Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

guy we’re after, he’ll be counting on me being too dumb to figure it out, and if that fails, a first-class lawyer to get him off. Tyler will be waiting for us at five thirty, highly indignant at having his life disrupted. I’ll walk to your mother’s place. Be ready to go to Tyler’s at five twenty. Jim, call me if Tyler calls earlier, but I doubt he’ll be considerate enough to let us know when he’s free.”
    Winters stepped back to allow a woman through the door. Her deep black hair clashed with the network of heavy lines running across her face. She wore a pink and green shorts and T-shirt set and a straw hat with a pink band. She carried a small white dog under her right arm and waved a piece of paper in her left hand. An indignant dog owner fined for bringing her pet into town. Tourists were usually let off with a warning, but Dorothy Blanchard insisted on breaking the law, and at least once a week she marched into the station, waving her ticket in the air, pretending she’d never seen such a thing before.
    “Can I help you, madam?” Denton said, pretending he’d never seen her before. Smith made her escape.
    The constable’s room was, as always, a jumble of coffee cups, pop cans, papers, and computer equipment. A stack of binders on top of a bookcase threatened to tumble onto the floor. Someone’s dry cleaning, a dress uniform wrapped in plastic, hung on a filing cabinet. The TV mounted high on the wall showed the front door—where nothing was happening. The office was empty, as usual. Constables were expected to be out on the road, using the computers in their cars, not leaning back in chairs, feet up.
    The window looked out onto George Street. Sunlight and dust mites performed a waltz in the air. Smith pulled up a chair and logged onto a computer, thinking about Winters’ interview with her mother. Time was, she’d heard, Lucky Smith wouldn’t have given a police officer the time of day. But Lucky had mellowed with the years, and the times, as her hair lost its fiery red and her face settled into lines of responsibility, and Molly Smith was sure, well, as sure as she could be, that her mother would do what she could to answer Sergeant Winters’ questions.
    She called the Vancouver Police, identified herself, and asked to be put through to Inspector Rose Benoit. A surprisingly strong New York accent answered on voice mail. Smith left her message and disconnected.
    Christa. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she’d forgotten. Again. She dialed Christa’s cell. The phone rang four times before it was answered.
    “Mol, is that you?”
    “Sorry I missed you, Chris, but I got called away. I hoped you’d wait for me,” Smith lied.
    “I understand you’re busy. What with such an important job and all. But so am I, you know. I can’t hang around waiting for you all day. I have to get back to my essay. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever done. I’ll send it to you when it’s finished and you or your mom can check it over before I submit it.”
    “Come back. I’m here, at the station, and we’ll get the restraining order started.”
    “No, thanks Molly, but I’ve heard that restraining orders are useless anyway. Ideas are filling my head, and I have to get them down before they decide that I’m not interested in them and fly away.”
    “Chris, please. Let us help.”
    “You know what I’m going to treat myself to? Butter chicken with dhal and rice. Just the thing for an all-nighter, finishing up that essay. Look for it in your inbox tomorrow, Mol.”
    “You’re making a mistake, Chris, and if I could tie you up and stuff you in the back of the cruiser and drag you here, I would. But as I can’t, enjoy your dinner. Call me if you need anything.”
    “You’ll be there, right, Mol? Like you were an hour ago when that fat cop told me you’d left and he didn’t know when you’d be back.”
    “That’s not fair.” But Smith knew that it was perfectly fair. She’d failed Christa. Again. “I was out on a call.”
    “A more important call than me. Hey, I understand. I still expect you to edit my paper. Bye.”
    The dial tone rang in Smith’s ear.
    ***
    At first glance Lucky Smith looked nothing like her daughter. The Smith Winters knew was tall, slender, a pale blue-eyed blond. The mother was short and plump. Her curly red hair, as fluid as a river in flood, crossed by streams of gray, flowed every which way around her head. Green eyes, a cluster of freckles spilling across