Consider the Crows
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Authors: Charlene Weir
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Contents
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To Chris and Leslie and Bruce
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With thanks to Ruth Cavin, Meg Ruley and Patrolman David Pires of the Daly City Police Department. Any errors are due to my poor understanding rather than his invaluable assistance.
1
F
EBRUARY WIND SNIFFLED
around the police department and rattled the office window where Susan sat hunched over the desk, muttering to herself. The new budget, pages of blank spaces just waiting for numbers, rested atop the clutter of duty rosters, crime reports, and today's
Herald
with a picture of Dr. Audrey Kalazar. The vice-chancellor was scheduled to speak at a conference in Dallas.
Susan snapped on the desk lamp, adding its glow to the fluorescent ceiling fixture's, in an attempt to dispel gloom and frustration. How did she know how much should be allotted for paper towels; she could barely balance her checkbook with the use of a calculator.
“Susanâ?” Hazel, the dispatcher, a stocky woman in her blue uniform, late forties with short auburn hair, stood in the doorway with a look of apology. “I know you said not to bother you, butâ”
“Afternoon Miz Wren,” Mayor Bakover gave Hazel a polished smile as he edged around her. “Something has come to my attention that you should know about.”
He stood before Susan's desk, both hands clasped on his silver-handled cane, leaning into it with his forty pounds of excess weight. He wore his usual dark suit, white shirt and tie. Behind his back, Hazel rolled her eyes and discreetly withdrew, closing the door after her.
Susan rose. Now what? In the year she'd been chief of police, things often came to his attention that she needed to know about, and many of them made her wonder why one of San Francisco's finest didn't get herself back there.
He inched the wooden armchair a bit closer, pinched up his trousers at the knees and dropped into it, resting his cane against the side. As far as Susan knew, the cane was for effect rather than assistance. He smiled to show his goodwill, which was patently false; if there was any will at all between them, it was ill.
“Hippies are squatting at the old Creighton place,” he said.
“Hippies,” she repeated as she sat back down.
His fleshy face darkened. “You people in California can have all the perverts you want, but this is a nice town. We aim to keep it that way.”
California probably hadn't had any hippies for twenty-five years. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Get her out of there.”
“Her? One woman?”
“Girl. Young. Kids have been seen going in and out.” He shook his head. “It's happened before. Bunch of freaks moved in out there. All living together. Selling drugs.”
Living together and selling drugs seemed, in his opinion, equally bad. “What makes you think this girl is dealing?”
“Plants in the window.”
“Plants.”
He leveled a hard look at her. “They grow the stuff in pots in the house.”
“I don't believe that's quite enough to arrest her.”
He held the look for two beats before he smiled his practiced smile. She reminded herself not to underestimate him. She'd done that once before, thought she was so smart and found he was using her for his own ends. Beneath his sandy-gray hair was a shrewd mind.
“Get out there and tell her to leave.”
“I'll check her out in the morning.” Tomorrow was Sunday and Susan's day off. She had plans, but not something she was eager to get at.
“I'm not asking you, Miz Wren. I'm telling you.”
“Mr. Mayor, I have to meet with a group of college students inâ” She glanced at her watch and saw it was three o'clock. “âone hour.” She was to tell them the committee stood firm in its decision not to allow them a booth at the Crafts Fair. The kids wanted to pass out information on AIDS and if they were denied they threatened a demonstration “like you've never seen.” If they even tried it, one committee member had threatened to bring his shotgun.
“You serve at the pleasure of the city council,” he said.
Ah, yes. The club he held over her head. Temporary. Synonymous with “you're the wrong sex and not only that but an outsider.” Martin Bakover was a tried-and-true chauvinist.
This was the beginning of Susan Wren's second year as acting chief of police. After finding her husband's killer, she'd simply stayed on, needing a place to heal. Hampstead was as good as any. In spite of the murder investigation at the start, the town was safe; Daniel's life had been here, and the job was low-key. She'd simply let the days slide one into another, dealing with a few break-ins, theft from autos, running of stop signs, loud music, barking dogs, and the occasional instance of wife-beating. To change the pattern, there were her periodic scare-sermons to various school-age groups on the dangers of drugs, exciting things like the celebration of a resident's one hundredth birthday and the odd parade to commemorate such important events as Timber Wolf Day.
She picked up her pen and shuffled under papers for her notebook. If she moved smartly, she could just work in a visit with this
hippie
before meeting the students. “What's her name?”
“I don't know.” He reached for the cane and rose, gave a little jiggle to straighten his trouser legs and rested both hands on the silver handle.
“Any difficulties with the budget?” He nodded at the forms. “Keep those figures within reason.”
Ha. She wondered if there was some way to sneak in the money to hire a new female officer.
Where the hell was the old Creighton place? Another little reminder that she was an outsider. Probably property still identified by the name of some previous owner a generation or two back. She pushed a button on the phone and asked Hazel for directions.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The sky was an ominous gray when she headed the pickup across town on Rockridge and then cut north. Rain, she thought; it wasn't cold enough to snow. Must be getting used to Kansas, if she was blithely dismissing this temperature as not cold enough to snow. To her California blood, anything under forty degrees felt cold enough to snow.
Hampstead, nestled in shallow hills between two rivers, was a clean little town with wide streets and large trees that arched overhead; homes ranging from very modest to expensive; but even the cost of the most expensive was downright laughable if compared with San Francisco real estate. A pretty town in sunshine, with the overcast sky, Hampstead had a hunkered-down, closed-in look that made her feel like an alien.
Hazel's directions on the seat beside her, she drove past the fast-food places and used-car lots on the edge of town, then hit open fields with limestone fence posts and barbed-wire fencing. A red-winged blackbird took flight as she sped by. Keeping an eye on the odometer, she clocked off one mile and then swung left into a long driveway more mud than gravel and riddled with potholes.
Brush scraped at the pickup as she jounced toward what she hoped was a house. The driveway widened and on her left the brush gave way to an expanse of dead weeds; on the right beyond the house stood a thick grove of trees. A weak ray of sunshine, straggling through a dark cloud, hit on a mean little house, weathered wood frame with flaking no-color paint, that looked just this side of falling down. Incongruously, the front door glistened bright red from a recently applied coat of paint, so recent it looked still wet. She knocked.
Inside, a dog barked. A murmured voice hushed the dog and then called through the door. “Who is it?”
“Chief Wren. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“Who sent you?”
Susan's eyebrows went up. She'd come mostly to satisfy the mayor's request but
who sent you
roused her professional curiosity. Could she have a dope-dealing, sin-living hippie here? “Would you open the door, please?”
After several seconds the door opened three inches. A large furry white dog stuck a snout through the gap. Susan was glad to see a small hand firmly attached to the dog's collar. Another second or two went by before the door opened wider.
Susan smiled in a friendly fashion. Public relations. Half the reports that landed on her desk came from citizens stopped for traffic violations and complaining the officer made them feel like criminals. “Hi. I heard someone was living here and I just stopped in to meet you.”
“Oh.” Still holding the dog's collar, the young woman backed away and invited her in. “You're the police chief? You're a woman.”
“That's pretty much what everybody says. My name's Susan Wren.” She let a slight query into her tone and the young woman obliged.
“Lynnelle Hames.”
Late adolescence, early twenties, Susan thought. Small and so thin her collarbones were apparent beneath an over-long blue sweater that covered her jean-clad fanny. Blond curls, large green eyes and a pointed little cat's face. Also a frightened look. Not uncommon when a cop appeared on your doorstep.
“I don't think I've seen you before. You must be new. How long have you been here?” Plants in bright-glazed pottery bowls lined the windowsills of the two narrow windows.
“Not that long. Just a few weeks.”
She didn't look like a dealer, or a user for that matter. Though that didn't mean anything; it was easy enough to be fooled. But this kid didn't feel right for it; no sly defiance or little click of fear in her eyes. She reminded Susan of a runaway she'd known in San Francisco; a girl who had gotten mangled by the life on the streets, abused by predators, and ended up in a drawer in a refrigerated room. “How do you like it here?”
Lynnelle nodded, then shrugged. “I like it. So far anyway. Oh, why don't you sit down.” She tipped her head at the only piece of furniture in the room, an overstuffed chair in shabby gold plush with a floor lamp beside it. “It's more comfortable than it looks,” she added with a quick grin.
Susan crossed the scratched hardwood floor to the windows and ran an eye over the plants; several different kinds. She had no idea what they were, but she knew what they weren't. They weren't pot. Hampstead was still safe. She settled in the gold chair and dropped her shoulder bag at her feet. Posters were thumbtacked to the damp-stained walls; a lion in a tree, snowcapped mountains, and an aerial view of a village nestled around a vivid blue lake.
With the inside of an ankle, Lynnelle nudged a guitar case out of her way and folded her legs Indian-fashion to sit on the small white shag rug in front of the Franklin stove. The dog, a Samoyed, flopped down beside her with its mouth open and its tongue hanging out. Lynnelle kept her hand on the collar.
“That's a beautiful dog.”
“This is Alexa.” Lynnelle leaned over and hugged the animal. “Isn't she neat? First dog I've ever had. We're a team.”
