Joan Kilby - Protecting Her Son

Another squad car pulled up. Crucek and Jackson climbed out.

“Take a break.” Crucek jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re white as paste. Thought you would have seen worse in Afghanistan.”

Riley started to protest then gave up and walked to the Holden where Paula and the paramedics had congregated. The medics were loading the unconscious driver onto a gurney. His hair was stringy and lank, his emaciated arms covered from shoulder to wrist in tattoos. He had the sallow, unhealthy look of an addict.

“Alive?” Riley asked one of the paramedics.

“Barely.”

“Are you taking blood samples? Testing for alcohol and drugs.”

“I can tell you right now he’s using.” The paramedic nodded to the track marks on the driver’s arms.

Paula held up a used syringe between gloved fingers. “This goes to the lab for analysis. Somehow I don’t think the guy’s injecting insulin. And I want this car back at the station so we can search it properly.” She unclipped the radiophone on her vest and pressed buttons. “Patty, get a tow truck out here.”

She turned to Riley. “Hey, rookie, are you okay? You seem like you’re about to faint.”

He tried to pull himself together. He and Paula were supposed to be equal partners but he’d just behaved like the greenest recruit who’d ever thrown up at an accident scene while she had effortlessly taken control and directed operations. He had no problem with women being in the police force or in command. He did have a problem with himself looking like a pansy ass.

Protecting people was what he did. If he couldn’t do that, who was he?

“I’m fine,” he growled. “Just a touch of sun.”

* * *

IN THE PARKING LOT behind the police station Paula popped the trunk on the blue Holden. From the interior of the car came the sound of cloth ripping as Riley tore apart the backseat. Simon Peterson was on a dolly underneath, shining a flashlight into crevices.

The direct afternoon sun turned the pavement and brick building into a recipe for heatstroke. Paula barely noticed she was perspiring. Finding that syringe had given her a rush of adrenaline. Mentally she ran through the illicit injectable drugs—speed, heroin, crack cocaine…

Finally she was involved in a task she’d been trained for, a potential drug investigation. This could be her break-out opportunity, a chance to shine, to earn her detective stripes, budget constraints or no.

She stuck her head inside the trunk, letting her eyes adjust to the shaded cavity. It was loaded with junk—oily rags, empty black garbage bags, a pair of worn leather boots and a stack of tattered men’s magazines. Her hands protected by gloves, she threw these items onto a large tarp spread on the pavement.

An ancient first-aid kit was tucked at the rear of the trunk. She opened that and pulled out rolled bandages and dressings encased in yellowing paper. She threw them on the tarp, too.

Paula wiped the sweat dripping down her neck with the back of her hand and called to Riley. “Find anything?”

“Not yet,” came his muffled reply.

With everything out of the trunk the stained mat lining looked lumpy. Paula tried to lift it. The clips holding it down were rusted shut on one side. The other side of the mat was stuck beneath the spare tire. She pulled on the tire. It was wedged in tightly. Bracing her foot against the bumper, she hauled on it harder.

Riley backed out of the car, his hair mussed, a smear of dirt across one cheek. “Need a hand?”

“Nope.” With a grunt she gave a final tug. “Got it.” She staggered backward. The tire flew out of her hands, bounced across the tarmac. Something fell out—a plastic bag half full of white crystals. “Jackpot.”

Riley walked over and picked up the bag. He opened it, tasted a bit and grimaced. “This ain’t no coffee sugar. It’s crystal meth.”

Crystal methamphetamine. Her skin prickled. Nick Moresco had built an empire around this drug.

Paula tore the trunk liner away. Approximately two dozen plastic bags of crystal meth were lined up in neat rows, flattened to avoid detection.

Riley whistled. “We’ve got ourselves a dealer.”

Peterson, a skinny twenty-two-year-old with pimply skin, asked more eagerly than was seemly, “Do you think he’s local?”

“We’ve never seen this junk in Summerside before.” Riley gestured to a peeling bumper sticker. “But Bayside Holden is in Frankston.”

Paula felt the heat now. She wiped her forehead again. It was clammy. Moresco was fresh out of jail. Hard drugs had come to town. Her town. Where she lived and worked, where Jamie went to school.

Coincidence, or something more sinister? Suddenly light-headed, she bent over, her hands on her knees.

“Hey, what is it?” Riley gripped her shoulder. “You okay?”

“It’s frickin’ déjà vu,” she mumbled.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“It’s the heat.” She tried to suck in a breath. Spots danced before her eyes. If those bags of crystal meth were Nick’s doing…

She dug deep and found the resolve to straighten her spine. If the drugs were his doing, he would be caught and punished. “Let’s get these bags logged and put in the evidence room.”

More paperwork. At least it took her mind off Moresco. It was after five o’clock before she and Riley had filed the last report. She pushed away from the computer. “I’m beat.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Riley suggested. “Have you tried the ice cream on the corner yet?”

“Not yet.” Ice cream. Cold, sweet, tempting. The man doing the offering was sexy, smart and strong.

Wouldn’t it be nice to do something simple like go for ice cream with a man she was not only attracted to but beginning to like and respect? But her life wasn’t simple. And Riley had never given the slightest indication he’d like to hang with her after work. He had to have an agenda. And she suspected she knew what it was.

“I have to pick up Jamie.” She made a show of checking her watch.

“Fifteen minutes.” He gave her a disarming smile. “My treat.”

Might as well get this over with. She put in a quick call to Sally to let her know she’d be there by six at the latest. No problem according to Sally. Jamie was happily playing with another little boy in her care.

Outside the station Riley turned into the arcade that led through to the main street. In the narrow shadowed lane she was more aware than usual of his sheer physicality. His height and the breadth of his shoulders were accentuated. His stride seemed longer, his demeanor relaxed but alert.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” Riley asked. “Chocolate, vanilla, rocky road…?”

“Pistachio.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by the ice cream they choose,” he confided, his head tilted toward her.

“Bull.” He was softening her up. Even knowing that, she grinned, fascinated.

“You have a taste for the exotic. You’re not afraid to be different. You don’t care what people think of you as long as you do what you believe is right.”

“You’re making this up.”

His dark eyes danced. “Am I wrong?”

Not entirely, but she wasn’t going to give him that. “What’s your favorite flavor?”

“I have no favorite. I love them all.”

“Ah, you’re a commitment-phobe. You flit from ice cream to ice cream.”

“No, I’m a man who keeps his options open.”

“Same thing.” She gave him a nudge, her bare elbow making contact with the damp cotton of his shirt, and below the cloth, his rib cage.

Teasing felt surprisingly good. The moment would be fleeting so she allowed herself to relax and enjoy for a change. The scorching heat of the day had died, leaving the air pleasantly warm as the shadows lengthened. They strolled down the sidewalk, Riley nodding and greeting people as they passed.