Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Pulled him over in a U-Haul and found a bunch of brand-new flat-screens in the back. Get this, though. Total retail on them comes to $4900.”
“Clever little bugger can do math.” Theft under $5000 will keep him from serving a serious sentence, even with the two priors he already has. “You’d think someone in that family would learn to stop stealing.”
Dan shrugs and offers up, “Axel’s record is clean.”
“Yeah, jury’s still out on that one.” Axel is Ian’s oldest, raised by his grandparents after his mother took off for greener pastures. He spends a lot of time with his uncle Hank, Ian’s older brother, who is no stranger to us. Hank served time for tampering with VINs and crushing cars without registering them at the auto wreckers where he worked for years. “Just because we haven’t caught Axel yet doesn’t mean he’s not up to something.” The tow truck he owns is the perfect cover for transporting illicit shit.
“Damn, when’d you get so jaded, Staff?” Dan teases.
“I like to call it wise.” I hold my mug in the air in a silent salute of thanks as I stroll to my office and the onslaught of meetings waiting for me, the most painful one being a video conference with my regional commander, Doug Freeman. He’s a lazy prick who was tapped for promotion three years ago and has spent nearly as long trying to find fault in the way I run things.
If I were the suspicious sort, I’d think he has a promotion in mind for someone—a buddy, a protégé, some owed favor—and he’s decided Cold River is the perfect place. It’s a small detachment, the command spot filled by a staff sergeant rather than a higher-ranking inspector like in larger centers. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t think a female is capable of running things. Those types still do exist, unfortunately. Or—and Freeman has dropped enough subtle comments to hint at this—having a McAllister heading the town’s detachment for twenty-six years breeds a sense of tenure that he feels isn’t healthy for the community.
I’ve taken my first bite of an apple spice muffin from the Landry Market when my admin clerk Jackie’s name shows up on my call display.
“Morning. What’s up?”
“Hi. There is a gentleman here to see you.”
I check the clock. My meeting starts in exactly eleven minutes. “Okay, take his information and tell him I’ll call him when I’m free—”
“It’s Brad Whitley.”
I sigh heavily. If I’d taken bets on this man showing up here within days of Logan’s release, I could have won some much-needed cash. “I thought you said ‘gentleman.’”
“He is insisting.” I can almost see Jackie’s owlish blue eyes. The crispness behind that single word means he’s being rude.
Normally I wouldn’t cater to this behavior, but the sooner I get him out of here, the better for all parties involved.
I pick at my breakfast and Jackie waits patiently for my response. “Bring him here but tell him he has five minutes.”
Thirty seconds later, Jackie’s curly bob appears at my door, gesturing the white-haired man in.
“Officer.” Brad shuts the door behind him before facing me.
My mouth is full of muffin, stopping me from correcting him. Not that there’s any point—the prick knows my rank and chooses to minimize it.
Brad drags out the vacant chair and settles his solid six-foot frame into it. He may be nearing eighty, but there is nothing frail or elderly about him. He still exudes the same strength and confidence that I remember shrinking away from inside the courtroom at Logan’s sentencing. “Good turnout at the fair this year, wouldn’t you agree?”
I swallow, my appetite lost. “It was. The weather helped.” Cold River hosts one of the oldest fall fairs in Northern Ontario every September and, as detachment commander, I’m required to stroll the grounds and greet people with a smile. It’s not a hardship. “Congrats to your granddaughter.” At sixteen, Hannah’s the youngest Harvest Queen crowned in forty years. Given she’s a direct descendant of George Whitley—for which the nearby town of Whitley is named after—she was all but guaranteed the win.
“Thank you. She worked hard for it.” His nod is resolute—no hint of doubt there. “Isla’s of age now, isn’t she? She should put her name in next year.”
“That’s an idea.” Isla wouldn’t be caught dead on that stage.
Brad smooths a palm over his cobalt blue button-down shirt. The man may have more wealth than anyone I’ve ever met, a lucky bastard twice over. His grandfather George opened one of the first mines in the area’s early-1900s silver rush and reaped handsome rewards until the industry dried up. When he passed, he left his vast fortune to his only son John, Brad’s father, with the expectation that he would provide adequately for his three sisters and their offspring.
Not one to sit idle, John founded Whitley Aggregates in the 1940s, employing his many nephews and nieces and his son Brad once he was old enough. Eventually, Brad took over, growing it to what it is today—a multimillion-dollar company with five pit and quarry locations and a topsoil farm. He’s earned himself several lucrative municipal tenders over the years.