Whispering Rock by Robyn Carr

me visit around a little. Lotta type A’s in law enforcement, Hope. Some wouldn’t take a rope from a guy like me if they were in quicksand. If that’s going to be the case, I should just save you the time and money.”
    “I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about a guy like you.”
    He stood up. “Well, you should. I could probably help out a little, but cops don’t work alone. You might not have local police, but you don’t want this new idea of yours to drive away the coverage you have. One thing at a time.”
     
    Mike borrowed Preacher’s computer to fashion a pretty informal résumé and letter of introduction. Because Preacher’s printer wasn’t top quality, he put the information on a disk and drove over to Eureka to have both printed. He chose a simple format that merely listed his experience and gave plenty of phone numbers to check references.
    If Mike had been applying for a job, he would have gone into more detail about training, awards, special assignments. In fact, he felt boastful about his accomplishments at LAPD, about his experience. He couldn’t see the advantage in downplaying what he knew about law enforcement and criminal justice, but when trying to fit in with the local cops, he didn’t want to appear arrogant. It was a very fine line. His goal was to become one of them, and he was curious if they would accept him. He was from the city, he was Mexican, he’d been around the block. Around a lot of blocks. One thing the local guys never appreciated was some hotshot hitting town, acting as if he knew it all—whether that happened in L.A. or Eureka. A lot of ex-cops were boastful, eager to play on their war stories. A lot of times their war stories were bullshit.
    His first stop was the Fortuna Police Department. The chief, Chuck Andersen, was a big guy with meaty hands, bald, and he wasn’t smiling. Mike got the immediate impression he reserved his smile, kept it inside so it would never appear he was playing around. Mike shook his hand and introduced himself. “Thanks for seeing me, Chief,” he said, handing him a couple of pages. “I’ve been asked to take a job in Virgin River—town cop, more or less.”
    “Sure,” the big guy said. He indicated a chair but didn’t sit behind his desk, so Mike continued to stand. The chief looked over the résumé quickly. “How long you been here?”
    “Since just before Christmas. Couple of my best friends live in Virgin River.”
    “Why didn’t you apply to one of the departments around here?”
    “I wasn’t looking for work,” Mike answered. “This was a surprise. I guess the woman who put together a contract for a constable has been looking for someone, but I didn’t come to Humboldt County to work. I came here to fish. Hunt.”
    “Not too many people can do that at…” He looked through the résumé briskly. “At thirty-seven.”
    Mike took a glance around the office. Family picture, good-looking wife, two handsome kids, a dog. He smiled with a little envy. “I don’t have a family. I was retired from LAPD with a disability.”
    The chief’s eyes came up to Mike’s face. “How’d that happen?”
    “I got shot,” Mike said without self-consciousness. “During that last assignment on the résumé,” he added with a nod toward the paperwork.
    “Gang Unit,” Andersen said. He looked as if he might have memorized the page by now. “Patrol, narcotics, gangs, robbery, gangs again.”
    “I worked gangs, then after passing the sergeant’s exam, was reassigned there with my own squad. I loved gangs. I hated narcotics,” Mike said unnecessarily. “I was always good with Patrol. Grassroots policing suited me.”
    Finally the chief sat, so Mike took his seat. When he did so, the chief lifted his eyes slightly, maybe surprised. “Marine Corps,” he said.
    “Yes, sir. Active for four, reserves for ten.” Then he laughed. “I got through a lot of stuff, then got picked off by a fourteen-year-old.” He shrugged.