“Hey, Rochette, today Tuesday?” asked a voice behind me. It was a detective named Chestang. “That mean rosebuds?”

“It’s Wednesday.” Like Chestang, Rochette was speaking loudly for my benefit. “Polka dots.”

Today’s teasing stemmed from an incident in which I’d been dragged from a fire and deposited bum-up. My leopard-skin panties had saluted the world. Though the episode had occurred several years earlier, it was still the top choice for source material.

Ignoring the witty repartee, I continued on course.

Ryan was at his desk, one haunch resting on the edge. A man sat opposite him. No yellow-striped pants or gray shirt, but I assumed he was the Mountie from Edmonton.

And no. He wasn’t wearing red serge, jodhpurs, and a Stetson. That garb is strictly ceremonial.

A word about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP, or in French, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, GRC. The world calls them Mounties. Internally, they refer to themselves as the Force. Too many Star Wars movies, you say? Nope. The tradition goes back much further.

The RCMP is unique in that it functions at the national, provincial, and municipal levels, providing federal policing services to all of Canada and, under contract, to three territories, eight provinces, more than 190 municipalities, 184 aboriginal communities, and three international airports.

While the two most populous provinces, Ontario and Quebec, maintain their own provincial forces, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Sûreté du Québec, all the others rely on the RCMP to some extent. In the three territories, Yukon, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories, the Mounties are the only game in town.

Confusing? To complicate matters further, some large cities, such as Edmonton, Toronto, and Montreal, have their own municipal police departments.

Just think of the FBI, state troopers, the sheriff’s department, city cops. Same deal.

Ryan’s visitor was sitting with his back to me, elbow cocked over the arm of the chair. Graying temples suggested some mileage.

Hadn’t Ryan said the guy was a sergeant? So the Force wasn’t fast-tracking him into the OCDP, the Officer Candidate Development Program. I wondered if he’d plateaued in his career. If, like many NCOs, he’d grown resentful of the “white shirts,” as the noncommissioned called the commissioned officers.

Whatever. Though unimpressive if working at headquarters in Ottawa or at a divisional HQ, sergeant was a decent enough level for a member in the field.

So why was Ryan looking at the guy like he was barf on the sidewalk?

Drawing close, I took in more detail. Though of average height, the sergeant was powerfully built, with arms and a chest that stretched his shirt to the limit.

Ryan said something I didn’t catch. His visitor responded, tilting his head so that his chin went forward and up.

The odd mannerism jostled a gaggle of cells where a memory was stored.

I slowed. No way.

The sergeant reached out and placed a Styrofoam cup on Ryan’s desk. His left hand flashed into view for a moment.

My pulse went off the map.