with the Chicago Police Department, hadn’t made time to come. He was on yet another big case. Holly wasn’t surprised by his absence, but it still hurt.
Holly figured she should muster her courage, square her shoulders and march into the chapel like a brave trooper. After all, most of the people out there who waited to greet her were troopers. Cops. As Thomas had been. As her father was.
But she wasn’t. Still, letting her overwrought emotions hang out like freshly washed underwear on a towel rack would only embarrass her in the long run. She was expected to take it.
For now, she would do what she could to meet those expectations.
After all, she was the widow of a cop.
“I CAN’T TELL YOU how sorry I am, Holly,” said Al Sharp. He was dressed in his blue uniform. Al was about forty years old, and he had an extra chin despite how lean his body remained. His hairline had receded, and what was left was cut into a stubble. He had delivered the news about Thomas’s death, for he had been his partner. He had also come to see her the next evening and talk to Tommy.
“I know, Al,” she said. She stood at the front of the large, high-ceilinged chapel, near where Thomas’s closed casket lay on a bower surrounded by huge flower arrangements. The luscious, vibrant aroma of once-living blossoms whose lives had been cut short to mourn her husband’s death wrapped around Holly and choked her. She wondered vaguely if she would ever be able to work in her own garden again.
Behind Al, other cops lined up to pay their respects to her. Lots of cops—men and women. Maybe hundreds, certainly more than the entire Naranja Beach force. Some stood in the chapel’s center aisle and others at the sides before the stained glass windows. She recognized a few, but most she didn’t. Some were in different uniforms, indicating they had come from other jurisdictions to salute a fallen comrade. Some wore suits, signifying they were detectives, not patrol officers.
No cameras, at least none that she could see. Maybe the reporters who had hounded her since Thomas’s death were somehow intimidated by such a large showing of law enforcement, but she doubted it. Wouldn’t it instead act as a magnet to them?
She swallowed hard. Could she take this? There were so many people. And despite her resolve to show only courage, she wasn’t certain she could continue….
Chief Gabe McLaren joined them. “Mrs. Poston.” He took her hand once more and shook it, as if in greeting. But he had shaken her hand before. “May I talk with you for just a second? I need to tell you what I started to say earlier.”
She had the impression that what he intended to communicate was private, yet they were in the midst of a flood of people. Shouldn’t he wait until later? But he obviously didn’t want to delay it.
He was the chief of police. He had been her husband’s superior. Courtesy dictated that she not brush him off. And he clearly wasn’t about to leave her alone until he’d had his say.
She looked up at him, waiting for him to speak.
“I want you to know something, Mrs. Poston.”
“What’s that?” She didn’t exactly feel comfortable held in his unyielding grip, the subject of his frank stare, but she didn’t pull away.
“I’ve instructed the entire Naranja Beach Police Force to do two things. First, to find out exactly what happened to Officer Thomas Poston and bring his killer to justice.”
That was no less than what she had expected. Another stanza of the same old song she had heard sung throughout her life, first as the daughter of a police officer, then as the wife of one: cops take care of their own.
He continued, “Second, everyone on the force is your family, and they’re to treat you as such. Myself included. Every need of the wife and son of a fallen officer will be taken care of, I promise. Anything you want, anything bothering you, just let me know. House or car repairs, gardening, you name it.”
Sure, Holly had heard that was supposed to happen. Other cops’ wives had told her so. The spouses even had a coalition to share mutual concerns. She’d gone to some of their meetings. A bunch were here to show support—including, she’d been told, representatives of a national group for widows of fallen law enforcement officers.
Plus, a collection might be taken up for her. She would want to refuse their check, no matter how kindly it was meant, but she wouldn’t because of Tommy. Thomas had left insurance and sales of her artwork would help, so she wouldn’t need to get a job at least until Tommy was in school. Still, she wanted to start a college fund for Tommy.
But in her experience, anything more—anything requiring more than a check and an occasional visit from the cops themselves—was just another unsubstantiated urban legend, which was fine with her.
Yet Chief McLaren’s gaze was so straightforward that it shouted of sincerity. He meant every word he said. Didn’t he? And if so…
She had sudden disquieting visions of cops everywhere, well-meaning but underfoot, not allowing Tommy and her to get on with their lives.
And that, she was certain, would include Chief Gabe McLaren—perhaps the most disquieting of them all.
HE WASN’T her family. He didn’t even know her. But to emphasize his words, the show of support he’d offered, Gabe took his place beside Holly Poston in the makeshift receiving line.
He caught her sideways, questioning glance—like, who was he to hang around her?
“I know there’re a lot of people here, Mrs. Poston,” he said. “They all want to say how sorry they are for your loss. If you don’t feel like talking to any of them, you don’t have to. I’ll thank them for you. Or you can wait till later, after the service. Just let me know. We’ve already excluded the media from the chapel.”
She faced him directly, her expression surprised and, if he read it right, outraged at his audacity. But then it softened. She even managed a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Chief McLaren.”
“Call me Gabe,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment.
Sure, it was damned presumptuous for him to stand here with her, but his presence emphasized a message he’d already communicated to his own officers: we’re all members of the same family, and families stick together.
Holly Poston appeared exhausted, with dark circles beneath her stunningly doelike brown eyes. She was most definitely a beautiful brunette. Her hair was a shade of brown he’d describe as deepest, darkest chocolate. It was cut unevenly in a becoming style, longer in back, swept away slightly to show her ears, and fringed along her forehead. Her eyebrows were an even darker shade, arched but not plucked thin the way so many women did. Her mouth was full and lush, moist-looking despite the fact she wore no lipstick. Her cheekbones—well, he’d never really noticed cheekbones much, but he noticed hers. They helped to add definition to the oval shape of her face.
All in all, she was a stunningly beautiful lady despite the pain so obvious in her eyes.
Thomas Poston had been a lucky man—until someone had stabbed him to death four days ago.
Poston was the first police officer lost during Gabe’s tenure as chief, though he wasn’t the only one whose death had been suspicious lately. Gabe hoped Poston would be the last, but he, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous being a cop could
