Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

minutes to find out that no one named Brian Harris had died in the last months of the war. Not as part of the U.S. military, anyway. Rich didn’t care what Harris was up to—just trying to be part of something bigger than his miserable little life, probably.
    “Are you going to tell me about your phone call, or do I have to find someone else to fill me in,” Rich snapped.
    The pretty face collapsed into an unbecoming pout.
    “Sorry, Meredith,” he said. “That was uncalled for. Another drink?”
    “Sure.”
    He raised his hand to call the waiter. People at the other tables kept looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. Rich noticed that he was served while tables who’d been waiting longer were still waiting. It had taken long enough, but at last the citizens of sleepy little Trafalgar were starting to wake up and recognize him.
    Greg had looked to be happy to settle in for a long night downing expensive shots, on Rich’s expense account, and trying to get Meredith to drop her pants. But the first time she excused herself to go to the washroom, Rich had told him to get lost. Greg pushed his chair back and stood up with a smirk. “If you need me, boss, I’ll be in the fleshpots of Trafalgar. Oh, wait. There aren’t any. So I’ll be in my room watching porn movies. Oh wait, there aren’t any of those either. Hope there’s a Bible in the night table.”
    Rich watched him cross the room. Greg had far too smart a mouth on him; if he wasn’t such a goddamned good cameraman, Rich would have gotten rid of him long ago.
    “Interesting goings on at town council tonight,” Meredith said.
    Rich’s sixth sense ticked in, the one that had taken him to the top of the cut-throat world of TV journalism. He knew that the balance of power had shifted; he could smell it as a dog could smell a bitch in heat miles away. He was no longer the one with all the cards. Meredith knew something, and she knew he’d want to hear it. A candle sat in the middle of the table, throwing a single tall flame between them. She touched her glass to her lips.
    “I can’t guarantee you an interview,” he said. “I can only recommend.”
    She dug in her bag and pulled out a notepad and pen. She pushed them toward him. “So recommend,” she said. “The words dedicated, competent, highly qualified, come to mind. And anything else you might want to throw in.”
    He wrote. She leaned back in her chair and lifted the liquor glass to her nose. She breathed in deeply. And he knew that this was going to be good.
    She read what he’d written. “You forgot to sign it.”
    He signed.
    She stuffed the notepad into her cavernous bag.
    “Eleven AM . Day after tomorrow. Our esteemed deputy mayor is going to stand in the street and declare that the town has decided, for definite, absolute sure, the fate of the park.”
    “How do you know?”
    She lifted her glass to her lips and grinned. “It was discussed at a town council meeting tonight, but the room was cleared before they took the vote. My pal from the paper was there, as is part of his job.”
    Rich laughed. “So this will be in the
Daily Gazette
tomorrow, for every reporter with half a brain to read?”
    “It will. There was one member of the public who spoke to the councilors.”
    “Who?”
    “Lucky Smith. She put up quite a fuss when the public gallery was cleared so the council could debate
in camera
.”
    “I have to get to the cop daughter,” Rich said, crushing a cube of ice between his teeth. He was drinking ice water. He drank nothing but ice water when he was working. And Rich was always working.
    “I might be able to arrange a meeting,” Meredith said, leaning back into her chair. She was wearing a low-cut blue summer shirt and tight jeans. She dipped a finger into her cleavage. The restaurant was almost empty: two couples and a raucous group of six women remained. The lights had steadily been turned down, encouraging lingering patrons to leave. The waiter brought Meredith’s fresh drink.
    “A meeting with Constable Molly Smith. That might be worth something.” Meredith grinned at him across the table. She looked like a cat at play with a particularly stupid mouse. “A nice angle: aging hippy, kid who rejects those values and becomes a cop. There might be something there.”
    “Get to the point, Meredith.”
    “The point.” She placed her Drambuie glass onto the table with an audible thud. Her eyes were clear and alert and Rich saw that this girl could