THIRTEEN
Was a cop ever really off duty?
Chief of Police Sylvie Laurent didn’t think so. She freed her hands from her wool gloves and pocketed them in her winter police coat.
Then she unclipped her gun holster.
Trouble never waited for her to clock in, and it wasn’t about to start now.
Even when it posed as a good-looking man sporting a golden tan.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore,” she mumbled aloud, heading the stranger’s way. Or, with his bronze skin maybe she should say Cali.
He appeared like a black sheep against a sea of snow white—the snow-covered grounds of Spencer Speedway, as well as the paled complexions of the townspeople he pushed through. It would be months before any of them glowed a golden bronze like that, maybe not ever.
So, who was he? And why was he here?
A group of local children with cotton candy frozen to their cold faces cut in front of her, innocent to the possible threat at the annual Jingle Bell Jam celebration. The Christmas event put on by the Spencer family for longer than Sylvie could remember wasn’t a tourist attraction. It was something the Spencers offered to their employees every year to start off the holiday festivities. That included pretty much everyone in Norcastle, New Hampshire, but it did not include this guy.
A horn from the racetrack blew. Sylvie kept walking, even though she knew she was expected down in the pits. The small 1940s reproduction cars called Legends were set to compete on the track in ten minutes. Sets of snow tires strapped under the carriages of the tiny vehicles would give the crowd some excitement as the teen division of drivers raced to the finish line in the annual Legends snow race. Her son would be among them—and expect her to be on the sidelines.
Duty calls. Sorry, Jaxon.
The stranger’s eyes met hers, chilling her with their hold. There was something about their ice-blue color that was so familiar. With one blink, he took them away and dismissed her.
Bad move, mister.
Sylvie picked up her steps to cut him off, but three teenage boys stepped in front of the guy, blocking her path. Just a few feet from making contact, she ran into one of the boys, knocking something to the ground. A glance down and her plans changed in an instant.
A can of beer lay in the snow.
She picked it up. “Belong to you?” she asked one of the teens, noticing his bulkier-than-normal parka. A closer look at all three boys, the same age as her fourteen-year-old son, and she noticed they were all smugglers today.
Sylvie took her last look at the black sheep’s retreating back and decided he would have to wait.
“Unless you boys want to be cuffed and stuffed in the backseat of my cruiser, I suggest you hand over the alcohol you have in your pockets.”
Bret Dolan, the son of Norcastle’s mayor, flicked his straight, dirty blond bangs from his eyes and lifted a defiant chin to Sylvie.
Like father, like son.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy spouted. “That’s not ours. That was already on the ground. We just have a couple sodas.” The boy lifted a cola out of his pocket. “See?”
Sylvie reached inside her navy blue uniform coat. “Shall I call your parents, Bret, for the show when I search you? I’m game for an audience.” Sylvie took out her cell phone. She checked the bars and saw none, but she didn’t let on about the lack of coverage, which was spotty in these mountains on most days.
On a huff, the Dolan kid reached into his other pocket and withdrew a can of beer. He jammed it over to Sylvie.
“Crack it open and pour it out,” she instructed without touching it.
“Really? You can’t be serious.” Bret’s distaste for the whole event became even more evident as each of the boys followed suit with the same task, their lifted spirits at getting away with something doused right along with the six-pack of beer now on the snow around them.
“I’m very serious. I care for your safety, Bret, even if you don’t see that right now.”
“You don’t care for me. You just hate alcohol because your mother drank herself to death when you got knocked up.”
The horn from the racetrack blew again, but its penetrating sound paled in comparison to the pulsing of blood pumping behind Sylvie’s ears at Bret’s remark. She bit back a lethal response. She was sure the boy was only repeating what he’d heard his father say. “Why aren’t you racing today, Bret? You should be out there.”
“Mind your business,” the boy spouted off. Again his dad’s words. She let Bret’s disrespect go...for now.
“The next time I catch you, I take you in,” Sylvie said. She looked Bret in the eyes, holding his attention on her. “Tell your mom I said hi.”
He blinked a few times. Then he sent her a scathing look as his friends dragged him away.
She hoped someday he would see that she cared for his safety, his and his mom’s. She prayed it would be soon. For now, though, she had a stranger to find.
Sylvie hit the button to her radio on her shoulder. “Preston, Buzz, Chief here. I know you’re at the track. Be on the lookout for an adult male in his early thirties, shaggy black hair and black leather coat, about six feet in height. Not from around here. Just want to make sure he’s not about to cause any problems.”
“10-4, Chief” came a response from one of her lieutenants.
Scanning the crowds in the grandstand and still finding no sign of the black sheep, she entered through the fence marked Authorized Personnel and sought out the number eleven coupe her son drove. He weaved
