“Little bit wired,” Jo said.
“What?”
She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the front office. “Your sidekick.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t deny it, so he said, “You have to know Wy’s already here.”
She nodded. “We texted.”
“So. You’re checking out my new post instead of our new house, because…?”
“Mostly I’m down here for a story.”
“Swell. Can I call Wy for you?”
“We’re meeting for lunch out on the Spit. What’s hopping at your new post, Sergeant?”
“I’m not even officially here until next Monday.”
“Barton cracking the whip?”
He looked at her and she laughed. “Yeah. That would have been way too easy.” She stood up. “See you later.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t Wy tell you? I’m your first houseguest.” And she was gone.
Great. Although he supposed he should be grateful Jo hadn’t shown up yesterday. Possibly indicative of some small smidgeon of tact on her part.
He thought about it. Nah.
There was a tap at the door and he looked up to see Ms. Petroff standing in the doorway. “Who was that, sir?”
“That, Ms. Petroff, was an example of the species known as Homo americanus diurnaria.” She looked confused, as well she might, and he relented. “She’s a reporter for the Anchorage News. Jo Dunaway.”
“Dunaway?” Her brow smoothed. “I’ve seen her byline. She wrote about Gheen.”
“She did.”
“There was another trooper—”
“Prince.”
“Is she still in Newenham, sir?”
“No. So far as I know she’s in Florida.” Because she had eloped with Liam’s father, that incorrigible womanizer otherwise known as Colonel Charles Bradley Campbell. Might be Brigadier General or Major General or even Lieutenant General by now. Probably never General, though, for which Liam sent up his heartfelt thanks to the United States Air Force. As a voter he thought his tax dollars could be better spent.
All of which Jo Dunaway knew full well, and with which information she used to needle him.
Ms. Petroff came all the way into the room. “Can I get you anything, sir?”
At least she wasn’t going to dig around for the details of the Gheen murders as so many did when they found out he’d been the investigating officer. He nodded at the screen of the desktop computer. “Can you set this up so it answers to my password?”
“Of course, sir.” He traded places with her and she busied herself at his keyboard. “There you are. Enter your password, confirm it, and you’re good to go.”
“Thank you, Ms. Petroff.” He sat down again. She picked up his phone and handed it to him. “Please enter your passcode, sir?”
“Certainly.” He did and handed the phone back.
She tapped away industriously and set it back down on the desk. “‘Post’ rings the landline on my desk. ‘SP’ is my cell number.”
“Thank you,” he said again, and studied her for a moment. She was of medium height but her erect posture made her seem taller. She was dressed in a neat two-piece pantsuit in dark blue with a white button-down underneath. She wore small silver hoops in her ears, no watch, no rings. Her nails were cut straight across and unpolished. She was very nearly a case study in professional anonymity. “You studied in Anchorage, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then worked at HQ for a year.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you move back down to the Bay?”
“A month ago. When they finished the post.”
“Have you found a place to live?”
“Yes, sir. A mother-in-law apartment over a garage. It’s only a studio but very comfortable.”
“Your landlord okay?”
“Yes, sir. It’s my uncle’s wife’s sister and her husband. They fish commercially during the summer and grow coffee in Hawaii in the winter.”
“Nice.” He looked up. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to draw my attention to, Ms. Petroff? Since you got here before me and have had time to settle in.”
She hesitated, and he wondered if her advice had never before been solicited by a trooper. If her time on the job had been spent only at HQ, she would have seen more of politics than of policing, so perhaps not a surprise. “If you read through the last month’s dispatches for this detachment, sir, it will do much to bring you up to speed. I…”
“Yes?” he said encouragingly.
“I believe Chief Armstrong would welcome an introduction, sir.”
He nodded. “Anything else?”
“There’s a local paper, sir, a weekly. It has a section called Cops and Courts. It would also help bring you up to speed.”
That’s right, they had an actual judge here in Blewestown; an actual judge in an actual courtroom in an actual courthouse. With jury trials. Which meant juries. God. “Should I introduce myself to the local judge as well?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir. I doubt that either of you want to meet for the first time in court.”
He’d rather never meet another judge again as long as he lived. He wanted Bill back. Magistrate Bill Billington had taken no prisoners. She’d been a damn fine bartender, too. “No, probably not.” He looked at the screen. “Why don’t you call Chief Armstrong and ask him if he’s free for lunch? Tell him to pick the restaurant.”
“Very good, sir.” She turned to leave.
“Ms. Petroff?” She looked over her shoulder. “Were either of your parents in the military?”
“No, sir?”
“Just a passing thought.” He waved her away and clicked on the dispatch icon she had so helpfully and efficiently set up on his desktop, and plunged into the minutiae of a state trooper’s life on the road system.
The phone on his desk beeped. “Yes?”
“Chief Armstrong says to meet him at noon at the Compass Rose Diner.”
“Thank you, Ms. Petroff.”
“And Judge DeWinter says she is free at three, if you’d care to meet her in her office then. She says
