Tommy's Mom. Linda Johnston O.
was the chief of police. He had been her husband’s superior. Courtesy dictated that she not brush him off. And he clearly wasn’t about to leave her alone until he’d had his say.
She looked up at him, waiting for him to speak.
“I want you to know something, Mrs. Poston.”
“What’s that?” She didn’t exactly feel comfortable held in his unyielding grip, the subject of his frank stare, but she didn’t pull away.
“I’ve instructed the entire Naranja Beach Police Force to do two things. First, to find out exactly what happened to Officer Thomas Poston and bring his killer to justice.”
That was no less than what she had expected. Another stanza of the same old song she had heard sung throughout her life, first as the daughter of a police officer, then as the wife of one: cops take care of their own.
He continued, “Second, everyone on the force is your family, and they’re to treat you as such. Myself included. Every need of the wife and son of a fallen officer will be taken care of, I promise. Anything you want, anything bothering you, just let me know. House or car repairs, gardening, you name it.”
Sure, Holly had heard that was supposed to happen. Other cops’ wives had told her so. The spouses even had a coalition to share mutual concerns. She’d gone to some of their meetings. A bunch were here to show support—including, she’d been told, representatives of a national group for widows of fallen law enforcement officers.
Plus, a collection might be taken up for her. She would want to refuse their check, no matter how kindly it was meant, but she wouldn’t because of Tommy. Thomas had left insurance and sales of her artwork would help, so she wouldn’t need to get a job at least until Tommy was in school. Still, she wanted to start a college fund for Tommy.
But in her experience, anything more—anything requiring more than a check and an occasional visit from the cops themselves—was just another unsubstantiated urban legend, which was fine with her.
Yet Chief McLaren’s gaze was so straightforward that it shouted of sincerity. He meant every word he said. Didn’t he? And if so…
She had sudden disquieting visions of cops everywhere, well-meaning but underfoot, not allowing Tommy and her to get on with their lives.
And that, she was certain, would include Chief Gabe McLaren—perhaps the most disquieting of them all.
HE WASN’T her family. He didn’t even know her. But to emphasize his words, the show of support he’d offered, Gabe took his place beside Holly Poston in the makeshift receiving line.
He caught her sideways, questioning glance—like, who was he to hang around her?
“I know there’re a lot of people here, Mrs. Poston,” he said. “They all want to say how sorry they are for your loss. If you don’t feel like talking to any of them, you don’t have to. I’ll thank them for you. Or you can wait till later, after the service. Just let me know. We’ve already excluded the media from the chapel.”
She faced him directly, her expression surprised and, if he read it right, outraged at his audacity. But then it softened. She even managed a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Chief McLaren.”
“Call me Gabe,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment.
Sure, it was damned presumptuous for him to stand here with her, but his presence emphasized a message he’d already communicated to his own officers: we’re all members of the same family, and families stick together.
Holly Poston appeared exhausted, with dark circles beneath her stunningly doelike brown eyes. She was most definitely a beautiful brunette. Her hair was a shade of brown he’d describe as deepest, darkest chocolate. It was cut unevenly in a becoming style, longer in back, swept away slightly to show her ears, and fringed along her forehead. Her eyebrows were an even darker shade, arched but not plucked thin the way so many women did. Her mouth was full and lush, moist-looking despite the fact she wore no lipstick. Her cheekbones—well, he’d never really noticed cheekbones much, but he noticed hers. They helped to add definition to the oval shape of her face.
All in all, she was a stunningly beautiful lady despite the pain so obvious in her eyes.
Thomas Poston had been a lucky man—until someone had stabbed him to death four days ago.
Poston was the first police officer lost during Gabe’s tenure as chief, though he wasn’t the only one whose death had been suspicious lately. Gabe hoped Poston would be the last, but he, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous being a cop could be. Even in an area as laid back as Naranja Beach.
He didn’t know whether Poston had been murdered because he was a cop, but Gabe sure as hell would find out.
REVEREND MILLER had appeared. It was time for the funeral service to begin.
“Excuse me,” Holly said. “I have to get my son.” A small sense of relief passed through her at this perfectly logical reason to flee not only the continuing parade of well-wishers but also the presence of this intense and disturbing man.
This man who wasn’t merely a cop, but a leader of cops.
Who had made it clear he intended to inflict more cops on her, in the name of helping her.
The kind of help she really needed required that she never again, for the rest of her life, see a policeman.
“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can—” But he took her elbow and began politely bulldozing a path through the crowd toward the door from which she had previously emerged.
She should despise his take-charge attitude. And yet, for this moment, at least, it felt good to have someone deal with the crowd on her behalf.
She’d been handling ninety percent of the things in her life and Tommy’s by herself for quite a while now. There was time enough for her to learn to deal with the other ten percent alone.
But perhaps she should just let Tommy stay outside during the memorial service. She knew Edie would continue to watch him, for her friend was like a second mother to her son. He was so young, after all. The funeral wouldn’t bring any closure to someone so unknowledgeable about what it was supposed to mean. And although Holly had checked with the child psychologist and been given the go-ahead, she wondered if it was a good idea to have him here after what he’d gone through.
Still, whatever he experienced here might allow him in the future to deal with his father’s death better. Thomas was about to be given a hero’s sendoff. That might help little Tommy remember his daddy. Whatever else Thomas had been, he had been a good cop.
Chief Gabe McLaren’s vast shoulders appeared to shrink the size of the already small waiting room once more as he led her through it and outside the door to the adjoining garden. There, Edie was pointing to something on a flower. As Holly drew closer, she saw it was a butterfly.
Tommy was laughing, and Holly felt herself smile in response. It was the first laughter she had heard from her son since that awful morning four days earlier. She soaked it in as if she was the butterfly, and the sound was the nectar from the loveliest of blossoms.
Edie looked toward her, and their eyes met. “It’s time,” Holly mouthed. Edie’s nod didn’t dislodge one hair in her short pixie hairdo, and she stood.
Even as tall as her friend was, she still seemed almost petite compared with Gabe McLaren. Edie clearly noticed, for she smiled up at the chief from beneath flirtatiously lowered lashes and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said, and introduced herself.
“Hi,” Chief McLaren said in return. He extracted his hand from Edie’s and extended it to Tommy. “I saw you before, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. You’re Tommy, aren’t you? I’m Chief McLaren. Your dad and I worked together.”
Tommy’s smile faded. He regarded the large