I’ll be the first to admit the shooting left me shaken. Still, I’m not sure if I’m irritated or appreciative that Tomasetti asked Glock to look out for me. Being a small-town chief of police isn’t excessively dangerous. The risks of my position are minimal compared to the dangers faced every day by big-city cops, sheriff’s deputies, and state highway patrol officers. Tomasetti has every reason—and every right—to worry. But do I want him speaking to my officers without my knowledge? Does it undermine my authority? How is he going to react when my pregnancy becomes more apparent?

I finish sweeping the north end of the building, finding nothing more than a rusted pair of pliers and an old horseshoe. I’ve just reached the loading dock and started toward the interior, when I hear the front door creak. Vaguely, I wonder if one of my other officers took the call at McNarie’s and Glock has returned to help me finish.

I call out to him. “If you came back to help me finish, you’re too late.”

Looping the carry strap of the metal detector over my right shoulder, lifting the canvas bag with my other hand, I start toward the door. I’m midway there when it strikes me that he should have responded. Stopping, I set the canvas bag on the floor and lean the metal detector against the rail of a pen.

“Glock? You there?”

A minute sound makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. In that instant I know it isn’t Glock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Identify yourself!”

My words are punctuated by a gunshot. Adrenaline shoots like fire through my body. Crouching, I draw my .38, raise it, my finger twitchy on the trigger. A dozen thoughts slam into my brain at once. I’m not sure where the shot came from. I have no cover where I’m standing.

Hitting my lapel mike, I back toward the steps. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shooting in progress!” I shout out the address of my location.

A second shot pings off the concrete two feet from my boot. I can’t see the shooter, but I’m pretty sure the shot originated from the front offices. I fire my weapon three times.

“Ten-thirty-three!” I shout into my mike. “Shots fired! Ten-thirty-three!” To the shooter: “Police! Drop your weapon!”

Another gunshot rings out, followed by the zing! of a ricochet. I need to get off the loading dock. I step back. My rear bumps the steel pipe that runs along the edge of the dock. A sickening crack! sounds as the steel posts give way. And then I’m falling backward into space.

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19