from my desk, I grabbed my handbag and stepped into Randi’s office. “See if you can get the minutes of last night’s meeting from the clerk. I also need recent bank records on the campaign account.”
“How far back?”
“Let’s look at the last six months. Better to appear cautious and forthcoming. Go online and download any activity since the last bank statement came in.”
“Will do. You headed to Crime Central?” That was Randi’s pet phrase for the Police Department.
“Yeah.” With a wink I added, “You want me to pick anything up for you?”
“Hmm.” She raised a finger to her chin. “They have a nice selection of motorcycle cops. . . . A tall, strapping blond would be nice.”
“I didn’t know you were into the motorcycle types.”
“You’d be surprised at what you don’t know about me.”
I laughed, said I’d be right back, and headed out the back hall.
The Police Station, a wide affair with an exterior matching that of City Hall, is positioned behind our building. It took only a few minutes to walk across our rear parking area and into the station. One difference between our building and theirs is their employee parking lot, a sea of macadam surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with razor wire on top. The barricade isn’t a device to keep people in but to keep thieves out. Five years ago there were several embarrassing auto burglaries from the lot. Nothing gets cops angrier than having a thief trespass on their property, steal things from their cars, and stroll off into the night. Jokes still fly around town.
Inside the Police Station, all similarities with City Hall end. The Planning Commission insisted that the exterior comply with the design regulations, but it had no authority over what happened inside the walls. I always have the feeling I’ve crossed a time warp when I step through the glass doors of the lobby, leaving behind the architectural style of old Mexico and walking into the twenty-first century.
Stark white tile covers the floor; the ceiling is comprised of narrow bands of polished aluminum interrupted by the occasional recessed incandescent light. White enamel coats the walls. It takes a while to adjust to the brightness. On one wall is a large, framed display of police arm patches from around the country. On the other wall is a plaque bearing the names of the officers of the month. On the same wall is a substantial color photo of Chief Webb, reminiscent of a photo I’ve seen of a very angry Winston Churchill. As I approached the chief’s gruff image, Churchill’s words, “Some chicken, some neck” rang in my ears. Webb was Churchill without the humor.
“May I help you?”
A middle-aged male officer was standing behind the counter that divides the lobby from the office area behind. He had gray in his hair and a large belly straining his Sam Browne belt. Three yellow chevrons adorned his sleeve just below the shoulder. Behind him were several desks, most occupied by uniformed women.
“Yes, Sergeant, you can.” I gave him my best professional smile.
“Oh, Mayor! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. I was doing . . .”
“That’s all right, Sergeant. I saw that you were busy. Is Detective West in?”
“Yes ma’am. Do you have an appointment to see him?”
My first inclination was to remind him that I didn’t need an appointment, but instead I said, “Yes, we have a meeting.”
He walked back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a two-digit number. I heard him tell West I was out front. Coming back to the counter, he said, “He’ll be right out.” Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. I stepped forward to hear the message he didn’t want overhead by others.
“I know the Police Officer’s Association backed Adler, which is crazy, since he’s a criminal law attorney, but I want you to know I voted for you.”
“I appreciate that, Sergeant—” I looked at his nametag—“Sergeant Collins. I’ll take all the
“How far back?”
“Let’s look at the last six months. Better to appear cautious and forthcoming. Go online and download any activity since the last bank statement came in.”
“Will do. You headed to Crime Central?” That was Randi’s pet phrase for the Police Department.
“Yeah.” With a wink I added, “You want me to pick anything up for you?”
“Hmm.” She raised a finger to her chin. “They have a nice selection of motorcycle cops. . . . A tall, strapping blond would be nice.”
“I didn’t know you were into the motorcycle types.”
“You’d be surprised at what you don’t know about me.”
I laughed, said I’d be right back, and headed out the back hall.
The Police Station, a wide affair with an exterior matching that of City Hall, is positioned behind our building. It took only a few minutes to walk across our rear parking area and into the station. One difference between our building and theirs is their employee parking lot, a sea of macadam surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with razor wire on top. The barricade isn’t a device to keep people in but to keep thieves out. Five years ago there were several embarrassing auto burglaries from the lot. Nothing gets cops angrier than having a thief trespass on their property, steal things from their cars, and stroll off into the night. Jokes still fly around town.
Inside the Police Station, all similarities with City Hall end. The Planning Commission insisted that the exterior comply with the design regulations, but it had no authority over what happened inside the walls. I always have the feeling I’ve crossed a time warp when I step through the glass doors of the lobby, leaving behind the architectural style of old Mexico and walking into the twenty-first century.
Stark white tile covers the floor; the ceiling is comprised of narrow bands of polished aluminum interrupted by the occasional recessed incandescent light. White enamel coats the walls. It takes a while to adjust to the brightness. On one wall is a large, framed display of police arm patches from around the country. On the other wall is a plaque bearing the names of the officers of the month. On the same wall is a substantial color photo of Chief Webb, reminiscent of a photo I’ve seen of a very angry Winston Churchill. As I approached the chief’s gruff image, Churchill’s words, “Some chicken, some neck” rang in my ears. Webb was Churchill without the humor.
“May I help you?”
A middle-aged male officer was standing behind the counter that divides the lobby from the office area behind. He had gray in his hair and a large belly straining his Sam Browne belt. Three yellow chevrons adorned his sleeve just below the shoulder. Behind him were several desks, most occupied by uniformed women.
“Yes, Sergeant, you can.” I gave him my best professional smile.
“Oh, Mayor! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. I was doing . . .”
“That’s all right, Sergeant. I saw that you were busy. Is Detective West in?”
“Yes ma’am. Do you have an appointment to see him?”
My first inclination was to remind him that I didn’t need an appointment, but instead I said, “Yes, we have a meeting.”
He walked back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a two-digit number. I heard him tell West I was out front. Coming back to the counter, he said, “He’ll be right out.” Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. I stepped forward to hear the message he didn’t want overhead by others.
“I know the Police Officer’s Association backed Adler, which is crazy, since he’s a criminal law attorney, but I want you to know I voted for you.”
“I appreciate that, Sergeant—” I looked at his nametag—“Sergeant Collins. I’ll take all the
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