What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

of their unneeded prescription medications, illegal drugs, and drug paraphernalia, no questions asked. Shipman was tempted to look inside to see if the program had worked even a little bit but decided against it for fear that it would only confirm her already rampant cynicism.

She opened the glass door that led inside the building and found an information window, only there was no one sitting behind it. Nor was there any noise that she could hear suggesting that people actually worked there.

“Hello,” she said in a loud voice.

“Hello,” a voice answered.

A door opened and an officer stepped into the corridor. He was wearing a black uniform that made his gold badge seem that much brighter. There was a five-pointed star in the center of the badge and a full-color image of the Minnesota State flag in the center of the star.

“Sorry there was no one here to greet you,” he said. “The building is usually closed this time of day. I kept the door open for you. Detective Shipman?”

“Yes.”

Shipman dove into the pocket of her blazer for her ID and gave him a look at it. The officer didn’t seem to care if she had one or not. Instead, he smiled at her as if she were his long-lost cousin from Nova Scotia.

“I’m Kyle Cordova,” he said.

He offered his hand and Shipman shook it. She noted that he didn’t try to overpower her with his grip like most of the men she met while on duty. She also noted that he was two inches taller than she was and at least a decade younger.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Officer,” Shipman said.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you. Please, call me Kyle. We’re all friends here, aren’t we? The thin blue line and all that?”

The officer kept smiling at Shipman as if he actually meant it and Shipman wondered if it was a small-town thing, a male officer acting so graciously toward a female officer—although twenty thousand people lived in Northfield and it was only forty minutes from the Cities. Could he actually be a nice guy?

“Call me Jean,” she said.

It was an unusual gesture on Shipman’s part, telling a man, any man, to use her first name and for a moment she wondered why she had done it.

“I must say, you’re not what I expected,” Cordova said.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone older.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Did I say I was disappointed?”

He smiled some more and Shipman thought, Okay not a small-town thing. It’s universal. Boy meets girl.

“Here’s the deal,” Cordova said. “Your Commander Dunston called my chief of police, who called the deputy chief, who called my sergeant, who called me, probably because my name is at the bottom of the roster. We have twenty-three officers in the NPD including four investigators and an evidence technician. I’m the newest hire. I was told that you wanted to interview a student over at Carleton. I was told to escort you there and assist you in any way you require, being how the Northfield Police Department is always happy to help our colleagues from other jurisdictions.”

“I’m sorry you got the duty,” Shipman said.

“Not at all. I’m happy to do it, especially now that I’ve seen you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re way out of line, Officer,” Shipman said. “That is a highly inappropriate and unprofessional thing to say to me.”

“Yet true, nonetheless. Should we be off then?” Cordova held his arm out as if he was escorting her to the prom. “And it’s Kyle, remember?”

Shipman hesitated for a moment before hooking her arm around the officer’s.

“Kyle,” she said. “I can see that you and I are going to get along just fine.”

Carleton College was only two-point-three miles from the Northfield police station. Apparently everything in town was only two-point-three miles from the police station including Officer Cordova’s favorite bar where he said he would be delighted to buy Shipman a drink before she headed back to St. Paul.

“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said.

“Once I’ve finished this interview, I will be, too.”

“Perhaps we could start our own joint task force.”

Shipman liked that Cordova was flirting with her. She had always received her fair share of attention from men before they knew what she did for a living, but not so much afterward. Being a cop, Cordova understood at least some of what she experienced day to day, which she considered a good thing. On the other hand, none of her previous relationships with police officers had worked out and that, plus the forty-five miles and ten years that separated them, made a relationship problematic at best. Still …

Concentrate, she told herself. Stay focused.

While she might have been resentful before, Shipman was now desperate to solve my case. She wanted to please Bobby. While driving down to Northfield she imagined how impressed or at least grateful he would be. It would also allow her to one-up her colleagues in Major Crimes—who’s the best investigator; the one Bobby trusted the most? Not to mention, it would give her something to lord over me until the day one of us died. She wasn’t going to let some young cop screw that up for her, she didn’t care how damn cute he might be.

Seven minutes after they started, Cordova parked his patrol car illegally and led Shipman to a building called the Hoppin House, which was an actual house complete with porch and fireplace. That’s where the Carleton College campus security force was located.

Cordova knocked on the front door and opened it as if he had been expected, and held the door open for Shipman to pass through. As she did, a large man dressed in a white uniform shirt with a patch on his right shoulder and a microphone attached to his left circled a cluttered desk and approached her with his hand outstretched.

“Chad Volkert,” he said.

“Detective Jean Shipman, St. Paul PD.”

She reached into her pocket, yet Volkert didn’t seem to care if she had an ID any more than Cordova had.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

Cordova