Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

number.
    “Sorry to wake you, Paul,” he said to the low grumble.
    “You find whoever got Montgomery, John?”
    “Not yet, I’m sorry to say. It’s something else.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Smith. I can’t work with her. I need someone with more experience. I’m sure she’s a competent beat cop, but for a detective, she’s just too green. Leaps to conclusions all over the place, offers her opinion where it isn’t wanted, speaks to civilians out of turn. She’ll be no good on an investigation until she learns a thing or two on the streets.”
    “She’s been no help at all?”
    “She does have some local knowledge which proved useful. But there must be more experienced constables who’ve been here for a while.”
    “Are you sure you’re not mistaking enthusiasm for incompetence? You must remember what it was like to be young and eager.”
    “I’m not that old.”
    “You’re as old as me, John. And in this job, that’s old. If you think Molly’s not up to it, I’ll put her back on the street. But it’s only been a few hours. And I don’t have anyone else who’s truly local. This could turn out to be a political incident. And I don’t mean political in terms of the Trafalgar town council. International attention’s been focused on the peace garden. Why these old lefties have to cling to the past, I don’t know. The sixties ended forty years ago, time they got over it. Don’t get me wrong, I worked with Tom Maas for many years: he was a good man. I respected his commitment to this town, and I like to think he respected mine. But when he died, I’d hoped that would be the end of this stupid idea. And Montgomery looked like the man to lay the garden thing in its grave.”
    Winters dug in the fridge for the milk carton. He shook it—empty. Eliza’s skill in the kitchen had never been one of the pillars of their marriage. “I understand that, Paul. But what’s this to do with Smith?”
    “Molly’s mother is one of the leading forces behind the park. Everyone who has the slightest interest in seeing the Commemorative Peace Garden become a reality has passed through their house. Lucy Smith, a.k.a. Lucky, is also involved with a group opposed to the Grizzly Resort, Montgomery’s place. Lucky and her husband, Andy, own Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, which happens to be located a couple of doors down from where Montgomery met his death.”
    With milk out of the picture, orange juice would have to do. Winters drank it straight from the carton. “You want Smith to spy on her parents?”
    “Certainly not. She’ll be able to take you straight to the unofficial center of local politics, that’s all I’m saying.”
    Winters eyed his half-finished sandwich. If he continued to insist that he didn’t want to work with Molly Smith, Paul Keller would replace her. But he was getting strong signals from the Chief Constable that he didn’t want that to happen. And despite Keller’s insistence that he wanted Smith involved because of her local knowledge, Winters wondered if he expected her to rat out her parents, if that became necessary. Smith was ambitious; was she that ambitious?
    “Okay, I’ll give it another couple of days. Maybe I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow, and all of this political shit won’t matter. The wife might be worth looking at—I can’t see her doing the deed herself, but she has some proclivities that might lead somewhere.”
    “That would be good, John. Close to home—a nice neat domestic incident.”
    Winters’ finger moved to disconnect the call; the tinny voice called him back. “Sorry, Paul, I missed that.”
    “Do whatever you can to keep media attention away. We haven’t had a murder here in more than twelve months. If this turns out to be a domestic, it won’t look as bad as a political.”
    “I hear you.” Winters hung up. Small-town politics. Not much different than the big city, after all. Maybe a bit worse—after all, the stakes were so much smaller. He made a quick call to the voice mail of a friend from his days on the Vancouver PD to request a peek into the state of Montgomery’s business, finished his orange juice, and went to join his wife in bed. Perhaps she’d not be too deeply asleep and he could still salvage something out of their twenty-fifth anniversary.
    ***
    Smith pulled off her uniform and put on jeans and a T-shirt. She’d love to take her Glock, go around to Charlie’s place and blast a few holes in his knees. That would