Not this time. The Constable on the front desk was polite but firm. “You can report a crime to me, miss.”
Harley shook her head. “This isn’t something you can do a drive-by for and forget it.”
“We will give the matter whatever attention it warrants, miss.”
“She’s not bullshitting you, Constable,” Bohdan added.
The constable’s badge read “Barnes”. Barnes’ gaze flicked to Bohdan and back. “If a serious crime has occurred, we will get to the bottom of it.”
“Harley Bernard,” said a new, male voice from behind them. “You’ve changed the color of your hair.”
Harley turned. The Staff Sergeant leaned against the doorframe leading to the inner sanctum. “That’s not all that has changed, Chuck.” It was better to be bald about the obvious right up front and get it over with.
“I can see that,” Chuck Hopson said. “What is the fuss you’re raising out here?”
“There’s something happening in Falconer that you need to know about.”
Hopson straightened from his lean against the doorframe and tugged his navy blue shirt down. “Better step in, Staff—” He bit off the end of the sentence. “Come through,” he added, instead.
Harley didn’t look back at Barnes, but Bohdan did.
“Stick around out here,” she murmured to Bohdan. “Keep your ears pinned back.”
He nodded.
Harley followed Hopson into the big office and he shut the door. She moved over to his desk, which was littered with paperwork. The visitor chairs in front of it were both upright, hard backed. She stayed on her feet.
“What’s this all about then?” Hopson repeated, sitting in the executive leather chair on the other side.
Harley told him swiftly. She was an old hand at reporting concisely. Hopson listened carefully, while drumming a pen on his blotter. When she was done, the drumming continued for a while.
“And you say you’re running a police department in little Falconer, now?” he said finally.
Harley frowned. “Not that it’s relevant, but yes.”
“How did they manage to employ you?”
Wariness flooded her. “I’m volunteering.”
Hopson’s brow crawled up his forehead. “Are you, now…”
“You know what is happening in Falconer. I know you must. They thought I had expertise they could use.”
His gaze shifted to her wings. Back to her face. “I see. Well, that makes this a bit easier.”
“What?”
“The problem is, Harley, the person who died isn’t actually a person, legally. And the person you think had something to do with his…or is it ‘it’?”
Harley just barely managed to not roll her eyes. “‘He’ is fine.”
“The person you say had something to do with it is also one of the old people.”
“Old races,” she corrected. “You don’t care that there might be an opioid lab running over there?”
“That, I care about,” Hopson said firmly. “But you’ve got no proof and we can’t go barging in there—” He halted as she tossed the blister pack on his desk, picked it up, then dropped it again. “It’s still not compelling enough to justifying a search.” He pushed the pack toward her. “Why don’t you keep an eye on the joint? Keep me informed.”
Irritation swamped her. “You know I’m still human under these wings, right, Chuck?”
He sat back. “Well, it looks like you, sure.”
“And if it was me lying on cold concrete, with blue lips, you’d still say it was none of your business?”
Hopson held up his hand.
“No, you wait,” Harley hissed. “They’re people just like you and Barnes, out there. The federal government will get around to giving us status one of these days, then it will be your job to care.”
“It’s not like I don’t care now, Harley.” Hopson’s voice was tight. “But right now, I haven’t got any jurisdiction over aliens and their affairs.” His expression hardened. “You’re one of them. You’re policing them. Perhaps you should go back to Falconer and do that.”
“And when I arrest Campbell von Havre for murder, I let you take all the credit?”
Hopson grew still. “You didn’t say it was von Havre in the middle of this.”
“You know of him?” She felt winded. “I didn’t think policing aliens was your jurisdiction.” Bitterness crept into her voice.
“He’s a…well, a person of interest. We know all about him,” Hopson said. “He’s a slippery bastard. He’s American, you know. From Montana.”
“I figured,” Harley said dryly.
Hopson’s irritation built. “He must have slid across the border, but as he’s an un-person, we can’t even demand he show a passport.”
The Canadian government had declared that while they were still deciding the legal status of the old races, no one could be forcibly ejected from the country. Nor could they be penalized for being undocumented. It was a half-measure that still left way too many people homeless and starving, but it was more humane than some of the ways other countries around the world were treating their emerging old races. The rumors coming out of China and North Korea were particularly horrendous.
But this was the first time Harley had seen it from the law-enforcement side of the equation. Hopson, who was used to being able to maintain law and order with relative efficiency, didn’t like being stymied by a point of law himself. The whine in his voice was not attractive.
“Why are you watching him?” Harley demanded. “If he’s an old one, why do you care what he does?”
“He mixed with interesting people, in Montana,” Hopson replied. “Most of them were grey hat—nothing on their records, because they knew how to keep their noses clean, but lots of suggestive associations and coincidences. And a lot of money. Eye-popping deals, scratching each others’ backs. You know how it goes.”
Harley nodded. A criminal was a criminal long before evidence surfaced and records were added to. Career criminals were easy to spot. She’d always had a handful of
