Page 21 of No Offense

“Right, Chief. I mean, Sheriff.”

John glared at his computer screen. Sometimes he wondered how he’d managed to become not only a sheriff but also a zookeeper. The population of Little Bridge was so small that it could sustain only a minuscule animal shelter, so overflow abandoned or abused animals tended to end up in the care of law enforcement. It had been John’s decision early on in his tenure as sheriff to begin using an outdoor area of the jail as part animal hospital, part permanent petting zoo. Studies showed that recidivism decreased in individuals who spent time during their incarceration working with animals, so John saw to it that whatever nonviolent inmates he deemed worthy of the privilege were allowed to care for the numerous sloths, snakes, tortoises, alligators,parrots, rabbits, chinchillas, pigs, chickens, ducks, miniature horses, and now, apparently, goats that were housed there.

Did it bother John that the hard-bitten homicide detectives with whom he used to work back in Miami occasionally sent him teasing gifs of himself in overalls and a sun hat, shoveling manure?

Not as much as it bothered him that law enforcement agencies from across the country contacted him almost daily, begging him to take on injured animals they’d found in drug raids or other busts, and that he usually had to say no because his “jail zoo” was already at capacity.

He didn’t think things could get any worse until he went to try on his dress uniform to make sure it fit before the Red Cross Ball.

“Marguerite!” he shouted, staring down at himself in dismay.

Marguerite came strolling in, this time holding a turquoise reusable water bottle in her hand. “Something else wrong, Chief?”

He showed her. “My dress pants don’t fit.”

She was unimpressed. “It’s called aging. It happens to the best of us. Try squeezing three kids out of your ying-yang, like I did. It happens even quicker.”

“Well, these fit last week,” he said, tugging on the waistband of his trousers. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stop drinking beer,” Marguerite suggested. “My husband stops drinking beer and he drops ten pounds overnight. It’s God’s joke on women.”

“I only drink one beer a night.” John looked mournfullyat his reflection in the full-length mirror attached to his office’s closet door.

“Actually,” Marguerite said, taking mercy on him, “you don’t look so bad for your age, Sheriff.” For all she liked to razz him, he noticed she’d been softening toward him, often bringing him an extra café con leche when she stopped at the Coffee Cubano on the way to work (which was probably not helping with his waistline). “Maybe the cleaners made a mistake and delivered the wrong pants. They do it all the time. I’ll look into it for you.”

He relaxed—as much as the tight pants would allow. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll get that dolphin off your hands now, too, if you want.”

“No.” John glanced at the stuffed animal grinning so maniacally from behind his desk. “I’m starting to like it. Maybe I’ll take it over to the hospital later myself.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

After he’d changed back into his regular uniform, John moved the dolphin to a corner and sat down at his desk, then brought up the file on Dylan Dakota. Everything about the kid, including his name, was fake—everything except the very real harm he’d caused to people and property, including the young girl who was currently in the Little Bridge ICU.

Her condition was stable, but if she hadn’t been found when she had, and gotten help, she could have died. Thank God for Molly Montgomery—and no thanks to Lawrence “Larry” Beckwith III, aka Dylan Dakota.

Of course, John didn’t have proof that Larry was behind any of this. That’s why he needed the DNA swabs and fingerprints. If Larry turned out to have anything to do with what had been done to the new library or to the girl, John was going to find some way to nail him this time, fancy lawyer or no fancy lawyer. And when Larry landed in his jail, John would make sure he’d get zero privileges. That kid wasn’t going to set one foot in the Little Bridge jail petting zoo.

John was poring over his notes on Beckwith and getting hot under the collar all over again when there was a tap on his office door.

“What?” he bellowed, thinking it was Murray with another complaint about the task he’d been assigned.

Only it wasn’t.

“God, Daddy, it’s only me.” His daughter, Katie, came in, then closed the door behind her. “If you yell at everyone like that, it’s no wonder no one here likes you.”

He stared at her. She was wearing her Snappettes uniform, nothing more than a red bodysuit with a tiny pleated skirt and matching red tennis shoes. “I’ve asked you before to change out of that thing before you get here,” he groused. “And who says no one here doesn’t like me?”

“It’s obvious none of them like you.” Katie leaned over his desk to give him a peck on the cheek. “Except maybe Sergeant Ruiz. The rest of them are still devoted to that gross old Sheriff Wagner. But they all like me, and it’sbecauseI wear this thing. Everyone loves the Snappettes. We represent everything that is good and wholesome in the world.Did you forget you were supposed to meet me after school today for dance practice?”

Startled, he glanced at his watch. “Is school out already? Sorry, honey, it’s been a crazy day.”

“I heard.” Katie turned toward the stuffed dolphin. “Everyone’s talking about how they found Baby Aphrodite’s mother bleeding to death at the new library. Hey, who dropped this off? Is this for Baby Aphrodite? It’s supercute.”

Could his deputies keep nothing confidential? “Who told you that the girl in the library is the baby’s mother? And stop calling her Baby Aphrodite. That’s not her name. The baby doesn’t have a name yet.”

Katie flopped into his office visitor’s chair, draping her long legs over one of the arms and swinging her red-sneakered feet. “Aw, come on, Dad, it’s all over town that the new librarian found her, just like she found the baby. And what’s wrong with Baby Aphrodite? I like it. Can I have the dolphin if no one else wants it?”