The Heckler & Koch VP9, a new Beretta, the oversize Desert Eagle, an HK polymer-frame pistol with a barrel threaded to accept a suppressor.
And fixated was the word. He looked at every one of those damn guns with a hunger that disturbed Ethan. This kid could care less about .22 rifles, hunting rifles, BB guns. Nope, he was fascinated by handguns designed for the sole purpose of killing human beings.
And Dad was nowhere to be seen.
Nothing and no one else caught Ethan’s attention, so he kept wandering at roughly the same speed the boy did. Finally, curiosity overcame him and he stopped right next to the boy, who was currently studying a FNH FNP-40, another polymer handgun.
“I’ve fired that one,” Ethan said with a nod. “Nicely balanced.”
The kid looked at him eagerly. “Really? At the range?”
“Yeah, friend of mine has one. He says it felt like his best friend the first time he shot it.” Ethan was careful to keep his posture relaxed to avoid any hint of threat. He was a big man, towering over the kid.
The boy’s gaze slid to his holstered weapon. “That’s a Glock, isn’t it?” He was hungry still, but there was an extra hint of heat in those dark eyes taking in the butt of the Glock. It was as if he was looking at a favorite food that had made him sick the last time he’d eaten it.
Or maybe I’m imagining things, Ethan thought. “It’s a Glock 22,” he agreed.
“Are you a cop? Lots of cops carry those, don’t they?”
“They do, and I am.” Ethan held out his hand. “Detective Ethan Winter, Portland Police Bureau.”
They shook hands.
“So you don’t wear a uniform anymore? Or is this your day off?”
“It is my day off, but I don’t wear a uniform on the job, either, except for special occasions.”
“Do you work homicide?”
Ethan shook his head. “I may request a transfer there someday, but I’m currently part of the unit that investigates assaults and bias crimes.”
“What are you talking about, bias crimes?”
“We’re plugging up the works here.” Ethan nodded. “Let’s get out of the way so we’re not blocking the table.”
The vendor nodded his appreciation. “Can’t interest you in this FNP, Detective? Since you liked the feel?”
“I’m happy with what I carry. Familiarity is important.”
The man smiled and shrugged both. “Can’t argue with that.”
“What do you mean, familiarity?” the boy demanded as they stepped out of the way of traffic. They’d been close to the end of an aisle, and weren’t far from an exit.
“We don’t draw often except at the range,” Ethan explained. “You don’t want to fumble or hesitate when the moment comes you need to. The more you’ve used a particular weapon, the less you have to think about it, which allows you to focus on the situation.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “So how come you’re here, if you don’t want a new gun?”
Ethan gave his standard response. “I like to keep up on what’s out there.”
“’Cuz cops aren’t the only ones with guns.”
Feeling the rueful twist to his mouth, Ethan scanned the ever-growing crowd filling a hall that had to be sixty thousand square feet or more, packed with weaponry and shoppers. “You could say that.”
“Have you ever been shot?”
Ethan shook his head. Shot at, yes. Which wasn’t the same thing. “Hasn’t happened yet. I try not to make myself a target.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a name?”
Alarm flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Oh. Um, yeah, but...my dad says I shouldn’t tell strangers my name. You know.” He started shuffling backward. “I should go find Dad now anyway. He might worry. I’ll, um, maybe see ’ya.”
The clear subtext was, But not if I see you first.
He awkwardly flipped a hand and