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THE KNOTS TWISTING in Gordon’s belly unraveled as he cruised downtown Mapleton. A group of kids playing soccer in the square paused and waved. The feeling these were his people washed over him. What the hell. He parked, got out of the vehicle. Any anonymity he’d been trying to achieve abandoned, he strolled over to watch the game. He’d changed into his standard uniform, but he figured at least half the town recognized him as chief.
He stood on the sidelines, offering encouragement as the kids moved the ball up and down the field. An impromptu game, judging from the lack of uniforms or even matching colors. And no coach.
When a wayward kick sent the ball his way, he rolled it back.
“Can you play?” a boy, about six, Gordon estimated, called. “We need one more on our team.”
“I’m not dressed for soccer,” Gordon said. “What about her?” He pointed to where a pigtailed girl had been watching the game, her body language shouting she wanted to be part of it.
“She’s a girl,” another kid—a little older, taller, and carrying more bulk—said.
“What does that matter?” Gordon stepped a little closer, waved the girl over. “If she can do the job, whether she’s a boy or girl doesn’t matter. Girls can be doctors, airline pilots, soldiers, or police officers—almost anything.”
The boy shrugged. “I guess. But if we lose, it’ll be her fault.”
“Soccer’s a team sport,” Gordon said. “Everyone has to pitch in. It’s never one person’s fault.”
Gordon held out his hands for the ball, and the boy begrudgingly tossed it to him. “Maybe,” the kid said.
The kids took their positions, and Gordon tossed the ball into the mix. There was a mad scramble, but very soon, the new girl on the team had commandeered the ball, run it downfield, and scored.
Gordon grinned, waved his farewells, and strolled along the shopfronts, stopping to chat with the owners, clerks, and customers. Back to his beat cop roots.
Twenty minutes later, he settled into the cruiser, body cameras working their way to the front of his brain. Nothing he’d seen warranted documentation. Some departments required officers to have their cameras running from start to end of shift. He’d learned that wasn’t a hard and fast rule across departments.
The cruiser Dispatch had assigned him was the one Jost had mentioned. Over a hundred thousand miles on the odometer, and although all units were serviced regularly, this one should have been retired two years ago. Hearing Jost complain didn’t have the impact of getting behind the wheel. There were two other units in only slightly better shape.
Dammit. He’d left the office to get away from Chief Stuff, and here he was, worrying about the budget again. He let Dispatch know he was going to patrol the sector around Aspen Lake, and pointed the vehicle in that direction.
On the way, he clocked a blue Ridgeline pickup doing twenty-two over the limit. He punched the truck’s plate into the computer and results showed no red flags. Registered to one Paul Chan, address in Westminster. Gordon reported what he was doing to Dispatch, then flashed his lightbar and the pickup immediately slowed. There was a wide spot in the shoulder fifty yards ahead, and the driver pulled over and stopped.
Gordon got out of his vehicle and walked to the Ridgeline, automatically touching the pickup’s rear brake light, leaving his prints in case anything went south. He approached the passenger’s side, noting the driver, an Asian male, had his hands on the wheel in plain sight.
The behavior of someone who’d been stopped before. Gordon, his heart rate accelerating the way it always did at a traffic stop, followed procedure, asked for license and registration.
“My registration is in the glove compartment,” the man said. “Also, I have a handgun there. With my concealed carry permit.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Leave the gun where it is. Just license and registration will be fine.” Gordon released the catch on his holster and watched the man’s hands as he pulled out a black pouch, opened it, and extracted the vehicle’s registration. When the man dropped the pouch on the passenger seat and closed the glove box, Gordon’s heart rate slowed.
The man hoisted a hip, pulled out his wallet and displayed his license.
“Please remove it,” Gordon said.
Chan passed both items out the rolled-down window.
“Please wait a few minutes.” Backing away, Gordon took both documents to his cruiser and confirmed the license was valid. In his vehicle, he ran Chan’s license through the DMV. Eight speeding tickets in the last two years, all paid up. He relayed the information to Dispatch.
Issuing Chan a citation would wreak havoc with what had to be hefty insurance premiums. Gordon returned to the Ridgeline, handed Chan his license and registration. “Mr. Chan, I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, but for your own safety, keep an eye on your speedometer. The next stretch of road snakes around. Lots of tight turns, and I’d hate to see you get into an accident.”
A relieved smile spread across Chan’s face as he accepted his papers. “Thank you, Officer. I was supposed to meet someone at the Lakeview Lodge, and I was running late.”
“Better to arrive late and in one piece than be carried off in an ambulance.” Gordon backed away, watched as Chan started his vehicle and drove off at a reasonable speed.
In his cruiser, Gordon let Dispatch know all was well. A routine traffic stop that had turned out to be a routine traffic stop. Gordon admitted his mind had gone straight to body cameras as he’d approached the Ridgeline, a new thought process.
What if Chan had pulled his gun from his glove compartment?
That’s why you wear a vest. A body cam won’t protect you, it’ll just record what happened.
Gordon made a circuit of Aspen Lake, noting three men fishing from shore, two others from boats. Kids enjoying the warm weather, splashing, and using the rope swing amid shrieks of a mixture of terror and glee—a feeling Gordon recalled all too well. A peaceful day in Mapleton.
By three, he was at his desk again, a flat Fed-Ex envelope sitting in his inbox. He buzzed Laurie, let her know he was back, asked for his messages.
“Deflected all but two, Chief. They’re in your voicemail.”
He checked. Both routine. One from Jack Darrow reporting he’d counseled Harvey Stanton, and Harvey promised to be more diligent. The other from a sales rep pushing parking meters that took credit cards. Gordon replied to Jack with a quick thank you. Another quick call to convince the sales rep that nothing could be done over the phone, and he’d be smarter to take it up with the mayor’s office. He gave the rep the phone number and hung up.
That done, he reached for the FedEx envelope. Express delivery. Gordon found his readers and slipped them on. Label said it came from an address in Pine Hills, Oregon.
Curious, Gordon pulled the tab and shook out the contents, a simple number ten envelope addressed to him as Chief of Police. Return address was the same as the outer packet. He’d never heard of the city. Probably an invitation to another police conference. One he had no budget for. One whoever was organizing thought using FedEx would make it appear more important.
Before Gordon slit the envelope, Solomon barged in, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Chief. We have news.”