Gingerbread Man

her. The man frowned and nodded once. "I didn't mean to insult your town. I was just surprised to find a police department closed."
    She crossed her arms over her chest, the way her mother did sometimes, and she just looked at him. His face was craggy—far from handsome. His jaw was too hard, and his chin too clefted. His nose was too big, and his eyes too far apart. He looked tired and worn down ... but that was more a mental impression than a physical one.
    "Maybe I should start over again," he said.
    She shrugged. "The tourist area is back that way," she told him, pointing.
    "I'm not a tourist"
    "Well, you're not a resident." Frowning, she glanced at her watch. "And you're really lousing up my schedule. Do you mind?" She reached into her pocket for her keys, and motioned for him to move aside.
    He moved, then stood there while she unlocked it. "Don't tell me you're the police chief," he said.
    She shot him an irritated glance. "Why couldn't I be?"
    He held up a hand, ticked off his list on his fingers. "Too young, too pretty, too mouthy, too unfriendly, too—"
    "Do you have some kind of business with Chief Mallory?"
    "Then you're not him?"
    She opened the door and walked inside. "No," she said. "I'm not him. He'll be in at eight. If you want to see him, come back then." She released the door, letting it fall closed on the irritating man, and turned to get herself back on track. Damn, the clock read 7:50. She always got in by 7:45. Okay, okay, just focus, she told herself. She stood there for a moment and drew a deep breath. Then she moved through the small police department with brisk efficiency, quickly resuming her established routine. She snapped on the reception area lights, opened the blinds... then paused again to look out at the lake in the distance. Something had changed. Tiny whitecaps crisscrossed the surface now, as if the glassy stillness of a short while ago had been shattered. "Must be a storm coming," she muttered, glancing worriedly at traces of dark clouds just beginning to gather in the sky.
    Turning, she unlocked the next door and went through it to the larger part of the station. Her alcove to the right had a sliding plastic bi-fold shutter over the window between it and the reception area. To the left were files, weapons locked in a big case, and Bill's and Ray's desks. Straight ahead was the chief's office, and beside that a small restroom and the stair door. The cells were farther along the hall, with a clear line of sight all the way back to the reception area when the door was opened. Holly continued turning on lights, opening blinds. She unlocked the chief's office door and fired up his computer for him. Back in her own area, she turned on the lights, the radio, then the computer, in that order. A quick check of her desk told her everything was exactly as she'd left it. She straightened her pencil cup, moved a paperweight an inch to the left. Then she opened the sliding plastic barrier between her desk and the reception area.
    That man was standing on the other side, looking right at her.
    She almost jumped out of her skin, jerking backward. One hand pressed to her chest in reaction.
    "I decided I'd rather wait for the chief in here. It's getting kind of nippy outside."
    She closed her eyes slowly, waited for her heart to resume its normal beat, consciously controlled her breathing, then opened her eyes. Focusing on the man again, she said, "Do you have a crime to report or something Mr...?"
    "It's detective, ma'am. Detective Vince O'Mally, S.P.D."
    She lifted her brows. He said "S.P.D." as if it was supposed to mean something. He said it the way TV cops said "N.Y.P.D." or "L.A.P.D." He was that full of himself. "S.P.D.?" she asked. "Would that be ... Scranton? Saratoga? Sherburne?"
    "Syracuse."
    She nodded, averting her eyes. For some reason it didn't surprise her he came from there... or that he'd brought foul winds with him. She didn't like him. She wanted him to leave. "Have a seat. Detective. The chief will be here in..."—she looked at her watch—"five minutes. And thanks to you, his coffee won't be ready."
    "Thanks to me? What did I do?"
    She just frowned at him and hurried back to the rest-room, snatching the water pitcher from her shelf on the way. She flicked on the restroom lights and then filled the pitcher with tap water. Finished, she carried it back to the reception area. His coffee pot stood on a cart against the west wall, between two small leather sofas. She poured