Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

fellow was young, probably, tall and wiry. Definitely not the short, chubby Dr. Tyler.
    He called Paul Keller. “I need someone to pull together everything we have on bicycle thefts in town, going back, let’s say, six months as a start.”
    “Why?”
    Winters explained about Fitzgerald’s bike. “It’s possible that the thief saw Montgomery arguing with his killer. Even if he just saw someone else in the alley, it’ll be a lead we badly need.”
    “I’ll get someone on it. You know that most bike thefts don’t get reported?”
    “I am aware of that, Paul, thanks.”
    “Just reminding you. Start with Molly Smith.”
    “Is she in charge of bike theft investigation?”
    Keller laughed. “Her bike was stolen from the back of the station a couple of nights ago. Fortunately the press didn’t get wind of it. They would have made us look like the Keystone Kops.”
    Winters remembered Smith telling him the first day she’d worked with him that she’d decided it was too late to bike home, and was looking for a ride. “I’ll talk to her. This is a priority, Paul.”
    “Good thing I have officers sitting around with nothing to do all day. I’ll put someone on it right away.”
    Winters hung up and stuffed his phone in his jacket pocket.
    He had to talk to that bike thief.

Chapter Twenty-five
    Christa Thompson stared at the flowers on her windowsill, listening without interest to the murmur of a busy hospital. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Three nurses stopped to talk in front of her door. A child yelled, and was hushed. The meal cart clattered. Someone cried out, in pain or sorrow, Christa couldn’t tell. Nor did she care.
    She’d pushed her lunch tray away, without touching the unappetizing mess. Her father had come in last night, not long before the end of visiting hours, bearing fat cream roses in a crystal vase. He sat in the visitor’s chair and talked about the weather and federal politics. At last the nurse came in to check on her before turning out the lights, and her father had left.
    She heard Molly’s voice in the corridor, saying hello to someone. Christa closed her eyes and settled her breathing.
    “Hey, girl. How ya doin’?”
    Christa breathed.
    “Oh, sorry. Are you asleep, sweetie? It’s me, Molly.”
    Christa breathed. Why couldn’t fucking Molly Smith just leave her alone? She’d gone to the police station, like Molly had told her, but Molly wasn’t there, was she? More important things to do. More important people to be helped.
    Behind her eyelids, she saw the rays of sunlight dim. Molly was standing at the window. Christa cracked her right eye open. Molly bent over and sniffed at the roses. She was in uniform, looking tough and imposing in the dark uniform, bulletproof vest, trousers full of pockets, blue stripe down the pant leg, belt jingling with equipment.
    “Hey, you’re awake. Good. I can’t stay for long. You won’t believe who I’m having lunch with.”
    “I don’t care.”
    “What’s up? This is good.”
    “Just go away, will you. And don’t come back.”
    Now Molly didn’t look so tough. Underneath the uniform, she was small and female. Vulnerable. Like Christa.
    ***
    Early afternoon on a Monday, Flavours was pretty much empty. The hostess, hair a shade of orange that existed nowhere in nature, not even on an orange, waited at the door to greet her. “Constable Smith, so nice of you to join us. Ms. Morgenstern is just this way.”
    She followed the orangehead through the empty restaurant. Meredith occupied a table at the back tucked into a small alcove. “Hi, Molly. Have a seat. This is so cool.”
    Smith sat. The table was set with crisp linen, silverware so shiny it reflected light, and wineglasses you could drown a small dog in.
    A bottle of wine sat in a silver ice bucket beside the table. Meredith’s glass was half-empty. “Wine?” she said. “It’s a California chardonnay. Very good.”
    “No thanks. I’m on duty in an hour.”
    “Then we’d better go ahead and order. Have anything you like.” Meredith lifted her hand.
    A good-looking young man came up to their table and gave them a warm smile. He was dressed formally in a black suit, starched white shirt and thin black tie. But his hair was gathered into a ponytail and a cluster of earrings outlined his left ear. The marks of a piercing ran through his eyebrow.
    Smith would have loved a steak, rare, with a baked potato piled high with sour cream, but she had a twelve-hour shift