patrol car. “He and his brother own the two biggest dairy farms around here. Last year they bought out three family farms that were destroyed by the floods. One belonged to Carl Simmons, who’s sixty years old and has no family left. Mike arranged for a living trust, so Carl can stay in his home until the day he dies and never worry about a thing. The Berry brothers are good people.”
“I didn’t think there were many places like this left,” Quincy said honestly.
Rainie turned to look at him. “There aren’t.”
She went back to driving. Quincy didn’t bother her again. He could tell that her mood had turned pensive, and in truth he was growing troubled himself. For all his talk of objectivity and professionalism, it was difficult to look at such beautiful countryside and contemplate the savagery that had gone on in the grade school. So far, few things in Bakersville were as he’d anticipated.
That included Officer Conner. All PC platitudes aside, most female cops he’d known were broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, and, frankly, butch. He would not use those terms to describe Officer Conner. Her five-foot-six figure appeared fit and pleasantly curved. Her long chestnut hair, worn unapologetically loose, framed a startling, attractive face with wide cheekbones, firm jaw, and full lips.
Then there were her eyes. Not blue, not gray, but somewhere in between. Quincy imagined that the color shifted with her mood, becoming soft flannel when she was contemplative, icy blue when enraged. And when she was intrigued? Her head tilted slightly, her lips parting in anticipation of a kiss?
Quincy skittered away from his thoughts and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It wasn’t like him to think of a police officer that way. Business was business. Especially these days.
He moved his analysis to her qualities as a cop. She was inexperienced. Her handling of the crime scene and the suspect proved as much. But he didn’t think she was dumb. In his thirty-second appraisal, she had struck him as stubborn, smart, and naturally analytic. He already understood she was fiercely loyal to her community and, at times, proud to a fault. He suspected she lived for her job, had few close friends and few outside interests. This, however, was cheating. He was drawing heavily on the profile of the surviving child of an alcoholic, which could go one of two ways—an underachieving drunk or an overachieving workaholic. Since Rainie obviously wasn’t the former, he imagined she was the latter. She had yet to prove him wrong.
All in all, she was a different sort of police officer from what he’d expected. Probably different from what Detective Abe Sanders had been expecting as well, and thus they were butting heads. With all due respect to Bakersville’s sheriff’s department, most small-town police officers had good people skills but weren’t the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree. They made roughly twenty thousand a year. Their cases were routine. They had a tendency to settle into ruts as masters of their tiny domains, and what analytic abilities they did have atrophied as they patrolled Friday night football games.
Of course, Quincy was an arrogant federal agent, paid extra to look down at all other forms of law enforcement—especially those mental midgets in ATF.
Rainie turned off the rural route, and farmland gave way to a neighborhood. Minutes later a sprawling white school building came into view. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the parking lot, and mounds and mounds of wrapped flowers threatened to bury the chain-link fence.
Rainie pulled the patrol car over.
“You haven’t been here yet today, have you?” Quincy asked quietly.
She shook her head, still looking at piles of flowers, balloons, and teddy bears. Two feet deep, stretching along a good ten feet of fence. Loose roses and pink ribbons and tiny, tiny crosses. Handmade signs saying
We love you, Miss Avalon
, and a large red carnation heart reading,
For my
“I didn’t think there were many places like this left,” Quincy said honestly.
Rainie turned to look at him. “There aren’t.”
She went back to driving. Quincy didn’t bother her again. He could tell that her mood had turned pensive, and in truth he was growing troubled himself. For all his talk of objectivity and professionalism, it was difficult to look at such beautiful countryside and contemplate the savagery that had gone on in the grade school. So far, few things in Bakersville were as he’d anticipated.
That included Officer Conner. All PC platitudes aside, most female cops he’d known were broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, and, frankly, butch. He would not use those terms to describe Officer Conner. Her five-foot-six figure appeared fit and pleasantly curved. Her long chestnut hair, worn unapologetically loose, framed a startling, attractive face with wide cheekbones, firm jaw, and full lips.
Then there were her eyes. Not blue, not gray, but somewhere in between. Quincy imagined that the color shifted with her mood, becoming soft flannel when she was contemplative, icy blue when enraged. And when she was intrigued? Her head tilted slightly, her lips parting in anticipation of a kiss?
Quincy skittered away from his thoughts and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It wasn’t like him to think of a police officer that way. Business was business. Especially these days.
He moved his analysis to her qualities as a cop. She was inexperienced. Her handling of the crime scene and the suspect proved as much. But he didn’t think she was dumb. In his thirty-second appraisal, she had struck him as stubborn, smart, and naturally analytic. He already understood she was fiercely loyal to her community and, at times, proud to a fault. He suspected she lived for her job, had few close friends and few outside interests. This, however, was cheating. He was drawing heavily on the profile of the surviving child of an alcoholic, which could go one of two ways—an underachieving drunk or an overachieving workaholic. Since Rainie obviously wasn’t the former, he imagined she was the latter. She had yet to prove him wrong.
All in all, she was a different sort of police officer from what he’d expected. Probably different from what Detective Abe Sanders had been expecting as well, and thus they were butting heads. With all due respect to Bakersville’s sheriff’s department, most small-town police officers had good people skills but weren’t the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree. They made roughly twenty thousand a year. Their cases were routine. They had a tendency to settle into ruts as masters of their tiny domains, and what analytic abilities they did have atrophied as they patrolled Friday night football games.
Of course, Quincy was an arrogant federal agent, paid extra to look down at all other forms of law enforcement—especially those mental midgets in ATF.
Rainie turned off the rural route, and farmland gave way to a neighborhood. Minutes later a sprawling white school building came into view. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the parking lot, and mounds and mounds of wrapped flowers threatened to bury the chain-link fence.
Rainie pulled the patrol car over.
“You haven’t been here yet today, have you?” Quincy asked quietly.
She shook her head, still looking at piles of flowers, balloons, and teddy bears. Two feet deep, stretching along a good ten feet of fence. Loose roses and pink ribbons and tiny, tiny crosses. Handmade signs saying
We love you, Miss Avalon
, and a large red carnation heart reading,
For my
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