The Hunk Next Door. Debra & Regan Webb & Black
Читать онлайн книгу.
She hadn’t had much of a social life since taking the top post in the Belclare police department, hesitant to set herself up for idle gossip. “Get over yourself. The positive attention is nice, but you can’t afford the distraction.”
As if on cue, her cell phone launched into “I Fought the Law,” the ringtone she’d programmed for business calls. She toggled the button on her steering wheel to answer. “Chief Jensen.”
“Hi, Chief. It’s Danny.”
“I’m ten minutes away.”
“Right. It’s just...”
She waited. He cleared his throat as worst-case scenarios danced at the edge of her mind. She would not entertain those unless and until facts forced her to do so.
Her personal life might be a haze of self-doubt and bad timing, but her career had been marked with success every step of the way. Her work ethic, common sense and focus had served her well and she wasn’t about to toss those strengths out the window.
“Spit it out, Danny.”
“The responding officers want you to know the media is already on-site.”
Damn it. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She appreciated the warning. If the media was on-site, then Mayor Scott wouldn’t be far behind. Now she was doubly grateful for choosing the suit and heels today. In her opinion, her suits made her more relatable than the uniform, especially after her hard-nosed speech had become a viral internet sensation.
As she approached the scene, she cringed at the growing crowd. Good grief. If she’d just heard, how had a news crew from Baltimore arrived so quickly? Her officers were pushing people back, but that only gave the media a better overall shot for tonight’s headlines.
It looked worse in person than it had on her phone. The Welcome to Belclare display had been altered with spray paint. The phrases “Death to Chief Jensen” and “Open season on Belclare” were now blotting out points of town pride.
The threats weren’t new, but they’d been out of the public eye. This...this was bold and obvious. It was a challenge she couldn’t ignore. “Open season on Belclare” required a careful, strategic response. How had whoever was responsible for this pulled it off without getting caught?
A reporter shoved a microphone in front of her as she went to join the responding officers. “Chief, what’s your reaction to such personal threats?”
She pushed her clenched fists deeper into her coat pockets. “The childish vandal responsible for this negative display will be found and dealt with.”
“Are there any security cameras out here that might have caught the vandal?”
Abby kept walking, refusing to acknowledge the silly question. There was a Christmas tree lot just around the next bend and nothing but trees until the sign. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my officers.” She ducked under the tape the responding officers had used to block the immediate area.
Reporters shouted at her back.
“Should the citizens of Belclare be taking more defensive action?”
“Will you shut down the city?”
“Will the Christmas Village be canceled?”
She couldn’t let that one go. She turned, ready to answer when the mayor’s voice rang out through the crisp winter air.
“This small attempt to interrupt our annual traditions is hardly cause for alarm.”
Abby couldn’t believe he was taking her side. About time, she thought.
“Chief Jensen’s—” he hesitated for three seconds “—enthusiasm has obviously created a few unpleasant ripples, but Belclare is strong and united, and determined to make this the best holiday season ever. We look forward to seeing all of you this weekend.”
Abby found herself fighting a sudden urge to silence Mayor Scott. She banished the compulsion. He was better in the media spotlight and, whether or not he believed her or agreed with her methods, ultimately they were working toward the same goal: a safe community and a safe holiday event.
She let him ramble on giving the proper sound bites that likely included a subtle invitation for other criminal justice professionals to apply for her job.
“Do we have anything?” Abby ignored her chilled feet as she listened to her officers explain what they’d found. Or rather what they hadn’t found.
“One of the vendors coming in for the weekend reported it,” said Officer Gadsden.
“Did you get a statement?”
“We did, so it helps set a time frame for the vandals.”
She stepped closer, pressed her finger to a dripping streak of paint. “Still tacky. Someone had fun during their lunch hour.” She looked to the ground. “Any hope for shoe prints?”
“No.” Officer Gadsden knelt down and Abby followed suit. “The snow’s been trampled by more than one person. Right back to the road.”
“Great.” Abby wanted to clean this up herself, right this minute. “See what you can get off any traffic cameras between here and Baltimore. And ask around Sadie’s and other restaurants. Maybe the vandals came into town for lunch.”
“You got it.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, unwilling to risk anyone in the media reading her lips. “As you take pictures, get the bystanders.” It wasn’t unusual for vandals of this sort to hang around to watch the cops scramble for answers.
“Chief Jensen!”
She turned slowly, unable to ignore the mayor’s shout. “Yes?” It was a small measure of relief that he remained on the other side of the tape. For her, the shock was seeing him alone. Victor Scott loved his entourage, whether it was his hired staff or an impromptu gathering of media professionals.
He waved her closer and she did her best to hide her distaste at the arrogant summons. Mayor Scott enjoyed the political posturing, but playing along was her least favorite, necessary part of the job. She preferred a straightforward exchange. Less chance for mixed signals or missed goals that way.
“How long until you have this cleaned up?” he demanded with his practiced concerned frown in place.
“The sign or the crime?”
“You can’t manage both?”
“Repairing the sign isn’t exactly police responsibility,” she said, clinging to her last shred of composure. “As for the vandal—” she glanced back at the damage “—we believe there was more than one person involved. There are databases with graffiti signatures and tags—”
“This criminal signed his work?” the mayor exclaimed too loudly.
“We’re not sure yet. That’s part of the problem. Or the solution,” she added, just to give him something else to focus on. “As for the sign itself, once we have our pictures it can be repainted and repaired right away.”
“No! Nooo!”
Abby and the mayor swiveled toward the pitiful wail of Mr. Filmore. When Mayor Scott rolled his eyes, she realized they shared a mutual frustration with the historical society president. It was strangely affirming.
“What now, Filmore?” With a hand on Filmore’s shoulder, the mayor stopped him from barreling into the crime scene.
“You can’t just paint that sign.”
“We can’t just leave it,” the mayor shot back.
Abby glanced at her officers, grateful they were snapping pictures of everything and everyone as she’d asked and not laughing aloud at the ridiculous debate.
“This gateway to Belclare has been meticulously maintained for over one hundred and eighty years.