Murder on the Horizon by M.L. Rowland Page B

head inside. “’Bout ready to head on back to the SO, boss?”
    â€œThirty seconds,” Ralph said.
    â€œCopy that,” Warren said. “Hey, Gracie. Nice find.”
    â€œThanks,” Gracie said, forcing a smile.
    Ralph opened the long overhead door above his head, set the map tube inside the cupboard, and dropped the door closed with a bang.
    Gracie stared at Ralph’s back for a moment, said, “I’m outta here,” and stepped out of the open door of the trailer.
    *   *   *
    GRACIE FED QUARTERS into the SO soda machine and pressed the button for Fanta Orange. She grabbed the can that plunked down, walked around the corner and down the hallway.
    At the sound of Sergeant Gardner’s voice inside the squad room, she stopped.
    â€œLook up at me when I’m speaking to you, boy,” he said. “Where have you been the last thirty-two hours?”
    â€œI refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me,” came Baxter’s high voice.
    Gracie snorted a silent laugh and leaned against the wall next to the door to listen.
    â€œYou’re not under arrest,” Gardner said. “Although, you probably should be. I want to know where you were. What you were doing. If you damaged any property.”
    No response.
    Gardner’s hand slammed down on a flat surface. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Several seconds of silence, then the sergeant said in a low voice, “I don’t have time for you, you little punk. And neither do my men. They’ve got more important things to do than run around looking for you.”
    Right
, Gracie thought
. Like it was you who was doing the running around.
    â€œKeep this up and I will arrest you,” Gardner said. “That what you want? You wanna end up in jail? A loser like your old man? Or like his old man? Buncha losers. The lot of ya.”
    â€œSir!” Baxter said in a loud voice. “My father served in the United States Marines! As a veteran of Operation Desert Storm, he is worthy of your respect!”
    Gracie’s mouth fell open.
    â€œMy grandfather served in the United States Marines! As a veteran of the war in Vietnam, he is worthy of your respect.” A split second later, he tacked on, “Sir!”
    â€œSo you
can
talk,” Gardner said. “You listen to me, you little—”
    Gracie pushed off the wall and rounded the corner into the squad room.
    Cream-colored walls were lined with maps, bulletin boards, cubbyhole in-boxes. A black chalkboard filled an entire wall. A shelf serving as a desk ran along the three remaining walls. In the center of the room sat a twenty-foot-long wooden conference table and chairs. Baxter sat slumped in a chair at the near end of the table, hands deep in the pockets of his pants, angry tears tracking his face, and glaring at Sergeant Gardner.
    A foot away, Gardner leaned over him, hands flat on the table.
    The hair on the back of Gracie’s neck bristled. Everything about the man proclaimed pugnacity. Bully. Six foot two. Red hair buzzed to nonexistent. Beefy, hairless, freckled arms. Barrel chest made even bulkier by the bulletproof vest worn beneath his putty-gray uniform shirt.
    When Gracie entered the room, the sergeant looked up, then straightened and growled, “What are you doing here, Kinkaid?”
    Gracie set the can of orange soda in front of Baxter, pulled out the chair next to him, and sat down. She mildly folded her hands in front of her on the table, looked up at the sergeant with eyes as wide and innocent as she could manage, and asked, “Doesn’t a parent or guardian have to be present during the questioning of a minor?”
    Gardner’s slits-for-eyes narrowed even further. Then he leaned over so that his mouth was inches from Baxter’s blond head. “I don’t want to see your face in here again. Do you understand me?”
    â€œSir. Yes, sir!” Baxter said