2

“DEPUTY COMMISSIONER’S LOOKING FOR YOU,” said Martha, her eyes avoiding him.

Garrett stopped in front of her desk. “As you can clearly see, I’m not here.”

“He said to be sure to tell you that you were here and that you should get your F-ing blank the F up to his office.” There was a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“I assume he did not actually say, ‘F-ing.’”

“He was more colorful, but a demure, overeducated, highly trained personal assistant is not aware of the meaning of such language.”

“You are all of those things except the first, Martha.” He sighed. “Thanks.”

He took the stairs two at a time, satisfied that the effort produced no discernible limp, nodded at two officers, and presented himself at his boss’s door.

Alton Tuttle had been Deputy Commissioner for six years. He was the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Commanding Officer in Nova Scotia, known as “H” division. In Halifax, as in many municipalities outside of Ontario and Quebec, the RCMP was hired on a contract basis to provide police services in rural areas. Recently, local police commissioners had been considering ending the relationship, giving local RCMP officers the option of transferring to the municipal force. The business had been controversial and was one reason Garrett had decided to retire. He despised the bureaucratic runaround.

Tuttle sat at his desk, unlit cigar in his mouth, head buried behind a stack of files. He was in his mid-fifties and wore a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, the shirt tight across his bulging abdomen. He’d been a muscular high school wrestling champion three years running. But the years sitting at a desk had taken a toll.

“Nice of you to drop by,” he said.

“Martha said you wanted to see me … in somewhat more colorful terms. I figured you wanted to rehash things again,” Garrett replied in a tired voice. “Frankly, it’s all been said. I’m on my way out, Alton. You know that. Twenty years on the Halifax force is enough. I’m tired of people who can do this sort of stuff to young girls. I’m tired of people who can do this sort of stuff to me. My retirement, my garden, and my boat await me.”

Tuttle scowled at him. “Damned if I can understand young officers these days. You’re forty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. Most experienced sex crimes officer I’ve got and you want to hang it up while you’re still in diapers.” He spat the cigar onto the desk, where it spun around, stuck to a piece of paper, and slowly began to spread a brown stain. “The guy who invented pensions ought to be shot. What the hell are you going to do with yourself—grow pansies all day?”

It was an old conversation, one Garrett had no interest in rehashing. Besides, he didn’t much care for pansies. He also wasn’t a young officer. His title was Special Constable with expertise in prostitution. The nature of the job allowed him to go without uniform, working primarily undercover.

Seeing there would be no reply, the Deputy Commissioner sat back in his chair. “I’m going to make one more effort with you, Barkhouse,” he said. “What you need is a break from the big city. Get back to the hinterlands—use your damn boat too, if you want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Misery Bay.” Tuttle scratched himself.

Something clicked in the back of Garrett’s head. He’d grown up outside the little coastal village. The memories that flooded back were good, but he hadn’t returned since his parents had died six years ago. He kept up by reading the Eastern Shore Chronicle—who died, who got married, who was lost at sea. Lately, the papers had taken on a more sinister tone—coastal smuggling, illegal immigrants funneled into prostitution, bales of drugs washing up on the shore and in fishermen’s nets.

“I gather from that wistful look on your face, you’ve followed what’s been going on in the old hometown,” Tuttle said. “We’ve got Halifax pretty well buttoned up, but crime is like one of those dolls you push over and it bounces back. One of the places it’s bounced back lately is Misery Bay. I want you to go down there, establish a police presence. Place is too small for an official headquarters, but you’ll have full cooperation of the RCMP and Coast Guard.”

Garrett stared at him. Retirement had not been an easy decision. As tired as he was of the city grind, the truth was he feared being bored more than just about anything. He wasn’t at all sure he could survive simply fishing off his boat every day, puttering in the garden, and staring out to sea from the deck in the evening. Alton had a nasty smirk on his face, and he realized his boss had been planning this for some time.

“There’s a woman down there by the name of Sarah Pye.” Tuttle found his cigar, picked it up, and stuck it back in the corner of his mouth. “Her husband had his own private investigation business. We hired him to do some undercover work for us. Locals got wind of it and set him up. Planted heroin in their house. Everyone knew it was a setup but the proof was there and he got two years in prison. He was killed while he was inside.”

Garrett whistled. “Never heard a thing about it.”

“We kept it as quiet as we could. But things are out of control down there. The good citizens, few as they are, have been raising a stink and demanding we station an officer in the town. You’re it.”

“You can’t order me to do this, Alton. I’m retiring.”

“It’s your hometown, Garrett. You know the people. You going to throw them to the wolves?”