and Chipper exchanged glances. His hand paused over a slice, then plunged in as if he might lose the opportunity. Holly felt her heart battery switch to recharge. Another impatient speeder trying to pass on deadly West Coast Road? The logging trucks were making the most of the dry weather. The last few summers had brought increasing drought. She hardly recalled the most recent rain, more the promise of a kiss. Relentless dust made washing her car a never-ending chore.
“We’ll be right out. Half an hour, barring traffic.” Ann listened, taking a few notes and pausing for confirmation.
“That long? Can’t be Bill Purdy beating up on his wife again.” An “old hand” after his first year at Fossil Bay, Chipper had memorized the names of the local troublemakers.
Finishing the snack, he gave an appreciative “mmmmm” and wiped his handsome mouth with a serviette. His shirt and pants were ironed razor sharp. Mother’s work. Chipper still lived at home in the apartment over the store, though his parents had been trying to arrange a marriage for him with a nurse in Sidney. Holly hoped he wouldn’t be transferred too soon. He was bright, ethical and personable, a winning combination in any profession. Though she’d only met him when Reg had given her an orientation, she’d studied the personnel files as part of her homework. Yet records often weren’t the measure of a person. No one looking at the three of them would realize that the thickset older woman was the hero.
“There’s been a drowning at Botanical. A girl...just a teenager.” Ann stood and stretched. A casual gesture in some interpretation, but Reg said that she did simple exercises every few hours to ease her back muscles. “She tries to stay off painkillers on the job,” he had added. “But don’t call her after dinner when she’s been into the sauce. That’s why she’s better at a desk with regular hours in a small detachment with eight-hour shifts instead of ten. Policing’s a 24-7-365 job, especially with a skeleton staff.”
Holly massaged the bridge of her nose, sad but not surprised at the news. The tides were renowned for their dangerous and quixotic nature. In bad winds, a rogue wave could snatch a storm watcher from the beach, sending the body down the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A boy who’d been lost this year at Tofino had never been found. At least it wasn’t a brutal and bloody car wreck. Holly had noticed the new vogue for commemorative descansos along the coastal road: flower tributes, stuffed animals, even a scooter. The concept seemed better adapted to hot, dry climates instead of rain-forest country. “A drowning?”
Ann sighed, the corners of her mouth sad commas. Pale from lack of sun, she wore no make-up, and small wrinkles sucked at the top of her thin upper lip. Old laugh-lines creased the edges of her hazel eyes, but the face was humourless. Was she on medication now? As her commanding officer, Holly should know, but asking would be tricky. And certainly not on Day One.
Ann’s fingers flipped a page in her notes. “Apparently. There seemed to be some head injury at first glance. Kids should know better than to dive, but they do. I told them to leave everything in place. You know the likelihood of that, though. Someone already pulled the body from the water.”
Chipper shook his head as he looked at a wall map. “I’ve been there a couple of times. That beach is very rough. How will we secure the scene? Sand, rock, a nightmare for evidence.”
“Evidence.” Holly tossed him a skeptical look and tapped his arm. “Come on, Chipper. Let’s not jump to conclusions. And we don’t know where the victim went in. She could have floated on the currents down the coast for miles.”
“No missing person reports,” he said, scanning the bulletin board. “But it could be recent, maybe a boating acci—”
“What are you two going on about?” Ann broke in. “We have an ID.”
Deciding to ignore the woman’s abruptness, Holly shivered. The idea of looking at a floater didn’t appeal to her. “How long had she been gone?”
Ann touched a finger to her long sharp nose. “Lucky you. The girl was in camp only last night. Annual high-school senior bonding exercise. Not enough chaperones. Never are. Not all the armies in the world can stop hormones when their time has come.”
Holly saw Ann’s eyes glance at the graduation picture of her son. Was that what had happened? As Holly’s plain-spoken mother reminded her, nothing could screw up a woman’s life faster than an early, unplanned pregnancy. Life was an uphill battle after that, not impossible, but tough on everyone. “No-fail protection,” Bonnie Martin had said in a wry tone to her bored young daughter in their birds-and-bees talk, crossing her fingers in a telling gesture. “Keep your legs closed.”
“Paramedics have the location, but they’re tied up for an hour. No need for resuscitation in this case, sadly.” As the two headed out, Ann added, “I’ll call Boone.”
Boone? Hadn’t Reg mentioned a coroner? “Oh, right. Thanks.” Her mind racing, Holly grimaced. Her first serious situation as a leader, and she wasn’t even rolling on four wheels. What did anyone expect from a tiny outpost, one staff member chained to a desk? Suppose something didn’t look right? Should a murder investigation ever be necessary, protocol dictated that larger resources would come to her service. Sooke was headed by a staff-sergeant, so an inspector would come from Langford, the West Shore detachment. She gave herself a mental scold as calming logistics kicked in. Why be so dramatic? This is going to be simple but monumentally tearful, as are all senseless young deaths.
After grabbing her pristine notebook, Holly headed for her jacket. “So we’re off, and—”
Ann looked up with a slow, deliberate question. “Don’t you want to know the girl’s name?”
Holly turned away to bite her lip. “Of course. Guess I’m just...never mind.” Confessing her weaknesses to this woman was not an option.
Ann said. “Angie Didrickson.” Then she spelled it.
Outside, as they approached the five-year-old white Impala, Chipper patted the trunk, frowning. “We should have our own FB decal, not SK.” The huge black initials helped helicopters identify each detachment and coordinate efforts.
“We’re lucky to get Sooke’s castoffs. I was guessing a quad and a couple of bikes,” Holly said, belting up. Parked behind their building was a 1985 Suburban with 250,000 Ks, another donation from the big dogs. Still, it would come in handy in winter if they had to go off-road or up the tortuous steep hills north into the San Juan Ridge.
As they headed down West Coast Road with Chipper at the wheel, ugly clear-cuts began skirting the road. “Not even a margin any more,” Chipper said. “Is this going to be the next Sun River, with thousands of houses?”
“It’s oceanfront or oceanview. Pure gold. Only the zoning gods will hold the balance.”
Checking the time, Chipper reached for the siren, but she said, “Leave it off. No need to pass on this road. It’s too late for her, and it’ll only frighten the tourists and attract gawkers. We don’t want a parade.”
They slowed at Jordan River, no longer a landing site for logs, as in its historic past. Electrical generation from the river had first reached Victoria in 1911, and the massive structure of the old powerhouse upstream had once attracted visitors. More people came to surf now than to ogle ancient buildings, and the storms of fall and winter brought peak conditions. Though there was only a brisk wind today, six or seven hopeful people on boards paddled out to catch the waves. The Chula Coffee and Juice Bar sold exotic fruit drinks and custom coffee, the closest Canada came to Malibu. At the beach, campers and vans lined the shore, some VWs with flower-power paint jobs. Every so often,
