Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

half on the sidewalk. The red light went round and round, but it didn’t throw much of a glow, sitting in the full summer sun. Dawn Solway was standing in front of the shop doors, ordering the crowd to keep back.
    Smith leapt out of the van while Winters was still bringing it to a halt. Solway looked up, relief crossing her face at the sight of reinforcements.
    Dave Evans had a man up against the counter. He pulled handcuffs off his belt as Smith ran in. Andy Smith was lying on the floor, on his back, rolling from side to side, blood gushing from his nose. Lucky held a heavy-duty flashlight in one hand, over the head of a man backed against the wall with his hands lifted in front of his face. A woman screamed, and Duncan spoke to her as he would a newbie facing whitewater for the first time. The display table in the center of the store was overturned, legs turned toward Smith as if pointing out that this was all her fault. The table’s contents—tourist and orienteering maps of the area, guide books, nature guides—were scattered across the floor.
    “What do you need?” she said, her training kicking in. This wasn’t her parents’ store—it was a police situation.
    Evans snapped the cuffs shut and jerked the man around. He was about five seven and very thin, hair cut short to his scalp, face pitted with acne scars and a sprinkling of fresh spots. He wasn’t much over twenty. He wore tattered jeans, heavy boots, and a loose jacket in a camouflage print. “Escort the other guy out, Smith,” Evans said. “And we can all go down to the station.”
    “Everything okay here?” Winters sauntered in.
    “You can step back, Mom, uh, Mrs. Smith,” Smith said to her mother. Lucky lowered the flashlight. She barely came up to her opponent’s collar bone. Like the other guy, he was dressed in semi-military clothes, but he was much bigger and had a scrap of mustache across his upper lip. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt that revealed heavily tattooed arms. “Commie bitch,” he said, letting loose a plug of phlegm.
    Lucky ignored him and ran to Andy.
    Smith said, “Let’s go, buddy.”
    “We didn’t do nothing. That old guy,” he pointed to Andy, being helped to his feet by his wife, “attacked my friend.” Andy leaned his head back and Lucky pressed a tissue up against his nose. The front of his white shirt was spotted with blood.
    “Looks like a real tough guy to me,” Winters said. “Gotta be, what, twice your age?”
    “You weren’t here, man. He’s a lunatic. And as for that old broad….”
    “Watch your mouth,” Winters snapped. “We’ll sort it all out at the station.”
    The screaming woman had finally shut up, and Duncan was patting her arm, making soothing, sympathetic noises. He saw Smith watching them and rolled his eyes.
    “Did you see what happened here, ma’am?” Winters asked.
    “He,” she pointed at the smaller man, “hit him,” she pointed at Andy. “They were arguing about the peace garden. I read about it in the paper. He asked him to leave and she said that she was going to call the police, and then he hit him and if it hadn’t been for her he would have joined in. I see my husband outside. I’d better go.”
    “If I could bother you for more of your time, ma’am,” Winters said. “I need you to come to the station and make a statement.”
    She was well into her forties, well-preserved fifties perhaps, with perfectly cut and highlighted blond hair, khaki shorts, and a matching T-shirt embroidered with big wooden beads. She almost preened under the force of Winters’ attention. “I’d be happy to be of help.”
    “Constable Smith, help Constable Evans with these two gentlemen.” Another siren sounded outside. The ambulance. “Mr. Smith,” Winters said, “do you need to go to the hospital?”
    “No,” he mumbled. A gush of blood soaked Lucky’s tissues and ran over her fingers. The customer having calmed down, Duncan reached under the counter and handed a box of tissues to Lucky. “I wanna come wif you,” Andy Smith said. “Lay charges.”
    “You and Mrs. Smith can ride with me.”
    Smith looked at her mother for the first time. Still holding her hand to her husband’s face, Lucky raised one eyebrow. Her face was flushed and there was a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth, a smile which Smith didn’t like one bit. Lucky had been arrested at the infamous 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago for jumping on the back of a police officer who was