At least in Detective Regan Pescoli’s estimation.
She doubted she was alone in her viewpoint that Hooper Effin’ Blackwater, until recently, commander of the criminal department, now acting sheriff, was a poor replacement for Dan Grayson.
Then again, Grayson’s size twelve boots were damn hard to fill.
She crossed the department’s parking lot and headed for the back door. It was cold as hell, the night still lingering enough that the street lamps were just winking off, the wind fierce enough to snap the flags and rattle the chains of the poles near the front of the building.
As she walked through the department’s back door she shook the snow from her hair and brushed several melting flakes from the shoulders of her jacket before stomping whatever remained from her boots. Opening the vestibule door into the department, a wave of heat hit her full in the face, the old furnace rumbling as it worked overtime.
Already, the office was bustling with the sound of jangling phones, clicking and sputtering printers, and bits and pieces of conversation.
Unwinding her scarf, she headed past the lunchroom where some of the officers lingered, either before or after their shifts. A few straggling members from the night crew were gathering their things, having a last cup of coffee, and scanning the headlines of the latest edition of the newspaper. The morning workers were beating a path to the coffeepots already percolating on the counter, the rich aroma of some South American blend scenting the air.
Pescoli’s stomach turned a little at the thought of coffee, a morning cup she once considered one of life’s greatest pleasures. A cup of black coffee and a cigarette, what could be better? Now, of course, she indulged in neither, at least nothing with a jolt of caffeine in it. And zero nicotine.
A shame, really.
Sometimes being healthy and a role model to her children was a major pain in the ass.
Speaking of pains, she returned her thoughts back to the man in charge of the department, if only for the time being. The change didn’t sit well, nor did sipping a caffeine-free Diet Coke. It just didn’t hit the spot, but she dealt with it. She had to.
Because, surprise, surprise she was pregnant.
Again.
The baby was unplanned.
Again.
Would she never learn?
Bypassing the lunchroom, she nearly collided with Joelle Fisher, the department’s receptionist and head cheerleader, at least in her own mind.
Bustling toward the cafeteria in pink, impossibly high heels that matched her suit and the little heart-shaped earrings dangling from her earlobes, Joelle caught herself before tripping. “Excuse me, Detective,” she said a little sharply, her voice accented by the staccato rhythm of her footsteps. Balancing a huge white box that no doubt held dozens of cookies or cupcakes, she was, as always, in a hurry. Her platinum hair was piled into a high beehive, not a single strand waving as she moved with lightning speed toward the lunchroom.
It was Joelle’s mission to ensure every member of the force was filled to the brim with whatever holiday goodies were in season. From her great-great-great-grandmother’s recipe for fruitcake at Christmas, to the “witch’s tarts” she created for Halloween, Joelle ensured that each officer of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department had his or her sweet tooth satisfied and blood sugar levels elevated.
Maybe all those sweets were a good thing. She had to be around sixty, but she appeared a full decade younger, despite her nod to 1960s fashion.
“I’m . . . I’m not drunk,” a loud voice insisted from around the corner. “Ya hear me? Damn Breathalyzer is broke, I tell ya! Issus . . . it’s who? Ten in the morning?”
“A little after eight, Ivor.” Deputy Kayan Rule’s voice was firm. “Time to sober up.”
“But I am . . . I am sh . . . sober. I’m tellin’ ya.”
“You’ve told me a lot of things. Let’s go.” Just as Pescoli reached her office she caught a glimpse of Rule, a tall black man who looked more like an NBA power forward than a county road deputy, shepherding a cuffed and unhappy Ivor Hicks to the drunk tank.
“Bastard!” Hicks said angrily.
Pescoli had no love for the man or any member of his family; in fact she had a personal, deep-seated loathing for Ivor’s son, but she tried not to think about that particular nut job. Nonetheless, her skin crawled as Ivor was shepherded along the hallways.
“You’ll get yours,” Ivor predicted with some kind of sanctimonious malice, the joy being his ability to predict Rule’s dire future. From behind thick, owlish glasses, he glared at the deputy. “Mark my words. That son of a bitch, Crytor? He’ll get you, y’know. Damn general of that pod, he’ll come for you like he did for me. And he’ll plant a damn invisible chip in you, too!”
“He’ll have to stand in line. I’ve got lots of folks out to get me,” Rule said and tossed Pescoli a what’re-ya-gonna-do look. Then he guided tipsy Ivor Hicks, still ranting about the leader of the army of reptilian aliens he’d believed had abducted him, around a corner at the end of the hall. Ivor was convinced that the extraterrestrials had done a vast array of medical experiments on him years before and that his memories of the terrifying event had nothing to do with his fondness for whiskey.
Just a normal day at the office.
As they passed out of sight, Pescoli stepped into her office and stripped off her jacket and scarf. Outside it was freezing, a raging storm from Canada passing through, but inside the building, the heat was almost stifling. The temperature was set above seventy and in Pescoli’s current state, the department felt like a sauna. She was sweating by the time she kicked out her desk chair and sat at her computer.