“What the hell have you gotten me into?”
The frozen faces in the family photo failed to answer. She angled the frame to hide an odd shaped gouge in the wood of her new desk. Riley knew better than to make life-changing decisions snozzled, but her relatives had plied her with drink and nudged her toward the not-so-subtle suggestions in her grandmother’s will.
They were nuts and damn if she didn’t fit the mold, because she’d gone through with it. Sitting on a runway out of Dublin, hungover as hell, Riley broke her lease and sent in her resignation.
Coffee rings, ink smears, and scratches covered the behemoth of a desk she’d be calling home. It’d be sizable protection against earthquakes or tornadoes—truly wasted potential in Northern Montana. The station couldn’t be analogue enough to require that much space for paper. The four desks that made up the bullpen sported decent computers, at least.
She set out another couple frames. Old coworkers mugged for the pictures on the left, and friends to the right. Riley toasted the photo of her previous partner, swigged the coffee she’d found in the kitchen, and choked. The swill stuck to the back of her throat, stinging and greasy. Damn. Dergby had won himself fifty bucks—from city, to suburb, to backwater, LEOs couldn’t brew a decent pot—he’d get his winnings snail-mailed in crumpled ones.
“You alright, Officer MacIntyre?” echoed out of the back office.
“Sure,” she squeezed out between gulps of water.
“I’m ready for you.”
Her heels squeaked over shiny linoleum as she approached her new chief’s open door. Hovering in the entryway, hands folded behind her back, she waited to be invited in. Captain Dale would’ve been proud. He’d trained her well with his little yelling fits every time Riley had barged in. When her new chief failed to pull his attention from his computer, she cleared her throat.
“Chief Ross Havgrin,” he leaned over his cluttered desk to shake her hand. “Welcome to the Woodrun Police Department.”
With a polite smile, Riley perched in the closest chair. He was a lean man, younger than her former boss, edging close to his forties. His tawny hair grayed at the temples and his nose had a crook, like it’d been broken a time or two. Had he worked somewhere more exciting before landing in small-town Woodrun? Maybe he brawled as a kid. Not that she’d ask, first impressions and all.
“Old Mooney was quite a woman. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
A twinge sparked in her chest, a familiar ache that threatened to bring tears. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Ross.” He leaned over to look out into the bullpen, where the other officers’ desks sat empty, and added, “Most of the others do. You can tack on Chief for formal occasions. Don’t want people thinking I’m unprofessional out in the field. I’m looking forward to having you on board.”
“Give it a week, Chief.” The words were automatic, and as soon as they rolled off her tongue, she pressed her lips tight. What was that about first impressions?
“You’re Old Mooney’s granddaughter all right,” he fired back.
She’d never been one to keep her mouth shut, much to the irritation of her previous superiors. By acquainting himself with her grandmother, he’d effectively suffered a primer for her personality. Better yet, he traded words easily. A layer of tension bled off her shoulders—one of many acquired in the two weeks following Old Mooney’s funeral.
Chief Havgrin—Ross—leaned back in his seat. “Captain Dale hated to see you go. Told me you were on the fast track for promotion.” He tilted his head, sizing her up.
No stranger to scrutiny, Riley fixed her smile in place. At five foot-nine, her brothers in blue almost always towered over her. She passed the physical standard test, and though she wasn’t bulky with muscle, she was capable in a fight. Then there was the slight matter of her gender. Working her beat in Cincinnati, Riley heard ‘You can arrest me any day, baby!’ all too often. No, breasts did not hinder her ability to tackle the run-of-the-mill jackass. No, she would not like to ‘give you a warning’ instead of a citation. No, she would not handle ‘your weapon’ instead of her Smith and Wesson. She was a good cop in general, but a great cop because of something that would get her kicked out of public service faster than you could say psychic. Any danger in her vicinity, the kind that meant someone would wind up dead, Riley sensed. Her own personal symphony of pain stopped murders, maiming, and even accidents so simple as death-by-loose-railing. Her hands deadened close to a corpse, lies rang their truths in her ears, and every once in a while, dreams would show her a death yet to come. Helpful, but so fire-able.
Chief Ross continued, “I’m afraid Woodrun won’t be as exciting. The town’s population is a little under two-thousand. Besides me, there are two other full-time officers, one part-timer.” His pause implied he’d stopped himself from saying ‘not much room for advancement.’
Her pulse kicked up, thu-thumping in her head to the tune of ‘are you sure you made the right choice?’ The gold promise of a detective’s badge hadn’t kept her shoveling shit as a rookie, like so many of her coworkers, and though Riley never outright killed Captain Dale’s hope she’d make his life easier as a sergeant, she hadn’t been aiming for a promotion. Patrol put her in the path of death and danger. Detectives showed up after the bodies cooled and sergeants usually delegated others into the fire. Responding to calls placed her in the proximity to determine where an armed suspect lurked, to discover the bones underneath a friendly neighbor’s flower garden. No, she was of most use as a beat cop, close to the action. Woodrun wasn’t a place of action. If she stayed, she’d be living a less dangerous, less useful life.
Her right leg cramped, sending her heel jumping. The new scar tissue curled over the top of her calf pulled under the sharp movements. “That’s what I need. I think Old Mooney knew it, too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have left me her home here. Or have penned your phone number on her will with a wee heart and a ‘he’s handsome—too.’”
The chief’s eyes rounded, then he hunched over and laughed. Big, chest-heaving whoops. “I’m sor—I’m sorry—”
A fist wrapped around her heart and squeezed. She cleared emotion from her throat to say, “Don’t be. Old Mooney’s prerogative in life was to make people laugh.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Did she mention the Christmas presents she gave out last year?”
“Something wildly inappropriate, no doubt.”
“I got a package of boxer-briefs with police themed jokes on the back, a tub of Vaseline, and an Ace Hardware gift card.” He threw open the drawers of his desk. “Ah! Here’s the card.” He read, “My dear Ross, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. I do hope you find those pants as hilarious as I did. Use that Vaseline for your lips, dear. They get horribly chapped when it snows. Lilah’s bookshop needs new gutters—perhaps she’d appreciate those pants too. With much love, Maurice O’Mooney.”
Riley cringed. “Yeah, that tracts.”
“We don’t even have an Ace. I had to drive two hours.” He put the card back and pulled out a Woodrun Police badge, setting it in front of her.
“You fixed the bookshop’s gutters?”
“‘Course. Uh, she didn’t see the underwear though. Lilah, I mean.” A burgundy flush crept up his neck as he mindlessly shuffled papers.
She hid her smile behind the silver badge she’d palmed, smoothing her fingers over the face.
“Transitioning from an urban station might take a minute, but I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Little—uh, Riley.”
She dropped the badge in her lap and sighed. “Old Mooney referred to me as Little Red, didn’t she?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know your first name until I saw your application. I apologize for—”
“No need,” she interrupted, “I tell people to just stick with Red, though.”
Ross nodded, offering a sad smile. “How about a tour?”
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Canva Pro image used in background.
Humor, check. Cop series, check. Tough nut, check. I’m looking forward to reading more.