Stand Down by J. A. Jance

 
    Stand Down
    A S THE MACHINE spat out the last drops of coffee that Monday morning, a tiny whiff of hairspray wafted down the hallway from Mel’s bathroom and mingled with the aroma of freshly ground beans and the distinctive fragrance of Hoppe’s #9 gun-­cleaning solvent. While she was down the hall getting ready to go to work, I was in the kitchen cleaning our weapons—­her standard-­issue Smith & Wesson and her backup Glock, along with my own Glock as well.
    It’s what I did these Monday mornings—­clean our weapons—­while she got ready to go to work in Bellingham and while I got ready to do whatever it is I do these days. I don’t suppose the architect who designed our penthouse condo imagined that our granite countertop would often double as a gun-­cleaning workshop, but then again, where else would I do this necessary, lifesaving task—­the living room? It only takes once to learn how completely a tiny piece of pistol innards can disappear into the hidden reaches of a plush living-­room carpet. And cleaning her weapons every Monday morning was my small contribution toward keeping her safe.
    The hairspray told me that within a minute or so, my wife, Mel, would emerge from her bathroom dressed, made up, properly coiffed, and ready to go out into the world as the city of Bellingham’s newly hired police chief.
    While I was married to my first wife, Karen, we’d shared a single bathroom, with a single washbasin and a combination tub and shower. By the time Anne Corley, my second wife, came into my life, however briefly, I still had a single bathroom, but it contained two washbasins, and a tub/shower combo. Shortly after Mel Soames and I tied the knot, it became clear that even a deluxe bathroom, one with two basins, a tub, and a stand-­alone shower, simply wouldn’t cut it.
    Mel had solved the problem by collecting her lotions and potions and decamping to the far end of the hallway and turning the guest bedroom, bathroom, and closet into her private domain. At the time, since we were both working the same shifts for the same outfit, having separate bathrooms worked for us. Now things had changed. She had a relatively new job. As for me? I was struggling with the uncomfortable realities of being newly and quite unwillingly retired.
    Mel came down the hall, looking very official in her spiffy police chief’s uniform and a pair of sensible, low-­heeled pumps.
    â€œGood morning, gorgeous,” I told her. I knew she had a meeting with the Bellingham mayor, the city manager, and city council that morning, and I also knew she was dreading it. “Girls in uniform always turn me on.”
    She stopped and glared at me. “Don’t lie,” she said. “You know I look like hell.”
    The truth is, and much to my surprise, she did look like hell. There were dark shadows under her eyes that even deftly applied makeup didn’t quite cover. I had spent the night lying next to her in bed as she had tossed and turned her way through the hours. During my years in law enforcement, including twenty or so at Seattle P.D., I had never once entertained the idea of climbing the treacherous career ladder from being an ordinary cop to becoming one of the brass. Mel was different. She had been on the cop-­to-­brass path in a previous jurisdiction when those plans had been derailed by a complicated divorce. That detour had brought her to Washington State, where we had met.
    Second chances don’t come along all that often. This time one had. Earlier the previous fall, Mel had been offered her dream job as chief of police in Bellingham, Washington, a small city some ninety miles north of Seattle. The moment the job was offered, I knew she wanted to take it, so I supported her in that decision. I had, however, tried to warn her that making the transition from being part of a team of investigators to being top dog in a new department