Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

disapproval he was already sick of.
    “I’ve edited out the details of the guy throwing the bomb,” Greg said. “We can make it look like it came from anywhere.”
    “Too late. CBC got footage and aired it this morning. ABC stations in Washington picked it up. There, for all to see, is my goddamned war hero’s son tossing a Molotov cocktail at a little old lady, of all things, and being taken down by a female cop who could be making good money as a stripper.”
    Meredith’s mouth pinched. “I don’t think….”
    “I told you I don’t care what you fucking think.”
    “Never mind him, Meredith,” Greg said. “Rich cares about the integrity of his program so much that he sometimes gets overemotional. He doesn’t mean to insult you.”
    “Yeah, I noticed.”
    Two young women, pushing strollers and carrying coffee cups, approached. Rich glared at them. They looked at Rich. Once they’d passed they turned to each other and laughed. He wanted to strangle the both of them. His interview with Lucky Smith’s daughter had been an abject failure. It had been a mistake, a big mistake, to air even part of it. He’d hoped to get her in a mellow mood, a nice lunch with an old friend, so she’d confide on camera that her mother’s group was a major headache for the forces of law and order. Then he could play up the idea that the police and people of Trafalgar needed help with these troublemakers. Instead the cop bolted and he’d insulted her mother. Irene, his assistant, called him the moment the segment finished to tell him he’d come across not only as a bully, but, worse, a bad interviewer.
    “What do you suggest we do now?” Greg’s tone indicated that he didn’t much care one way or the other. He had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was take the pictures.
    Rich said nothing. There was nothing he could do. Except go back to California with his tail between his legs.
    “Take us back to the hotel, Meredith, then book us on the first flight out.”
    “You know what, Rich? I’m not your secretary. Make your own bookings. I’ll drop you back in town. If you need a ride to the airport, the hotel runs a shuttle.” She turned to Greg. “I have enough problems of my own, if I’m gonna make my boss forget that I almost sold out this town for that jackass.”
    Rich Ashcroft could have said a lot of things. He could make a big fuss, throw his weight around, and crush the girl reporter from the
Daily Gazette
under his heel. Instead he got back into the car. He’d screwed up here; he had bigger battles to face back at the network. Irene had told him that the young hotdog the network brought in to cover the rest of the program while Rich was away was proving to be very popular with women aged thirty to forty-five, Rich’s prime demographic.

Chapter Thirty
    Lucky Smith sat in the comfy armchair in the living room. Her book lay open on her lap, but she hadn’t read a word for at least fifteen minutes. She could hear Moonlight moving about overhead, getting ready to go out. They’d scarcely spoken the last couple of days, and this morning, when Lucky used the family computer, she’d seen that Moonlight had been looking up apartments for rent.
    She buried her nose into the book as she heard the
tap, tap
of heels coming down the stairs.
    “Whatcha reading, Mom?”
    Lucky looked up, as if surprised to hear a voice. “
Collapse
. It’s a warning about what happens to civilizations that exceed their limits.”
    “Sounds like a barrel of laughs. Duncan should be here any minute.” Moonlight looked stunning in low-rise jeans with a wide belt and a deeply cut, spaghetti-strapped, purple satin shirt. Her shoes were sandals with straps as thin as dental floss and skyscraper heels. A small black bag was tossed over her shoulder. Light from the reading lamp threw golden sparks into her hair, falling loose around her shoulders.
    Lucky swallowed a lump in her throat, put the book down, and stood up. She walked toward her daughter and wrapped her arms around her. Moonlight smelled of vanilla hand cream and the locally made soap she loved. She rested her chin on the top of her mother’s head.
    “I hate it when you do that,” Lucky said. “It makes me feel small and insignificant.”
    “Like anyone you’ve ever met has found you insignificant,” Moonlight said.
    The headlights of a car flooded the room. Sylvester ran to the door, barking. Lucky stepped back. “I can’t imagine why Duncan drives that