A New Prospect Read online

  “It certainly is.” I think.

  “The bad part is we’ll need you to start Friday. I forgot we have a big event comin’ up this Saturday that requires a po-leece supervisor. Buck Webbster is officially off the payroll as of Thursday night. I’m sorry, Sam, but kin ya he’p us out here?”

  I like smooth. Ronnie gave me bumps. But I agreed. I can be a schlep at times.

  “Sure I can,” I said. “You want me there Friday morning?”

  “How’s two o’clock? I’ve got a meetin’ with the Finance and Payroll people in the mornin’.”

  “Two o’clock it is.”

  “Jest one more thing, Sam.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would ya mind stoppin’ here next Wednesday night after work? The Council is havin’ a meetin’. They’d like ta say hello.”

  I saw bumps. Then I got potholes. I only wanted a nine-to-five job. “Okay, what time?” I began to wonder if taking on a new career at my age made any sense. I’d hate to admit being wrong. I thought about that egotistical guy who said, ‘I thought I’d been wrong once, but I was mistaken.’

  Chapter Two

  Friday, July 21st, looked bright and sunny. Kate would leave home at 9:30, as she did every Friday, to meet seven of her friends for their weekly mahjongg games.

  After breakfast, I stood on the front porch looking east toward the Smoky Mountains. A big orange ball rose over the green pasture across the road where grazing horses chased annoying flies by flicking their tails. Closer to me, a swarm of gnats became visible in the backlighting.

  I had little planned for the already warm day.

  It’s appropriate for a newly employed police officer to carry a serviceable firearm. A cop with a gun is like a lawyer with a code of ethics: you may not use it very often, but it’s good to have around in case you need to show someone.

  I went downstairs, opened my safe and checked my guns.

  For my last three years in New York, I carried a Glock semiautomatic. Logically, something that allowed me to carry fifty rounds of 9mm ammunition in the gun and two extra magazines sounded like the way to go. Who wants the bad guys to have more firepower?

  Although I liked the Glock 19, my Smith & Wesson revolver remained my favorite. The old .38 would make me look like an aging gunslinger, like Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda in one of their last western movies.

  I took out the Smith, rubbed the blued steel finish with a silicone cloth, loaded it with six 158 grain, hollow points and locked it back in the safe. I’d carry that.

  Ready to go again, all I needed was a badge and, if absolutely necessary, a uniform.

  At 9:40, Katherine kissed me good-bye and asked me to wish her luck at the mahjongg tables.

  I said something inscrutably oriental, something Charlie Chan would have told Number One Son. I kissed her again and told her to drive safely.

  She wished me good luck with my new boss.

  * * * *

  After Kate left, Bitsey and I settled into the living room prepared to kill the morning with a borrowed Agatha Raisin novel. I sat in a wingback recliner and switched on the Tiffany lamp. Bitsey jumped onto one of the love seats. She made a couple of circles and hit the cushion like a paratrooper hitting a drop-zone. The effort that dog expended just to relax amazed me.

  Two banks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases formed the wall on my left; a mountain-stone fireplace occupied the center of the wall. I’m very comfortable in our living room. Bitsey could get comfortable on a bed of nails.

  I read for less than an hour and found Agatha wasn’t doing it for me. Maybe her incessant smoking bothered me. I hate it when people smoke. Listening to her bitchy behavior during the last few chapters annoyed me, too. Or perhaps it was because she volunteered to man a tombola stand for her women’s club, and I had no idea what the hell a tombola stand was.

  By afternoon, I’d be a police chief. Why was I reading about a middle-aged woman butting into police business in the midlands of Old Blighty?

  I tossed Aggie onto the window seat after deciding to make a surprise visit to my new police department.

  Looking natty again in a jacket and tie, I thought my pick-up was no vehicle for a new boss to arrive in on his first half day at work.

  I opened the overhead door to our garage where my restored 1967 Austin–Healey 3000 Mark III convertible sat waiting for me. What more could a middle-aged sports car enthusiast want? James Bond, eat your heart out. The last time I read anything about you, you drove a Saab.

  Dropping into the blue leather bucket seat, I depressed the clutch, switched on the key, touched the starter, and the three-litre engine growled to life.

  I headed east on US 321, turned north across the Little River and made my way via back country roads to Main Street in Prospect.

  At the head of the tree-rimmed square, the Municipal Building stood as a proud symbol of small town government. The building, only a little more than twenty years old, possessed all the style and charm of the 19th century, like one of those great old Carnegie Libraries.

  Inside, a visitor could find the Mayor’s Office, the Planning Commission, the Budget and Finance Department and all the other sections needed to run a small city.

  The necessary evils of society were also represented: the Magistrate’s Court—for perpetrators of misdemeanors and minor violations—and the Police Department.

  I drove around back where employees parked and where a few city trucks shared territory with the police vehicles. I didn’t want a zealous cop towing away the Healey, so I parked in a visitor’s spot rather than the area marked ‘Police Vehicles Only’.

  Inside, the PD layout looked unlike any of the old-fashioned precinct houses where I worked back in New York. No elevated desk dominated the lobby where a sergeant supervised a crew of desk officers. It looked much like any business office you might walk into.

  A pretty, blonde female in uniform sat behind a large desk with a glass partition behind her. A desk nameplate read Police Officer Bettye A. Lambert.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She looked up at me over a pair of little granny glasses.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, taking her attention away from the report lying on her desk. “May I help you?”

  “I’m sure you can.” I offered her my hand. “I’m Sam Jenkins, your new boss.”

  Officer Lambert stood and returned my handshake “Oh, uh…hello, Chief. What are you doin’ here today? You’re not due in until Monday.”

  The narrow reading glasses sat low on the bridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes sparkled with tiny flecks of brown and gold. A blonde ponytail swayed slightly. The color looked natural, perhaps with a little help from Miss Clairol, but natural enough for the likes of me. Her khaki shirt and charcoal green pants fit extremely well.

  I figured Bettye for mid- to late-thirties and thought her face showed more than one person’s share of character.

  But her frown suggested that something was troubling her. I used plenty of deodorant that morning. Couldn’t be me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” I offered her a smile most girls can’t resist.

  “That’s okay.” She returned a little grin, but a weak one.

  “Are you having a bad day?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered quickly. “Oh, well, yes, I guess. But I’m okay, Chief. It’s just that your predecessor came in on Monday, learned his retirement would be effective on Thursday and took sick time for the rest of the week. He left me in charge.” She rolled her eyes at the word ‘retirement’. “I’m just trying to clean things up and get ready for you on Monday. But…you’re here today.” She made it sound like I had rained on her parade.

  “Can I assume Buck left you with at least a few things unfinished?”

  “Yes, sir, he surely did.”

  She had a lovely voice, an accent that would make Scarlett O’Hara jealous.

  “Look, they’re not paying you to act as the police chief,” I said. “Don’
t worry. We’ll fix whatever is necessary together.”

  A flicker of relief showed. Her shoulders dropped half-an-inch, and some of the stress left her face.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Let’s talk about what’s happening.”

  She sat in her swivel chair and tossed the granny glasses onto her blotter. I took the side chair next to her desk, spun it round and rested my forearms on the seatback.

  “Okay, let’s start over. Hi, I’m Sam Jenkins, your new boss.”

  She cracked a smile, one more genuine than her previous attempt.

  “And it’s Sam. Sir, Chief or Your Highness isn’t necessary. If you’re going to be formal, I’ll have to call you Officer Lambert, and I don’t want to do that.”

  My wit and charm got a big, beautiful smile from Bettye. Sir Galahad could take lessons from me.

  I told her about the mayor’s plans. She explained what work she wanted to clear up. None of it sounded critical.

  “Relax, Bettye. Nothing there involves preserving world peace. Work on it when you can, or save some for me.”

  The radio crackled, and one of the patrol cops asked to be taken out of service for a meal period.

  “I’ll let you get back to being the desk officer, and I’ll take a look around,” I said. “Is anyone else here?”

  “No, sir, I mean, Sam. Three men are on the road. I’m here alone.”

  “Well, not anymore. Excuse me while I wander around.”

  Beyond the glass divider behind Bettye’s desk, I saw rows of file cabinets and some computer gear, a rack of portable radios and some other gadgets necessary to the modern police department. Bettye’s desk held a big telephone console, a radio transceiver and microphone to speak with the patrol cars and several computer components.

  To her right, a visitor’s left, I found the chief’s office. Farther back and down the hall on the left, the overnight detention cells and a combination interrogation and juvenile offender room extended to the back wall. On the right, what cops call the ID room—the place to fingerprint and photograph defendants, came first. Behind that, the uniformed officers’ squad room. The only squad room because we had no detectives. It occupied the largest space in the floor plan. Prospect PD in a nutshell.

  When I finished my self-guided tour, I entered my new office. Not bad, I thought, as I heard my stomach growl. I looked at my watch: 12:15.

  Back in the lobby, I asked Bettye, “What time do you usually take lunch?”

  “Usually at one, but I didn’t plan on going out today. I brought a container of yogurt.”

  I made a face at the thought. “That’s not much to eat. I’ll never make it until dinner without eating lunch. I’ll go out and pick up something—my treat. Anything good close by?”

  “There’s Hardee’s across the street.” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose, as though not convinced they were good.

  “How’s the Chinese place on the square,” I asked.

  “Wah Lum? They’re good,” she said with more conviction.

  “Wah Lum it is. You need a menu?”

  “No, I’ll just have sweet and sour pork, but I’ll pay.” She opened a desk drawer and reached for a purse.

  “Not necessary. Old cop tradition—new guy buys lunch on the first day. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Thirty minutes later, we sat around her desk, her with sweet and sour pork and me with Hunan chicken.

  “Mr. Lum seems like a nice guy,” I said. “He told me he escaped from Communist China over the Canton border and lived in Kowloon before coming to the US. And like me, he came here from New York.”

  “You learned all that in just a few minutes?”

  “Sure. He likes to talk. I ask questions.”

  “Well.”

  “So, how long have you been a cop?” I asked, as I popped another piece of spicy chicken into my mouth.

  Before I finished lunch, I learned that Bettye started her career in Prospect as the magistrate’s court officer.

  Thirteen years earlier, her first husband, Walter Hitchens, a Prospect police officer, died one night after being run down by a drunk driver. That left Bettye a widow with two young daughters. She asked to fill Walt’s spot at the PD, needing the extra salary to help make ends meet. Ronnie Shield’s predecessor ordered a reluctant Buck Webbster to hire her as a cop.

  “I’m sorry to hear what happened to Walt, but you’re not Bettye Hitchens any longer.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “My second husband, Donnie, is an electrical contractor. We have a son, Donald Junior.” She sounded proud of them.

  We spoke more, mostly of personal things. She didn’t hesitate to admit being forty-two-years-old. I wouldn’t either if I looked as good as her.

  During lunch, a few routine calls came in on our 9-1-1 line, a minor first aid case, a stolen car report and a neighbor dispute. Bettye dispatched the cars like a real pro. I knew I’d like working with her.

  At quarter-to-two, I was impatient and ready to hike up to the mayor’s office on the second floor. Before I left, I gave Bettye an assignment.

  “I don’t know how long the Maharaja will have me upstairs,” I said, “but I’d like to meet the street cops before they go home. Is anything exciting going on that would keep you from calling the cars in so we can all have a powwow?”

  She gave me a big smile. “Sam, it’s two o’clock on a Friday afternoon in Prospect, Tennessee. The sun is shinin’. There are no wrecks on the roads—‘course I can call in the cars. You want them here about 3:30? That way when the four o’clock shift comes in a little early, as they usually do, we’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”

  “Lady, with ideas like that you’ll be the first sergeant here in no time. You’re doing a fine job being a cop. I hope I can remember how it’s done.”

  Chapter Three

  The mayor’s secretary, Trudy Connor, looked to be in her early-fifties, came to work well dressed and, so far, managed to be almost friendly. My only objection—she smelled of nicotine. I envisioned her disappearing into the parking lot to sneak a smoke behind the dumpster.

  Standing in the anteroom of the Mayor’s office I said, “Hello, Ms. Connor. Remember me? Sam Jenkins, the new police chief?”

  She smiled and nodded, giving me the impression she thought—‘Of course I remember, you idiot. Do I look like I’d forget something like that?’

  “I have a two o’clock appointment with the mayor,” I said

  She looked at a telephone console, saw a red light showing and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Shields is on the phone right now.” She looked at her watch. “And you’re a little early. Please have a seat, and I’ll let you know when he’s free.”

  I watched the red light go out. It was close enough to two o’clock for me.

  “Matter of life and death, Ms. Connor,” I said. “He’s expecting me. Important police business, you know.” I grabbed the doorknob to Ronnie’s office.

  As I opened the door, I heard Ms. Connor say, “Mr. Jenkins, you can’t!”

  Ms. Connor could be trouble. I’d work on that.

  Ronnie Shields’ office looked like something out of Field & Stream magazine. His expansive mahogany desk backed up to a bay window overlooking the town square. A high-backed swivel chair was tucked and pleated in soft burgundy leather. In front of the desk, two forest-green leather armchairs waited to accommodate visitors. Various wildlife prints: a group of white-tailed deer, a large-mouth bass hooked to a lure, and several wild turkeys added to the woodsy atmosphere. A stuffed deer head hung on the wall, as did some sort of long and skinny, mean-looking fish. I began to wonder if he bought out the Cabela’s outlet store.

  Ronnie appeared cool and well groomed, like some head of state in his medium-gray suit. Although in his mid-forties, Ronnie looked young to be a mayor. Maybe that’s because I’m older and still think people in authority should look senior to me. Or perhaps Ronnie just had one of those perpetual little-boy faces. He’d probably look young at ninety. His dark blond
hair, in a slightly long, over-the-ears style, may have been out of fashion, but looked right for him. There wasn’t a follicle out of place. He might spend as much on hairspray as I spend on liquor. If Ronnie Shields wasn’t a politician, he’d make a great televangelist.

  He looked toward his doorway as I thrust myself into his office unannounced.

  “Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya. You doin’ alright today?”

  “I’m well, Ronnie. How about you?” I said as we shook hands.

  “Real fine. Yes, sir, real fine.”

  He gave me a well-rehearsed political smile. His blue eyes twinkled. If I brought a baby with me, he would have kissed it.

  The mayor pointed to one of his green chairs. I sat.

  “In jest a couple minutes, Sam, I’ll have Trudy come in, and I’ll swear ya in. She’s a notary and’ll witness your oath of office ta make it all legal-like. Then, sir, you’ll be our new po-leece chief. That suit ya?”

  “Sounds good today. I’ll let you know for sure in about a month.”

  That must have bothered him. He wrinkled his brow and looked at me—like George Washington might have looked at Benedict Arnold.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What’s the big event tomorrow that requires a police supervisor?”

  “Oh, the annual car show and flea market or some such thing. Later on, we’ll go downstairs an’ I’ll introduce ya ta Bettye Lambert. She’s your administrative officer. Good woman, you’ll like her. She’ll explain everythin’ ta ya.”

  “We’ve met. I stopped at the PD before coming up here.”

  Ronnie gave me an embarrassed smile. “Well, I shoulda known. Yes, sir, I shoulda known you’d take a look at your new command.”

  I nodded and tried to seem excited.

  He opened his desk drawer and spoke with enthusiasm, “Look here, Sam. Here’s your badge.”

  He handed me a large oval shield, silver with gold detail. Getting partially up from my chair, I accepted the badge, saw the Tennessee state seal in the center and read the words, ‘City of Prospect’ in a scroll above that and ‘Chief’ below.

  A few minutes later, Ronnie swore me in. Ms. Connor notarized my signature. And I became the police chief in Prospect, Tennessee.

  * * * *

  Back in front of Bettye’s desk at 3:20, my new badge already felt familiar in my pocket, and the three day-shift sector cars were on their way to headquarters.