Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

being put into the situation of kill or be killed?”
    “Exactly,” she said, as if she’d thought up the idea all by herself. She punched her fist into her hand. “We will stop the Grizzly Resort. Kill,” she said, as Greg zoomed in on her masked face, “or be killed.”

Chapter Seventeen
    Ron Gavin’s generous butt stuck out from the lower branches of a dense cluster of shrubbery.
    The ground, sodden from last night’s hoses, squelched beneath Smith’s boots. The park entrance was blocked off with yellow tape, and the curious and bored peered through the decorative iron railing around the property, watching the investigators work.
    “I’ve got reserve constables going door to door,” Winters said as they crossed the lawn. “Asking if anyone in the neighborhood saw anything suspicious last night. Morning, Ron.”
    Gavin got to his feet with a low moan and a hand to the small of his back. He wore blue latex gloves. “John, Constable Smith. Hold on a mo. Over here!” His two assistants came running. Gavin pointed to the bush. A scrap of blue cloth was caught on a thorn. “Bag it,” he said, “and you, Rebecca, are the lucky one who gets to go into that thicket and see if there’s any other goodies to be found.” The woman groaned good-naturedly, and the man carefully eased the cloth off the branch and into an evidence bag.
    “Can you tell how long that’s been there?” Smith asked.
    “I can make an educated guess,” Gavin said. “My thermos is in the van. Let me go and get it. That bush faces south, and there are no big trees close, so the sun is on it most of the day. There’s hardly been a cloud in the sky for weeks, except for some rain Thursday morning. That cloth doesn’t show any signs of fading. At a guess, and this is strictly off the record because we have tests to run back at the shop, I’d say it might have been put there yesterday.”
    “That’s great!” Smith said.
    “Not much to go on,” Winters said, stomping all over her enthusiasm. “Anything else?”
    “Lots of footprints. Too many footprints. Firefighters all over the place, laying down hose, spraying everything in sight. Plus this is a public park, anyone’s prints being here don’t mean a thing.”
    Gavin’s small pile of belongings lay on the ground beside the RCMP’s scene-of-the-crime van. He picked up his thermos and twisted the cap. “Sorry. No spare mugs.”
    “Not a problem,” Winters said. “Have you seen the arson investigator’s preliminary report?”
    “Nothing surprising. Gasoline poured around the outside of the building and lit.”
    “I’m thinking this is an outsider,” Winters said. “Good chance he,” he glanced at Smith, “or she, arrived in town in the last few days. It’s possible they didn’t bring gas in a can ready to do the job. They would’ve needed to scout out the area first before coming up with a plan. I’ll get someone checking gas stations asking if anyone came in for a can in the last little while.”
    A shout came from the RCMP investigators beside the bush. Gavin threw his cup down, and coffee ran into the ground. “Looks like they’ve got something.”
    Rebecca’s face was scratched, and there was a tear across the shoulder of her shirt that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. But she was smiling broadly. She flexed her fingers in the blue gloves. “A lighter,” she said. “One of the long ones that you use to light barbeques or firelogs with.”
    Gavin pulled a fresh set of gloves out of his pocket. “You don’t say. Show me the way.” And without another word they plunged into the bush. Smith could hear them thrashing about. Gavin swore lustily.
    “I want pictures of that lighter as soon as they bring it out,” Winters said. “I’m going up to the street to see if our people are getting anywhere with the neighbors.”
    She watched him walk away. He was dressed in beige chinos and a loose navy blue shirt. His walk was light, easy, his arms swinging loosely at his sides, and she guessed that he was a runner.
    “So that’s John Winters, eh?” Gavin’s male assistant said.
    “You know him?”
    “Know of him. Bad business.”
    “What’s bad business?”
    “Whoa! You don’t know—I’m not gonna be the one to tell you.”
    “I have to work with that guy. If there’s something wrong with him, I need to know.”
    “Nothing wrong, Constable. Rumor, that’s all.”
    “Tell me the rumor.”
    “I heard it like this.” He lowered his