by Tami Hoag
Being late for her first meeting with the chief of police in the town that would be her base of operations was not a good beginning.
“Should have made the appointment for tomorrow, O'Malley,” she muttered, climbing out of her car, struggling with what seemed to be twenty yards of gray woolen scarf.
The scarf was like a python twisting itself around her neck, around her arm, around the handle of her briefcase. She snatched at it and pulled at it, cursing under her breath as she made her way across the skating rink that passed for a parking lot behind the Deer Lake city hall and law enforcement center. Getting hold of the end of the scarf, she flung it hard over her shoulder—and threw herself off balance. Instantly, her feet went out from under her and she scrambled in a mad tap dance to keep from going down. The heels of the boots she had chosen to give herself the illusion of height acted like skate blades instead of cleats. She danced another five feet toward the building, then fell like a sack of bricks, landing with teeth-rattling impact smack on her fanny. The pain shot up her spine from her butt to her brain and rang there like a bell.
For a moment Megan just sat there with her eyes squeezed shut, then the cold began to penetrate through the seat of her black wool trousers. She looked around the parking lot for witnesses. There were none. The afternoon had been crushed beneath the weight of darkness. Five o'clock had come and gone; most of the office personnel had already left for the day. Chief Holt was probably gone as well, but she wanted it on the log that she had shown up for their appointment. Three hours late, but she had shown.
“I hate winter,” she snarled, gathering her legs beneath her, and rose with little grace and confidence, slipping, stumbling, finally grabbing hold of a car door to steady herself. “I hate winter.”
She would rather have been anywhere south of the snow belt. It didn't matter that she had been born and raised in St. Paul. A love for arctic temperatures was not part of her genetic makeup. She had no affinity for down jackets. Wool sweaters made her break out in a rash.
If it hadn't been for her father, she would have been long gone to friendlier climes. She would have taken the FBI assignment that had been offered when she'd been at the academy in Quantico. Memphis. People in Memphis didn't even know what winter was. Snow was an event in Memphis. Their thermometers probably didn't have numbers below zero. If they'd ever heard the words Alberta clipper, they probably thought it was the name of a boat, not a weather system that brought wind-chill factors cold enough to freeze marrow in the bones of polar bears.
I stay here for you, Pop.
As if he cared.
The teeth of the headache bit a little harder.
The Deer Lake City Center was new. A handsome V-shaped two-story brick building, it testified to the growing tax base brought about by professional people moving out from the Cities. The town was just within commuting distance of the south end of the metro area. With crime and crowding on the rise in Minneapolis and St. Paul, those who could afford to and didn't mind the drive sought out the quaint charm of places like Deer Lake, Elk River, Northfield, Lakefield.
The city offices were housed in the south wing of City Center, the police department and the office of the late lamented Leo Kozlowski in the north, with the city jail on the second floor. Additional jail facilities were available across the town square in the old Park County courthouse and law enforcement center, where the county sheriff's offices and the county jail were located.
Once inside the building, Megan hung a left and marched down the wide hall, ignoring the pretty atrium with its skylights and potted palms and pictorial history of Deer Lake. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass of a wall-mounted display case, she winced a little. She looked as if she'd just pulled a gunnysack off her head. That morning—seemed like a month ago—she had swept her dark mane back into a low ponytail and secured it with a small, no-nonsense bow in a dark Black Watch plaid. Neat. Businesslike. Now, strands fell like fine silk thread across her forehead and along her cheeks and jaw. She tried to sweep the stragglers back with an impatient gesture.
The reception desk at the head of the police wing had been abandoned for the day. She marched past it and on to the security doors that kept the city council safe from criminals and cops, and vice versa. She punched the buzzer and waited, looking into the squad room through the bulletproof glass. The room was bright and clean—white walls, slate-gray industrial-grade carpet that had yet to show any signs of wear. A small platoon of black steel desks squatted in two rows. The desks, for the most part, were not neat. They were piled with files and paperwork, crowded with coffee mugs and framed photos. Only three of them were manned, one by a massive uniformed cop talking on the phone, the other two by men in plainclothes, eating sandwiches while they tackled paperwork.
The uniform hung up the phone and rose to a towering height, big, drowsy eyes on Megan as he lumbered to the door, unwrapping a stick of Dentyne. He looked thirty and Samoan. His hair was dark and unruly, his body as thick as the trunk of an oak tree, and probably just as strong. His name tag said NOGA. He popped the gum in his mouth and punched the intercom button.
“Can I help you?”
“Agent O'Malley, BCA.” Producing her ID, Megan held it up to the glass for his inspection. “I had an appointment with Chief Holt.”
The cop studied the photo with mild interest; he looked half asleep. “Come on in,” he said with a casual wave. “Door's open.”
Megan gritted her teeth and willed herself not to blush. She didn't care to be made a fool of, especially not at the end of a day like this one or by a man who was a part of her network. Noga pulled one of the doors open and she marched in, fixing him with a steely look.
“Shouldn't this area be secured?” she asked sharply.
Noga appeared unperturbed by her manner. He shrugged his shoulders, a move that looked like an earthquake going through a small mountain range. “Against what?” When she just glared at him, he smiled a crooked half-smile, his thick lips tugging upward on the right side. “You aren't from around here, are you?”
Megan was getting a crick in her neck from looking up at him. Hell of a trick, trying to do imperious on someone a full foot taller than you. “Are you?”
“For long enough. Come on back.” He led the way through the rows of desks to a hall with private offices off it. “Natalie's still around. No one sees the chief without seeing Natalie first. She runs the place. We call her the Commandant.” He eyed her with mild curiosity. “So what are you here for? Filling in until they find a replacement for Leo?”
“I am the replacement for Leo.”
Noga arched a thick brow, schooling a look of shock and dismay into something that more resembled indigestion. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Huh.”
“You got a problem working with a woman?” Megan worked to keep the edge out of her voice. But she was tired and her temper was running on a real lean mix. She could feel it simmering just beneath the surface of her control.
Noga played innocent, eyes wide. “Not me.”
“Good.”
He ducked into an office, drumming his knuckles on the open door as he went. “Hey, Natalie! The BCA guy—er—gal—” Noga cast a self-conscious glance at Megan.
“Agent O'Malley,” she said stiffly.
“—is here,” he finished.
“Well, it's about damn time.”
The churlish line came from an office beyond the one in which they were standing. Stenciled on the frosted glass was MITCHELL HOLT, CHIEF OF POLICE, but it was not Mitchell Holt who came to the door with black eyes blazing.
The infamous Natalie was no taller than Megan's five feet five, but considerably more substantial of body. She had a certain squareness about her that suggested immovability, but she draped that squareness in a rust and purple ensemble that more than suggested taste. Her skin was the color of polished mahogany, her face as round as a pumpkin and crowned with a fine cap of tight black curls that looked
like the wool of a newly shorn sheep. One hand propped on a hip, the other braced against the doorjamb, she gave Megan a hard once-over from behind the lenses of huge, red-rimmed glasses.
“Girl, you are late.”
“I'm well aware of that,” Megan replied coolly. “Is Chief Holt still in?”
Natalie made a sour face. “No, he isn't in. You think he'd just be sitting here, waitin' on you?”
“I did call to say I'd be late.”
“You didn't talk to me.”
“I didn't know that was necessary.”
Natalie snorted. She pushed herself away from the door and bustled around her desk, adding papers to a file, filing the file in one of half a dozen black file cabinets behind her. Every move was efficient and quick. “You are new. Who'd you talk to? Melody? That girl would forget her own behind if some man didn't always have his hand on it to remind her.”
Noga edged his way toward the door, trying to be unobtrusive. “Noogie, don't you try to sneak out on me,” Natalie warned, not bothering to look at him. “Have you finished that report Mitch asked for?”
He made a pained face. “I'll finish it in the morning. I've got patrol.”
“You got trouble, that's what you got,” Natalie grumbled. “That report is on my desk by noon or I take the electric stapler after your ass. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“And don't forget to drive by Dick Reid's place twice. They've gone to Cozumel.”
Megan heaved a sigh and wished she were gone to Cozumel. A faint tic had begun in her right eyelid. She rubbed at it and thought about food for the first time since breakfast. She needed to eat something or the headache would take a stronger hold and she wouldn't be able to keep medication down.
“If Chief Holt is gone for the day, then I'd like to reschedule our appointment.”
Natalie pursed her thick lips and fixed Megan with a long, measuring look. “I didn't say he was gone. I said he wasn't in,” she qualified. “What kind of cop are you, you don't listen to nuances?” She made a sound of disgust and led the way out of the office. “Come on, Agent O'Malley. You're here, you might as well meet him.”
Megan marched along beside the chief's secretary, careful not to step ahead, well aware the woman was taking her measure.
“So you're here to fill Leo's spot.”
“I couldn't hope to fill Leo's spot,” Megan said, deadpan. “I don't eat enough fried food.”
A muscle ticked at the corner of Natalie's mouth. Not quite a smile. “Leo could pack it away, that's for sure. Now they've packed Leo away. I told him to watch his cholesterol and quit smoking those damn cigars. He wouldn't listen to me, but that's a man for you. Look up obtuse in the dictionary—they ought to have a picture of a man beside it.
“Everybody liked Leo, though,” she added, her gaze sharpening on Megan once more. “He was a hell of a guy. What are you?”
“I'm a hell of a cop.”
Natalie snorted. “We'll see.”
When she first heard the music, Megan thought she was imagining it. The sound was faint, the tune something from the Christmas season. Nobody played Christmas music in January. Everybody had OD'd on it by the middle of December. But it grew louder as they went down the hall. “Winter Wonderland.”
“The cops and the volunteer firemen put on a show for Snowdaze and give the proceeds to charity,” Natalie explained. “Rehearsal goes on till seven.”
A roar of male laughter drowned out the music. Natalie tugged open a door marked CONFERENCE 3 and motioned for Megan to precede her. Half a dozen people lounged in chrome-and-plastic chairs that had been set up in two haphazard rows. Another half dozen stood along the paneled walls. All were in various states of hysteria—laughing, slapping thighs, doubled over, tears streaming. At the front of the room a Mutt and Jeff team lumbered through a soft-shoe routine in red longjohns while from the speakers of a boombox a man with an overdone Norwegian accent sang, “Itch a little here. Scratch a little dere. Valkin' in my vinter undervear . . .”
Megan stared openly at the spectacle. The man on the right had a build like the Pillsbury doughboy and wore a red plaid Elmer Fudd cap. The one on the left was a different story altogether. Tall and trim, he had Harrison Ford's looks and an athlete's body. The underwear fit him like a second skin, announcing his gender in no uncertain terms. Megan fought to drag her gaze to less provocative details of his anatomy—his sculpted chest, narrow hips, long legs as muscular as a horseman's. Whoever had meant for the outfit to make him look ridiculous was obviously without hormones.
The headgear was another matter. The Minnesota Vikings stocking cap sported yellow felt horns and long braids made of yellow yarn. The braids bounced as he shuffled and hopped through the steps of the dance. His expression was one of disgruntled indignity, but he was having a hard time maintaining it.
When the routine ended, the performers took exaggerated bows, laughing so hard they couldn't straighten. He had a wonderful laugh, Harrison. Warm, rough, masculine. Not that it affected her, Megan thought, attributing the wave of warmth to being overdressed. She didn't have involuntary physical reactions to men. She didn't allow it. It wasn't smart—especially when the man was a cop.
Harrison straightened, and a wide grin lit up his face; an interesting, lived-in face that was a little bit rough, a little bit lined, not exactly handsome, but utterly compelling. An inch-long scar hooked diagonally across his chin. His nose was substantial, a solid, masculine nose that might have been broken once or twice. His eyes were dark and deep-set, and even though they gleamed with good humor, they looked a hundred years old.
Megan hesitated and Natalie bumped her forward, then stepped past her.
“Have you no pride at all?” she demanded of her boss, tugging hard on one of his yellow braids. She shook her head, and her black eyes sparkled as she fought a smile.
Mitch Holt blew out a big breath. “You're just jealous because I've been asked to model in Victoria's Secret.” He grinned down at the woman who ran his professional life. Secretary was far too lowly a title for Natalie Bryant. He considered her an administrative assistant and had bullied the city council into paying her accordingly, but he thought her nickname suited her best. She was a commandant in pumps.
Natalie made a sound like a horse blowing air through its lips. “Farmer's Almanac is more like it. You look like a reject from the rube factory.”
“Don't spare my ego,” he drawled, giving her a cranky look.
“I never do. You got company. Agent O'Malley from the BCA.” She swung a hand toward the woman who had come in with her. “Agent O'Malley, meet Chief Holt.”
Mitch leaned forward to offer his hand, sending a yellow braid swinging. He snatched the stocking cap off his head and tossed it to his dance partner without looking. “Mitch Holt. Sorry you're catching me out of uniform.”
“I apologize for being so late,” Megan said, stepping forward to shake his hand.
His hand engulfed hers, broad and strong and warm, and she felt a little involuntary jolt of something she would neither name nor acknowledge. She looked up at Mitch Holt, expecting to find something smug in his expression, finding instead confidence and the keen gleam of awareness. The word dangerous came to mind, but she dismissed it. She tugged her hand back, trying to break the contact. He held on just a second longer, just long enough to let her know they would do things his way. Or so he thought. Business as usual . . .
“I ran into some unforeseen complications moving in,” she said crisply. “I'm ordinarily very punctual.”
Mitch nodded. I'll bet you are, Agent O'Malley. He kept his gaze steady on hers, searching for a reaction to the physical contact. Her gaze was cool green ice. He could almost feel the shields go up around her.
“It wasn't a problem,” he said, absently combing a hand back through his thick tawny hair in an attempt to tame the havoc wreaked by the stocking cap.
“So you're Leo's replacement.” He cocked a brow and tried to visualize he
r without the mega-parka. “Well, God knows you'll be easier to look at.”
The remark struck like flint against steel, sparking off Megan's frayed nerves. “I didn't get the job because I look good in panty hose, Chief,” she said, cutting him a wry look.
“Neither did Leo, thank Christ. There are some things I can go my whole life without experiencing. Leo Kozlowski in lingerie is right up there on the list. He was a hell of a guy, though, Leo. Knew every good fishing hole for a hundred miles.”
Megan had never felt that was one of the more crucial talents a field agent should possess, but she kept her opinion to herself.
Rehearsal had been declared officially over. The participants drifted out the door, Natalie bringing up the rear like a shepherd. A couple of men called good-byes back to Mitch. He raised a hand to acknowledge them, but kept his attention on Agent O'Malley.
He wondered if she realized the tough-cookie act was more intriguing than if she had been skittish. It made him wonder what was behind the shields. A thread to play with just to see how it might unravel. It was his nature to work at puzzles, a compulsion that suited his profession. He let the silence hang, to see how she would react.
She held his gaze and waited him out, her head cocked to one side. Casually she brushed back the wisps of dark hair that had escaped her ponytail. Its color made him think of cherry Coke—nearly black with a hint of red. Exotic in this land of Swedes and Norwegians. Aside from the stubborn set of her chin, she most resembled an escapee from a convent school. Her face had that earnest quality usually reserved for CPAs and novice nuns. A pale oval with skin like fresh cream and eyes as green as the turf in Killarney. Pretty. Young. Mitch suddenly felt about ninety-three.
“Well,” Megan started. What she needed was to end this conversation, retreat, regroup, come back tomorrow, when she was feeling stronger and he was dressed in something more than long underwear. “It's late. I can come back tomorrow. We'll have more time. You'll have pants on. . . .”
He grinned the crooked grin. “Are you uncomfortable with this situation, Agent O'Malley?”