In addition to normal vehicle supplies, the cargo area drawer had police equipment like body armor, evidence kits and bags, yellow tarp, and police tape. There was no ambulance in town, so he wasn’t surprised to see first responder supplies like a car-opening kit, fire extinguisher, first aid kit, emergency blankets, latex gloves, and portable defibrillator. Being as this was Alaska, bad weather gear was essential, and the car was equipped with chemical hand warmers, heavy flashlight, emergency food and water. There were also supplies for highway accidents—tape measure, HAZMAT suit, bolt cutters, traffic cones, flares and vest, breathalyzer, and shovel.

Nice job, Dante and Sarah. They’d done well by him.

Gabe added extra ammo and a paperwork box, stored the AR-15 and shotgun in the interior rack, and climbed in.

Jesus, it even had that new car smell—along with the underlying smell of gun oil. It took him a second to wipe off the big grin and put an appropriate serious police chief expression on his face as he pulled out and drove out of town.

He drove the back roads for a while before returning onto Main Street.

And there was the graffiti.

Garish red lettering “GO HOME” was painted on a pale yellow storefront.

Anger simmered in his gut.

Mako had bought this building last year, and Bull had just leased it to a couple of sisters from Juneau. They planned to open an art gallery and craft store, specializing in Alaskan-created goods.

They sure didn’t deserve this kind of shit.

Gabe snapped the SUV into a diagonal parking space and headed for the store.

Obviously seeing him coming, a stout, brown-haired woman bustled out. A quilt decorated with bears, moose, and bald eagles was bundled in her arms. She studied his uniform shirt for a moment. “Oh, excellent. You must be the new police chief.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Gabe MacNair. Mrs. Johannsen, isn’t it?”

“Ms. or even better, Glenda.” She motioned to the spray-painting. “Do you see what someone did?”

“I see.” His jaw clenched. So much for the hope that a local police presence would discourage vandalism.

On the contrary. This felt like the asshole was thumbing his nose at the cops.

And the business.

The two new owners were in their fifties, both divorced, both hard-working businesswomen—and artists, as well. In Juneau, one had owned an art gallery, the other a craft store. What kind of asshole picked on women like this?

The red paint was garish, the sentiments clear. “Someone either isn’t happy about increasing tourist traffic and-or hates seeing the town change at all.

She gave a sniff of displeasure. “Too late now. He should’ve kept the ski resort from opening if he felt that strongly.”

“Too late to put the cork back in that bottle. I’ll see if Bull can free up a construction worker to repaint your storefront.”

“That would be wonderful.”