Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

waiting for the next big political protest. They’d held hands as they jumped over the corpses of giant trees—refugees from logging camps, scattered on the beach—and splashed barefoot in the icy surf.
    The happiest day of her life.
Come back to the moment.
Duncan wasn’t Graham, and she wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
    An obese man was sitting on a bar stool beside the person Duncan was talking to, blocking her view. He climbed down from his seat and lumbered away, and Smith had a clear look at the man talking to Duncan.
    Claude Derochiers. Well known troublemaker, small time thief, all-around pest. What would a minor criminal like Derochiers have to talk about with Duncan?
    Stop right there, Smith. You are not working and even if you were, who Duncan talks to in a crowded bar is not grounds for suspicion.
Even a scumbag like Derochiers might have friends, family.
    Duncan shoved Derochiers in the chest, hard, and walked away. Okay, maybe not friends.
    Derochiers tossed a bill on the counter and left. He didn’t look toward Smith, sitting quietly in the corner.
    “Ready to go?” Duncan smiled down at her.
    “I am. It’s been a long week.” She unhooked her bag from the back of the chair.
    The street was quiet as they walked toward the truck. “What’s happening with the peace garden business?” Duncan asked, slipping his hand into hers and giving it a squeeze.
    “Once the American TV guy left town, and Brian Harris and Robyn Goodhaugh were tucked away in custody, the fuss died down. With no one to stoke them up, and the town keeping mum on their decision, a lot of the outsiders left.”
    “So, it’s over.”
    “Not at all. The council delayed announcing their decision, but they have to do so someday. We’re hoping they can spit it out without making too much of a fuss. If we’re lucky there’ll be a major news story breaking at the same time. Maybe Brad Pitt’ll come after Angelina Jolie with a hatchet, and our town’s troubles won’t get much coverage.”
    “I’m sorry I missed the demonstration. I saw you on TV. You looked wonderful.”
    “You couldn’t even tell it was me.”
    “I knew it was you, Molly.”
    She pulled her hand out of his on the pretext of straightening her hair. “Isn’t it a lovely night?”
    And it was. The sky was clear, but there was no moon. Stars danced on the river like diamonds tossed onto a black velvet cape. From somewhere up in the mountains a wolf howled. It might have been a dog, but she preferred to think of it as a wolf. A pinprick of white light moved across the sky, a small plane, alone in the darkness.
    Duncan flicked the remote to open the doors of the truck, and Smith got in. He put the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it. Silence enveloped them.
    “Wanna come back to my place,” he said at last, watching the slow-moving river, “for coffee or something?”
    She’d been debating all night what to do if the question were asked. Should she? He seemed like a nice guy; he obviously liked her very much. He wasn’t Graham. But Graham, she reminded herself, was dead. Graham would want her to be happy.
    “Coffee’d be nice.” She ran a finger across the mound of her left breast.
    “Great.” He threw the truck into gear and backed out of the parking bay with unseemly haste. Good thing a car wasn’t coming.
    “Can we stop off at your place first?”
    “Why?”
    He pushed the truck up to the speed limit and kept his foot on the gas. They hurtled toward the bridge leading out of town. A black shape against the black sky.
    “I’d like you to get your gun.”
    “What?”
    “Maybe not the gun. I bet the department frowns on that sort of thing. But if you could put on the belt, it would look super with that blouse. And the handcuffs, bring the handcuffs.”

Chapter Thirty-one
    A small blue Japanese compact leaned on its horn as Duncan left the bridge and turned far too widely into the turn.
    “Sounds like a plan.” A bucket of cold water dumped on Smith’s early, hesitant stirrings of ardor. She tried to throw her voice low, sexy, interested in his suggestion. At least he was taking her home. Whereupon she’d run into the house and lock the doors and set Sylvester on him.
    They drove down the dark highway, river on the right, mountain on the left. Smith looked in the passenger side mirror to see the lights of town fading into the distance.
    “Get the truncheon, and the boots,” Duncan