(I)
Chief Sutter was
looking at Pam’s legs as he pretended to write up his daily
operating report. He needed diversion—from the very loud fact that
people in his town were suddenly dying
right and left—and Pam’s legs provided this necessary diversion and
then some. Pam was a local cutie whom he’d hired as the
department’s radio dispatcher and office manager. She was great at
both jobs, so the fact that she had a body that could start a riot
in a monastery maximized her purpose in the office. She made for a
positive working environment, and that was important to
hardworking, overstressed police officers, wasn’t it?
Trey sat at the
opposite desk, pretending to go over the county blotter, and he,
too, seemed to be musing over Pam’s legs as she sat at her own
desk, typing. The legs, by the way, could be described as coltish.
Long and lean, well toned without being “muscular”—ultimate legs as
far as men were concerned. The rest of her was equally flawless:
trim and curvy; alert, prominent-nippled breasts; and a tight,
to-die-for little butt. Short auburn hair framed a cute little
angel face with bright hazel eyes. Any male sexist slob’s
archetypical meat for a spectacular daydream: the total office
package.
Sutter seethed to
himself when she suddenly crossed her legs. The delectable—and
tiny—triangle of fabric shouted at him. Fuck,
she’s wearin’ a T-back. Just what I need . . .
Then she got up to
take something to the file room. The chief’s eyes riveted to the
shifting little butt in the tight blue-jean miniskirt, then slid
down to the legs. All that tight, fresh, tan skin seemed to glimmer
beneath fishnet stockings. Her high heels ticked across the floor
until they disappeared.
Trey was shaking his
head. “Jesus, Chief. Those are some damn fine walkin’ sticks on
her, ain’t they? Wouldn’t mind havin’ ’em wrapped around my head
for an hour or three.”
Sutter shot a
reproving scowl. “Is there anytime when your mind ain’t in the trash can, Trey? That happens to be
our employee you’re lustin’ after.”
Trey grinned,
slapping his knees. “Chief, you practically been droolin,’ lookin’
at those gams for the last twenty minutes.”
“I have not,” he
insisted. “And shut up. We need to be thinkin’ on what we gotta do
about this drug business in Squatterville.”
“Not much we can do.
State narcs are investigatin’.”
“Yeah, but this is
our town, Trey. So maybe some a’ this
is our fault.”
“How do ya
figure?”
“All these years we
took it for granted that Squatterville’s crime-free. Maybe if we’d
had a better presence out there, none a’ this would have
happened.”
“Horseshit. People
turn to scum because it’s their time. We cain’t be lookin’ over
every damn shack on the Point.”
“That ain’t what I’m
sayin’. What I mean is—”
Pam came back to her
desk, the image of her legs chopping off the rest of the chief’s
remark like a carrot end. Oh, God, those legs
are killing me. . . . Just as she was sitting down, the
hazel eyes flashed at him once. Then she smiled and returned to her
work.
Jesus, save me.
He and Trey both
looked up from their desks when the bell on the station door
chimed.
It was Ricky Caudill
who strode in. He looked like he always did: slovenly, fat, not
particularly clean. But his usual cast of arrogance made no
appearance on his face today.
Instead he looked
scared.
Just as
peculiar—Sutter noticed—was the expression on Sergeant Trey’s face
upon noticing their abrupt visitor. For a split second, something
like dread washed over his face, but he quickly buried it beneath
his authoritative police veneer.
What’s with that? Sutter wondered. Was it just his
imagination?
“Well, look what the
cat drug in,” Trey said, and stood up at his desk.
Sutter was too tired,
so he didn’t bother. “What’choo want, Ricky, ‘cos the only thing
you’re gonna get here is somethin’ you don’t want: an ass kicking.”
“I wanna be locked
up,” Ricky declared from where he stood.
“You have to break
the law to be locked up,” Pam told him, surprised. “You broken the
law lately?”
“My brother’s dead,”
he said with no hesitation.
Now Sutter stood up.
“You confessin’ to murder, Ricky?”
“Hell, no. I didn’t
kill Junior.”
“Then why you wanna
be locked up?”
“ ‘Cos I want
protection from the person who did. They’ll be after me
next.”
Sutter frowned and
sat back down. “You’re drunk, Ricky. You’re talkin’ shit. Now get
out of here unless you want a big pile a’ trouble to leave
with.”
“I ain’t
drunk—”
“You smell like a
brewery,” Trey said. “I can smell it across the room.”
Ricky’s hands curled
up into frustrated fists. “I’m tellin’ ya, my brother’s been
murdered. Go to the house ‘n’ look. It was Squatters who done
it.”
Sutter stood back up.
“Go check it out,” he told Trey.
“Why don’t you check
it out, Chief? This guy can be a handful. Let me take care of
him.”
Sutter stared Trey
down. He didn’t like the innuendo here. “Go check it out. Now. I
wanna talk to this one.”
Addled, Trey grabbed
the cruiser keys and left.
“You want me to call
an ambulance?” Pam asked the chief.
“Ain’t no reason to,”
Ricky spoke up first. “My brother’s dead. Call the undertaker. But
lock me up,.”
“You’re talkin’
crazy, boy. Now you’re gonna turn around and walk out of here right
now. I’m too busy to be foolin’ around with you.”
“Lock me up,” Ricky
repeated. “Otherwise I’ll be killed.”
Sutter smirked.
“Yeah, sure, by the Squatters. So
you’re sayin’ it was Squatters who killed Junior,
huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You saw
‘em?”
“Yeah.”
Sutter pinched the
bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. “Ricky, you’re tellin’ me
you saw Squatters kill your
brother?”
“I didn’t see ‘em
do it, but one of ’em was in my house.
Everd Stanherd. He was in my house, and
it was that weirdo clan magic a’ his he used to kill Junior. And he
put a curse on me. He’ll be comin’ for me next, so’s you gotta lock
me up, Chief, for my protection. I’m beg-gin’ ya,
man.”
Sutter came around
the desk, shaking his head. “Ricky, you’re a scumbag and a
no-account loser, but I can’t lock you
up just for that. You gotta commit a crime, boy, and
unfortunately talkin’ shit ain’t a crime.”
Ricky stalled,
thinking. “Okay,” he said, then spun around, cleared Pam’s desk
with his stout forearm, and yanked her top down. Even in the midst
of the outrage, Chief’s Sutter’s eyes bulged at the beauteous
sight. Razor-sharp tan lines bordered each firm orb of flesh, and
the well-delineated nipples stuck out as if iced, plucked, and
sucked out in advance. At least Chief Sutter’s day would have one
high point.
But the rest was
certainly a low point. Pam shrieked at the assault, pushing herself
back in her chair, while Ricky stalked off and began hauling
bookshelves over. Training manuals scattered. The Virginia State Annotated Code flew across the room,
and a moment later so did the office coffeepot, which was full of
java. It shattered against the wall. Sutter’s reaction was delayed
a moment by sheer disbelief. He broke from his stance just as Ricky
now manhandled the five-gallon bottle of Polar Water out of its
stand.
“Don’t you dare, you
crazy redneck!” Chief Sutter bellowed.
Ricky shoved the
bottle across the room. It exploded spectacularly against the wall,
gushing springwater everywhere.
Sutter hauled on a
sand mitt and lunged. He was a fat man, but he was still a strong
one. Three hard belly shots with the mitt doubled Ricky over; then
a loud belt across the face sent him reeling conveniently in the
direction of the station’s three-unit jail. Ricky hit the floor
like a 250-pound pallet of sod.
“Crazy shithead!”
Sutter yelled. He doubled over himself now and grabbed Ricky’s bulk
by the belt, then began to drag him into the first cell. “You just
fucked up my office! Take me all damn day to clean this mess up! I
ain’t got time for this grab-ass bullshit!”
Ricky lay wheezing on
the cell floor. He groaned a few times, then dizzily sat up against
the wall.
“You wanted to be
locked up, you dickhead! Well, you got it!” Sutter continued to
yell. He slammed the door shut with a clang.
Cross-eyed, Ricky
grinned back at him. “Thanks, Chief,” he said.
What a fuckin’ kook! Sutter lumbered back toward
the office, frowning as he heard the phone ringing. All he wanted
to do was sit his ass down and have a nice, slow day, especially
after being up half the night at the Eald fire.
Pam’s hazel eyes
looked foreboding when he sat back down at his desk. She’d just
hung up the phone.
“Please tell me it
was a wrong number,” he pleaded.
“Sorry, Chief. It was
Trey. He needs you down at the Caudill house—says Junior’s lying in
the middle of the floor, stone-cold dead.”