of conversations punctuated by the ring of telephones. FBI agents and state investigators sat at tables and desks raided from the public library next door. They were taking statements from civilians, while the uniformed officers were hauling reams of paper from one end of the room to the other. A portable radio unit spat out a burst of static and garbled words from the state troopers’ cars out on the road.
The old landmark building had retained its fifteen-foot ceilings, but long tubes of fluorescent lights marred this one remaining detail. The exposed brick of the walls had been painted over to disguise the building material as something more plastic, less sturdy. According to Chief Croft, the new color of the walls was “puke-green” and not “essence of willow,” as the painter had asserted. Movable partitions of padded fabric had been brought in by the Bureau of Criminal Investigation to divide the fringe space into cubicles, and computers sat on every surface as more solid reminders that the world had changed overnight.
Rouge was surprised to see Marge Jonas at her desk this morning. The civilian secretary was the only other survivor of the State Police takeover. She was wearing her platinum-blond hair this morning. Marge had wigs in every color except her own natural iron-gray.
He would have said hello, but the secretary was immersed in a technical manual. By her muttered obscenities, he knew she was deep into the latest computer glitch to plague the new system installed by the BCI task force. Beneath her chin, three rolls of flesh jiggled to the rhythm of her bobbing head as she looked down to the manual and then up to the lighted screen of scrambled text.
He walked on by, and she called after him, “Not so fast, Rouge Kendall!” Marge only used his full name if she was irritated.
He stopped dead and turned to face her. “Hey, Marge.”
One pudgy finger marked her place in the closed manual as she leaned over her desk to stare at his legs. “When I told you to come in wearing street clothes, I meant a suit. Are those your Sunday-go-to-meeting jeans? I notice they’re still sort of blue.”
“It’s all I had.” His late father’s tweed jacket had fit perfectly, but his mother could do nothing with the old man’s trousers, tailored for legs two inches shorter than his own.
“You need work.” Marge stood up to display two hundred and twenty-five imposing pounds of authority as she rolled one hand to motion him closer. “Honey, come here. Let me fix that.” Her dexterous fingers quickly undid the sloppy knot below the collar of his shirt. “We don’t want Captain Costello to know you’ve never worn a tie in your life.”
This was close to the truth. He had always worn a uniform to work and lived a blue jeans existence after hours. And so he stood by her chair, in docile surrender, while she properly knotted his father’s silk tie. A brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin was slung over one arm. This was his own, but purchased in his college days and showed some wear and shine.
Marge stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Now you look like a BCI investigator.”
“Hey, I’m just reporting for a plainclothes detail.”
“Don’t contradict me, hon. I typed up your press release this morning.”
“My what?”
She shot him a warning glance and nodded toward the private office appropriated by the BCI commander. The man standing in the open doorway had been a familiar sight in Makers Village for more than a decade. Captain Costello kept a summer house on the lake, but he frequented the shops and restaurants in every season. Many villagers had come to regard him as a local man, one of their own, though they found him somewhat aloof. Over the past ten years, the captain had never set foot in this local police station—and now he ruled it.
Costello was walking toward them. The man did not look happy, and neither did he look like anyone’s idea of a top cop in the BCI. The captain might
The old landmark building had retained its fifteen-foot ceilings, but long tubes of fluorescent lights marred this one remaining detail. The exposed brick of the walls had been painted over to disguise the building material as something more plastic, less sturdy. According to Chief Croft, the new color of the walls was “puke-green” and not “essence of willow,” as the painter had asserted. Movable partitions of padded fabric had been brought in by the Bureau of Criminal Investigation to divide the fringe space into cubicles, and computers sat on every surface as more solid reminders that the world had changed overnight.
Rouge was surprised to see Marge Jonas at her desk this morning. The civilian secretary was the only other survivor of the State Police takeover. She was wearing her platinum-blond hair this morning. Marge had wigs in every color except her own natural iron-gray.
He would have said hello, but the secretary was immersed in a technical manual. By her muttered obscenities, he knew she was deep into the latest computer glitch to plague the new system installed by the BCI task force. Beneath her chin, three rolls of flesh jiggled to the rhythm of her bobbing head as she looked down to the manual and then up to the lighted screen of scrambled text.
He walked on by, and she called after him, “Not so fast, Rouge Kendall!” Marge only used his full name if she was irritated.
He stopped dead and turned to face her. “Hey, Marge.”
One pudgy finger marked her place in the closed manual as she leaned over her desk to stare at his legs. “When I told you to come in wearing street clothes, I meant a suit. Are those your Sunday-go-to-meeting jeans? I notice they’re still sort of blue.”
“It’s all I had.” His late father’s tweed jacket had fit perfectly, but his mother could do nothing with the old man’s trousers, tailored for legs two inches shorter than his own.
“You need work.” Marge stood up to display two hundred and twenty-five imposing pounds of authority as she rolled one hand to motion him closer. “Honey, come here. Let me fix that.” Her dexterous fingers quickly undid the sloppy knot below the collar of his shirt. “We don’t want Captain Costello to know you’ve never worn a tie in your life.”
This was close to the truth. He had always worn a uniform to work and lived a blue jeans existence after hours. And so he stood by her chair, in docile surrender, while she properly knotted his father’s silk tie. A brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin was slung over one arm. This was his own, but purchased in his college days and showed some wear and shine.
Marge stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Now you look like a BCI investigator.”
“Hey, I’m just reporting for a plainclothes detail.”
“Don’t contradict me, hon. I typed up your press release this morning.”
“My what?”
She shot him a warning glance and nodded toward the private office appropriated by the BCI commander. The man standing in the open doorway had been a familiar sight in Makers Village for more than a decade. Captain Costello kept a summer house on the lake, but he frequented the shops and restaurants in every season. Many villagers had come to regard him as a local man, one of their own, though they found him somewhat aloof. Over the past ten years, the captain had never set foot in this local police station—and now he ruled it.
Costello was walking toward them. The man did not look happy, and neither did he look like anyone’s idea of a top cop in the BCI. The captain might
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