His face scrunches up in the rearview.
That’s right, Officer Holiday Buzzkill.
Wonder how this “civilian” knows her penal codes?
Spoiler: you’re about to find out.
Chapter 2
Jesse
“I didn’t do it.”
~ Almost Every Criminal Ever
I glanceinto my rearview to check on the woman I apprehended. Her big doe eyes catch mine in the mirror and she narrows them at me. She’s a feisty one, that’s for sure. Asking me to put on a Santa hat when she’s facing down a minimum of four violations? That’s grit.
I’m not used to actually arresting people. Most nights I’m hauling Cooter home after he’s climbed into the wrong bed after a night at Cues and Brews, or I’m answering Esther’s “burglar” calls that turn out to be raccoons raiding her trash. Then there’s the occasional group of kids who get a wild hair and decide to drive a tractor down Main Street. Other than that, we’re a sleepy town. Typically, I’m driving down quiet streets, sipping lukewarm coffee, listening to true-crime podcasts, and ending the night in my double bed—alone.
But this? Stealing a van’s no joke. Not to mention stealing that Santa. And what’s with her knowing everyone in town? Maybe she’s a part of a crime ring—they’ve done their research.If that’s the case, maybe we’re about to have a rash of auto thefts around here.
Stay sharp, Heinz.
Miss Keller doesn’t look the part, but then again, the real ones never do.
I’m about to tell her she can call me Jesse, after all, my mama raised me with manners. But I’m dealing with a criminal, so I think it’s prudent to keep things professional.
I’m a police officer.
She thought she’d throw me off my game with that one. I could throw the book at her for impersonation, but I’ll go easy on that since she probably didn’t know the heft of that claim. She’s got enough to answer for with her other charges.
I hum along to the carol on the radio, the wiper blades thumping in time to the song. I’ve got holiday spirit to spare. Sleigh bells tied to my cruiser mirror, cocoa in my cup holder … and the ever-present determination to be taken seriously for once in my life.
Well, that last one’s not exactly holiday relevant. Around here, they’ve taken to calling me “the department elf.” I’m not short, so I’m pretty sure they’re talking about that guy Buddy from the movie—the one who put syrup in his spaghetti. I’m not a cotton-headed ninnymuggins. I care for my town. I helped Em find her family in Boston. I’m good at what I do—thorough, conscientious, calm under pressure—for the most part.
I glance in the rearview again. Taking down a car theft? She’s not wrong. That’ll be a feather in my cap. Not only a feather—a whole chicken. Not that I want a chicken in my cap, or anywhere else near my head for that matter.
“Are you warm enough back there?” I ask Miss Keller.
I swallow, throat dry. She’s beautiful—and I’m on duty, which somehow makes it worse. I need to ignore her thick blonde braid sticking out from under her knit cap, a slight curl atthe end making me wonder what her hair’s like when it’s down. And those pouty lips, pressed thin in frustration—at getting caught, I’m sure.
How desperate does a man have to be to start noticing how pretty a suspect looks in handcuffs?Pathetic.
But, in my defense, it’s not my fault that our town’s this small. The majority of the women my age have found the loves of their lives already. Not one of them would give me the time of day even when they were single. And that’s okay. I’m happy for each one of them.
I’m not about to relocate out of Bordeaux. My family’s here. It’s the only home I’ve known. I’ve learned to cope—throwing myself into my work, and serving my community with gusto.
“Now you’re going to check if I’m comfortable?” she asks with a tone of indignance and a firm set to her shoulders.
“I’m not mistreating you, ma’am. I’m just doing my job. If you’re cold, you just let me know. These cruisers aren’t new models, but they’ve got heaters that do the trick.”
She shakes her head as if I’m the one in the wrong here. Must be part of her act—trying to keep me questioning her guilt. I don’t even need my background training to sniff that out. One episode ofChicago P.D. and I could tell you the criminal never admits to committing the crime.
Gravel crunches under the cruiser’s tires as we pull into the station lot. A soft layer of white covers everything—our first real snow of the season.
“Here we are,” I say. “Bordeaux PD.”
Her eyes scan the brick building as if she’s casing the joint.
