No Offense: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 2)

The day was turning into a debacle. It had started out badly enough, with the discovery of the girl and the vandalism in the library, and it had gone downhill from there. His deputies weren’t too happy with his request that they canvass the entire neighborhood around the old high school for possible CCTV footage of the Sunshine Kids, since they’d “done that already” during previous break-ins and found nothing.

His tech crew was even less happy with his order that they swab and fingerprint everything they’d found in the media room where the librarian had discovered the unconscious girl.

“Everything?” Murray had balked.

“Yes, everything. And don’t forget to match them against that box from yesterday, the one they found the baby in.”

Murray had looked around at the mess in dismay. “Sheriff, most of this stuff is garbage. You want us to fingerprint garbage?”

“Yes, I do.” John didn’t see why he had to explain himself to his own tech crew, most of whom, it was true, had been hired by Rich Wagner, the previous sheriff, and were still loyal to him, even though he’d turned out to be a douche of the first order.

If John wanted garbage swabbed for DNA and also fingerprinted, it was his right to ask for it to be swabbed for DNA and fingerprinted. That’s what these guys got paid for.

Things didn’t improve when John returned to his office to find a five-foot-long plush dolphin sitting in his desk chair.

“Marguerite,” he yelled when he saw it.

Marguerite sauntered slowly down the hall from her office, a cup of coffee in her hand.

“It’s for Baby Aphrodite,” she said, when she saw what he was upset about. “On account of her rising from the ocean waves.”

John thought his head might explode. “I don’t care who it’s for. Get it out of my office.”

“There’s nowhere else to put it. There’re baby toys and boxes of diapers and formula all up and down the—”

“I don’t care. Just get it out.”

Marguerite sighed. “Sure, Chief. What do you want me to do about the bachelor party riding a goat down Truman Avenue?”

“The what?”

“A bunch of guys down here to celebrate their pal getting married found a goat somewhere—unless they brought it themselves—and are now taking turns riding it around downtown.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Was the entire country going insane? “Send Martinez down there to arrest them for drunk and disorderly.”

“Can’t, Chief. He’s over at the bus station checking a suspicious passenger. Could be Dakota. You sent a Be On The Lookout for him, remember?”

“Well, send Reynolds, then. And tell him to get that goat over to the petting zoo, and have the vet come over to check it out for injuries.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“And stop calling me Chief. I’m the sheriff, not the chief of police.”

“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 mournfully at 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’s because I 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?”

“No, you may not. Whoever left it meant for the baby to have it, not you. Listen, honey, I don’t have time for dance practice today, I have an actual crime to solve.”

Katie snorted. “Oh, as opposed to a fake crime like all those burglaries that keep happening around town?”

He glared at her, not finding the joke funny. “Exactly. In fact, the two might be connected. So if you could just scoot on home—” Then something dawned on him. “Hey, wait a minute. How did you even get here?”

She rolled her eyes. “Duh, Dad. Uber.”

“You Ubered?”

“Yes, Dad, Mom set up an Uber account for me. She said it was the least she could do, considering how busy you are and the fact that she isn’t around and you’re the one who has to drive me everywhere. Remember?”

He did dimly remember discussing something along those lines with Christina, and even agreeing to it.

But now, seeing the plan in action, he did not like it one bit.

“I don’t want you alone in cars with strange men you don’t know, especially dressed like that.”

“God, Dad.” She rolled her eyes, as she did at nearly everything he said these days. “Could you be more nineteenth century? All of the drivers are superprofessional because they want a good rating and tip. And besides, you’ve been teaching me self-defense since I was five. Can we just drop it and get to what’s important? How am I going to teach you to dance if you don’t even show up to practice?”

He thought about this, and how woefully underqualified he was to raise a teenage daughter. He wondered if the parents of the girl Molly Montgomery had found in the new library had felt the same way, and if that’s how she’d ended up in her current predicament. Had she gotten pregnant and run away (or been kicked out of the house), or become pregnant while on the road? Was Larry Beckwith III aka Dylan Dakota the father of her baby? Was he the one who’d put that newborn in an empty trash-bag box and left her in a toilet stall for Molly Montgomery to find?

If he was, John would find a way to make his existence here on earth a living hell. Once he was in jail, John would assign him to beachcombing duty, making sure he was out there in his bright orange coveralls raking up seaweed in the blinding sun every day from sunrise to sunset.

Molly, he thought, would know all the right things to say to Katie. Molly was a children’s specialist. It said so, right on the signature line of that Facebook entry she’d written, instructing the entire town to call the infant Baby Aphrodite.

“I have an idea,” John said, smiling suddenly at his daughter, who’d gone sulky at the implication that she wasn’t old enough to handle Uber on her own and was now picking black polish off her nails and letting the flakes fall onto his floor, a habit he found irritating.

She did not look up from her nails. “What.”

“Let’s go to the library.”

This made her lift her head in astonishment. “Why would we do that?”

“They have books to teach you how to dance, don’t they?” He was already getting up from his chair. “And videos.”

Katie did not stir from her seat. “Dad. They have videos online. For free.”

“Everything is free at the library, too. You just have to apply for a card. It’s my fault, really, I should have gotten you one a long time ago. Let’s go.”

Katie unfolded herself reluctantly from the visitor’s chair. “This isn’t about you wanting to check out books on how to dance. This is about the Baby Aphrodite case, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, just to make sure his hair was all right. He’d had it cut recently over at the barbershop—regulation length—but you could never be too sure. It was streaked with gray here and there—depressing, but only to be expected with a teenage daughter and a job like his—but otherwise, he thought he looked okay.

“No, no,” he said, tightening his tie. “I really want to learn, Katie. And you know books are the best way to learn anything.”

She was unimpressed. “If you need to do something for the case, Dad, all you have to do is say so. Especially if it’s for Baby Aphrodite. You know the whole town is backing you on this one. Not like the High School Thief, who some people are thinking of as a kind of Robin Hood.”

He threw her a startled glance. “They are?”

She picked up her backpack and shrugged. “Well, yeah. He robs from the rich—the people who live in that area—and the naive—who else would keep their doors unlocked? I heard some of them keep the back doors by their pools wide open to let in the night air. They’re practically asking to get robbed, if you ask me. And the thief only takes little things, like sunglasses and wallets and laptops and stuff. He never takes things that hold sentimental value, like jewelry.”

John frowned at her. “Some people feel quite sentimental about their wallets, Katie, and their laptops, too, especially if they have financial information on them and haven’t backed them up.”

She rolled her eyes—again—and gave another shrug. “Well, what kind of idiot doesn’t back up their computer? I’m just saying, kids at school think the thief is kind of cool.”

On this disheartening note, they left the sheriff’s department, but only after John issued a firm warning that no one was to touch the stuffed dolphin in his office, to which Marguerite replied with a weary “Whatever you say, Chief.”

The ride to the old library was unpleasant, since the middle and elementary schools in the area were also just letting out, so John and Katie were caught in what counted in Little Bridge as a traffic jam—an extra two minutes sitting at the stoplight, waiting for people to make their turns. Everyone was on their best behavior, however, because they saw the sheriff’s vehicle behind them, and John didn’t catch a single one of them failing to use their turn signal, something he knew would not have happened had he been back in their old neighborhood in Miami.

Even Katie grudgingly remarked, as they pulled up in front of the library and easily found a parking space, “At least it’s easier getting around here than it was back home.”

This warmed his heart, though it pained him that she still referred to Miami as home.

“But,” he said, as they walked the neatly swept path toward the library door, “here they have the Snappettes.”

“That’s true,” Katie said, looking thoughtful. Then she paused. “Oh, look, how cute.” She raised her phone to snap a photo of a mother hen that ran by, a dozen fluffy brown chicks scurrying closely behind her. The library grounds were a nesting area for the native chickens that had freely roamed the streets of Little Bridge since Bahamians had brought them there in the 1800s. The chickens were popular with tourists, tolerated by locals, and lived long and happy lives since they were protected by city law.

John, too, was pleased. So far, everything was going well. Katie already found the library as charming as he did. Perhaps she’d like Molly Montgomery, too—providing that he, for once, could avoid offending her, and she, for once, could avoid trying to do his job for him.

They’d only taken a few steps inside before he saw that, unfortunately, neither of these things was going to happen.