Page 6 of The Fall Back Plan
He frowns. “McGraw. Was her dad the one who crashed into the Harvest Festival?”
“Yeah.” I’d had to bring him in a few times for public intoxication when I first got on patrol, and by then he was notorious. No doubt I’d have dealt with him even more, but he died several years back.
“Does she seem like the type who might have some of her father’s same . . . tendencies?” the mayor asks.
The question bothers me. It’s bad enough to have your own past held against you, much less someone else’s, like your father’s. “She does not. She was the valedictorian of her class and went to Duke on a full scholarship. I knew her back then. She seems even more pulled together now.”
“Perhaps we ought to stop in and say hello,” the mayor says, glancing around at his group. “I’d have done it before opening if she’d been forthcoming about how to get in touch with her as the new owner.”
“It’s a nice place,” I tell him. “Y’all have a good evening.” I move on with the murmurs of their polite “You too”s following me.
I’d only come out tonight because Jennifer Lee had texted me on my personal number to let me know there was trouble brewing at Sullivan’s. Make that Tequila Mockingbird. I’d radioed Rolly to let him know I’d handle it.
This sort of thing happens a lot—friends and acquaintances bypassing the dispatcher to reach me directly. Usually it’s when they want something handled off the books, like a difficult relative they want managed without pressing charges. Or like tonight, when something has the potential to go bad but the presence of law enforcement could tip it the right way.
Once, about a year after I’d joined the department, I’d been standing in line to order at Cataloochee—they had the best coffee on Maple—and a young mom had told her little girl to thank me.
“For what?” the kid had asked.
“Do you know what a police officer does?” the mom had asked.
“Takes people to jail.” The little girl had given me a nervous look even though I’d made it a point to smile at her.
“No, honey. Police officers are here to keep people safe.”
The girl had come over then with a shy smile to say thank you.
That interaction stuck with me because most people don’t make that distinction. A peace officer’s primary responsibility is to de-escalate any situation. That’s the main way we keep people safe. Detainment and arrest are always a possibility if a suspect doesn’t comply with our directions, but in general, we’re always trying to keep a situation from boiling over.
Heaven knows I didn’t learn that particular skill in my own home.
But I’d trained under good officers, and we still lead with that philosophy now. All good police do. In high school, I’d been collared by enough good cops and a couple of bad cops to recognize the difference immediately, and it was the good cops—who were by far the majority—who’d ultimately helped me turn my life around.
I glance down at the shiny star on my chest and snort. There are days where I still can’t believe I’m the law-and-order guy in this town. Not after being a literal juvenile delinquent with a record of petty crimes from shoplifting to vandalism. But dang, I love this job.
Still, it’s been a long day. I try to get home by supper most nights to eat with Brooklyn and Pops, but at least once a week something will come up that keeps me away. Even before the problem at the new bar tonight, I’d bene running behind. I’d gotten caught by an old woman named Beryl Griggs coming in right before the end of official lobby hours at 6:00, telling me some wild tale about a psychopath on the loose and china dolls. It was about the fourth wild conspiracy she’d brought to me since I’d been elected. Nice lady, but she watches too much BritBox. She comes in and lays out her whole theory of the case like she’s writing an episode ofMidsomer Murders. It never amounts to anything, but I hear her out anyway. I think she’s mostly just lonely.
Police work. So glamorous.
Chapter Five
Jolie
Istumbleoutofthe Mockingbird Thursday night—Friday morning?—exhausted but pleased. The week has unfolded exactly like I thought it would, and why wouldn’t it? Business analysis is my whole thing. I hadn’t gotten into the bar business lightly. We’re increasing our sales by about twenty percent each night, and that’s right on pace.
Tonight, instead of slogging upstairs to sleep on the sofa at Ry’s place, I get to go to my own house. The title cleared right before 5:00 yesterday, and I had my new key in hand before lunch. I’d had furniture delivery already scheduled for weeks.
I climb into my truck and pull out. It’s past midnight, and the bar will still be open until 1:00, but technically it’s staffed so that I don’t need to be there at all. Tonight, I’m letting myself leave early as the only official celebration I’ll have of getting my house. It’s not my first; I own two rental properties in Chicago, including the townhome I moved out of when the rest of my life fell apart.
This newest house is outside of Harvest Hollow proper, in an older area that never became an official neighborhood. City lights and sidewalks disappear, and I’m driving along roads bordered by drainage ditches that front large pieces of property and houses built to suit the owners’ tastes without an HOA to tell you how big or what color anything can be.
It’s an interesting mix of custom homes in everything from Georgian style to modern farmhouse and a fair sprinkling of double- and triple-wide mobile homes with vinyl roofs in bright colors mixed in.
I’d been stubborn about what I wanted; as a kid, I’d longed for even a modest rambler, built in the sixties, beige brick, small windows, most of them showing outdated mini-blinds. And I’d have killed for an invitation into one of the bigger houses, like the Georgian ones with two stories and long windows looking out on groomed yards. But Jolie McGraw hadn’t been the type of person that kids who lived in those houses invited over to play. My life could have been scripted by a television writer who never had the imagination to rise above movie-of-the-week dramas.
The streets are empty this late at night, and I pick up some speed as I get closer to my property, a “nouveau Craftsman revival,” according to my realtor. All I know is that even though it’s way bigger than what I need at three thousand square feet, it still looks cozy. Cottagey, maybe? Like a place to burrow as the weather cools, for sure.
The roads here are narrow and dark, but not busy, and the curves are gentle enough not to risk any loss of control. I watch the speedometer climb to five over the speed limit and smile at the feel of my Ford F-150’s engine handling it like a boss. It’s so overpowered for what I need, but if you’re going to be a stereotype, might as well go all in. I’d even had it lifted and fitted with mudflaps.
