Moving Violation Read online

  Moving Violation

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.2.1 – July 2011

  Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

  Copyright © 2010 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Chapter 1

  How do you tell an orderly story when the story is made up of disorderly events? It’s like trying to weave something tidy out of snarled threads, and I am at best only an apprentice weaver. However, the great Winston Churchill once said: When you have something important to say, don’t worry about the prepositions. So I guess I won’t.

  I ride a bike.

  My bike is technically a tricycle, but it is not one of those cute scooters you see senior citizens tooling around in or the kind you rode when you were a kid. No, my bicycle has a third wheel on account of the massive sidecar bolted onto it. The extra appendage was constructed by my father out of another bike and a pile of scrap metal he had lying around in the back of his shop. I think that some of it was plumbing he tore out of the guest bathroom he never finished remodeling. Which may be partly why my mom left him.

  The bike is heavy and it’s hard to get moving. You can’t lean the bike from side to side to aid in depressing the pedals. If you’ve ever ridden a bike, you know what I mean. Straight up and down pedaling is hard to get used to. And you don’t corner so well. That makes speed something to consider on winding streets.

  The sidecar does allow me to take my dog Blue with me wherever I go. And I’ve been doing just that the last fourteen years, as long as I’ve had both Blue and the sidecar. This includes when I go to work, especially on sunny days when I know Blue will enjoy the ride.

  Me? My name is Chloe Boston. I’m five foot tall and weigh in at a whopping ninety-eight pounds, sopping wet with my clothes on. I’ve been told that I’m nice to look at, and based on the reaction of most men I meet off the job I suppose it’s true. Maybe because I was an ugly duckling for so many years, I have a hard time believing this.

  Regardless of my diminutive size and passable appearance, I’ve always valued the power of my brain above my limited brawn or fairness to the eye. In fact, it’s my brain and not my appearance that usually gets me into trouble and is at the center of the story I’m about to tell you.

  Spring was in the air, and Blue and I were out on the bike. The early sun had caused a violent outburst of vegetation all over town. The flowers were exuberant and welcome. The weeds, a painful nuisance to long haired pets, hikers’ socks and unwary children who tripped on hidden debris, were not.

  Looking both ways, I raced across Fillmore Street, barely slowing down since this part of the road was nice and level and recently paved. I felt my heart pound as it always does when I pull out onto a busy thoroughfare, but soon enough I was across the traffic lanes and on my way to work.

  As often happens when I am thinking hard about a tricky plot for my romantic mystery, I was rudely interrupted by less pleasant reality, this time in the form of a noisy car that veered into my bike lane without so much as a flash of its blinker. We see this sometimes, an overzealous out-of-town driver trying to make a right-hand turn at the last second. All the idiot needed to do was cut me off on my bicycle and not get sideswiped by half a dozen other cars to pull it off.

  Apparently the jerk thought the risk was worth the benefit. I felt that my fragile frame was worth far more and took offense. In the end he succeeded in his maneuver, but the sudden stop caused me to lose my balance and almost run into the curb.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Even though I screamed it, my cursing was drowned out by a chorus of screeching tires and honking horns that accompanied the incident. There were some fingers in the air, too, but those belonged to the new people who are not as well mannered as the natives who contented themselves with leaning on their horns.

  “Woof,” Blue agreed from her seat in the sidecar and then burped. Blue gets carsick pretty easily, and I had a moment of concern that she would lose her dog cookies.

  The near-death encounter left me shaken on the side of the road, straddling my bicycle and gasping for breath as I invented new curse words for the reckless driver. If only I’d been on duty, I thought, instinctively reaching for the ticket pad that I did not have tucked into my nonexistent utility belt. As I stood, powerless, the jerk in an old blue Chevy Impala with mud-spattered plates sped away. I tried to commit his semi-visible license plate number to memory. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite catch it all—it’s that stupid astigmatism in my left eye and contacts just can’t correct it. But I got enough of it to insure we’d be meeting again someday soon.

  Gathering my nerves, I stood up on the left pedal to get my old rig moving again. Slowly I gained momentum as I took the same turn the driver had taken, down Main Street past Coffey Park.

  As I rode, I tried to once more enjoy the sun on my face and mostly fresh air in my lungs. Generally I succeeded because I had a lot of things to think about. For one thing, we’d be reviewing the first chapter of my current novel, The Kiss of Death, at that night’s Lit Wits meeting. The Lit Wits are a writers’ club I had joined a year ago, and the thought of this possible public pillory brought on an attack of nerves that almost ran me off the road again.

  Worry about how Ms. Tara Lee, our illustrious leader, was going to react to my new opening chapter got my mind off of my near accident as nothing else could. The first time I had presented my book to the group, it opened with an explicit and somewhat incoherent love scene that Tara insisted was unsuitable for any form of literature. She said that sex may sell certain things, but not good novels. I had since reworked the scene to turn it into a couple meeting for the first time at a Starbucks. I was hoping that the rewrite retained some of the original passion and intensity without affecting the overall plot much, but in my heart of hearts I was doubtful and wondering if perhaps I didn’t really want to write “good” books.

  Fortunately I didn’t have to worry about Tara Lee for long before Blue and I rolled into the driveway of the Hope Falls Police Station. You see, in spite of my various problems, I’m a member of the city’s finest. At least we like to think that that’s what we are; the Hope Falls Police Department. That is, I think I’m a member. As a Parking Enforcement Officer for the HFPD, I sometimes feel a bit like a bastard child.

  I’m a cop’s kid, and the trouble at work is generational. Suffice it to say that I have a few issues with the department—aside from my father, Henry Boston, being driven out of his position by a trumped up corruption charge that forced him to resign from office and begin sharpening blades for a living.

  Everyone, Mother included, had doubts that he could make a living sharpening tools, but so far so good—has van, will travel. My father is actually much happier with his current job, so perhaps his firing wasn’t such a calamity after all. It was kind of the last straw for my mom though, who moved out of the old house and in with her sister, Dorothy. Mom often threatens divorce, but she and Dad have never actually gone to the trouble of making the end final. There is still a lot of love there, if not a ton of understanding. Dad is kind of like me, meaning live and let live. Mom is kind of like emotional flypaper.

  Luck was with me that morning. Bad luck mostly, but we don’t get to choose. Being a logical person, I don’t believe in curses, but there are days when I am sure that I’ve been jinxed. This was one of them. I
soon found the offending Chevy that had cut me off parked in the lot in the chief’s parking space. This jerk had brass balls, as my dad would say, and I intended to confront him about parking in this hallowed spot.

  But first I had to see to my dog.

  Blue is my female Rottweiler. She’s the love of my life, even though she’s approaching the end of hers. Blue doesn’t get around as well as she used to, but she loves to ride with me. So I oblige her when I can. That means I have to make special arrangements, like shade and a water bowl and stops to water the grass. I also checked her over to be sure she wasn’t bruised from falling into the door of the sidecar. My hand to God, I am not a violent person, but if Blue had been hurt by that idiot I don’t know what I might have done.

  Blue seen to, I marched into the building and was met with a sea of blue shirts that were all a whole lot taller than I am. The babble was ferocious, which meant something had happened. I tried to push through by tapping on shoulders and clearing my throat but was pointedly ignored. In fact, some of the guys deliberately tightened the gap so I couldn’t get through. This game of pick on Chloe isn’t new. Usually I am pretty levelheaded about this kind of thing, but someone had almost killed me and my dog, and my dander was up.

  Giving it some thought but coming up with no other way to get their attention, I unshouldered my backpack and lowered it to the floor. Digging into its deepest folds, I eventually found what I was looking for. It was a shriek alarm, which was the most dangerous weapon the force could legally assign to me. And I had to attend half a Saturday class to get it. I was to use it to disable an assailant or call for help in an emergency. It certainly seemed like an emergency at the time, so I raised the black and white cylinder in the air, depressed the red button and for the first time “let slip the dogs of war.”

  God’s nightgown! I never knew the thing would be so damn loud. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. I only held the button for a one count, but that was long enough to cause my ears to ring and everyone in the foyer to turn away from me holding their hands to the sides of their heads. The initial reaction was universal. I even saw the eyes bug out of some of the nearest faces.

  Amazing, and maybe a little bit funny, but it wasn’t what I wanted. To inflict pain and confusion, that is. I had just wanted their attention, dammit!

  “Alright, who’s the asshole parked in the chief’s space?” I demanded using my loud, authoritative voice, which is slightly better than a squeak. It didn’t amount to much, but it was just loud enough to garner the attention of everyone not deafened by the shriek alarm. This included a good-looking man in a linen suit, standing nearby, who was the first to shrug away his aural discomfort and step forward to confront me. He looked like a lawyer, and I felt myself sneer.

  “Good morning. My name is Randy Wallace. Can I help you?” He stuck a finger in his right ear and shook his head while he walked toward me. He also applied the same pleasant swagger to his words that he did to his walk. I usually liked that kind of confidence. But not just then. Swagger on the job meant attitude, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  “I suggest you step back, sir, unless you’d like to be cited for interfering with an arrest.”

  He had gray-blond hair and blue eyes. And what turned out to be a cute grin, the kind usually called boyishly charming. But he also wasn’t backing down. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that he found the situation amusing. Almost nothing makes me angrier than having people not take me seriously when I’m on the job. It’s disrespectful to me and to the uniform. But that is just like a lawyer.

  “I’d like to explain,” he tried again. “I’m new in town and—”

  “Sir, I am warning you for the last time,” I said, pointing a finger up at his face. He was a tall one.

  “I’m your new acting Chief of Police, Randy Wallace.” He reached toward me. Maybe it was to shake my hand, but it looked to me like he was aiming too high.

  By this time I had already begun to gather from the startled looks and grins around me that I had done something very wrong. I was running out of steam but felt threatened enough by his looming to raise my shriek alarm a second time, this time in self-defense. The new chief must have sensed I was considering further action when he stopped cold, held his hands up in mock supplication, and eventually took a step away.

  Finally, my brain processed what the man had said and almost muttered something bad. This was going to mean another notation in my file about poor interpersonal skills. Knowing that this could only go badly, I nevertheless kept talking. After all, I was in the right.

  “Sir, I’m on the trail of a criminal who is on the run from a near accident.”

  “A near accident?”

  “That’s right, sir. Involving my own person, sir, and several other cars on Fillmore Street.”

  “And the other person involved?”

  “Is the owner of that filthy, pimped-out Chevy parked in your space.”

  “That filthy pimped-out Chevy is mine.”

  Again, my brain had to catch up with what was being said. My mind searched and searched for a satisfactory way to explain to him—respectfully—that he drove like a maniac, but of course there wasn’t one.

  “How’s that, again, sir?” I asked, just to be sure I had heard him correctly.

  “I said, that pimped-out Chevy in the parking lot is mine. Actually, it belongs to my brother, who was kind enough to loan it to me until my own car is out of the shop. Apparently that may take a while.”

  If he had taken it to Fred’s Fix-It-Fast, he was right. The only thing Fred fixed fast was microwave popcorn. Anyone in the know brought their cars over to Dr. Dean’s in Brighton for servicing.

  I took a good long moment to gather my thoughts and consider my next words. I was aware of the snickering around us. In the end I came up with the best statement I could given the unpleasant situation.

  “Sir, I would like to apologize for my actions this morning.” I waggled the shriek alarm and then put it away before he could take it from me. “Actions unbecoming an officer of the Hope Falls Police Department. I will now be silent and await orders.”

  That’s when the snickering really started. Followed by outright laughter. This apology was right out of the manual, but somehow it was the wrong thing to say. The chief looked around sternly for an instant and the bulk of the response ceased.

  “What division are you in?” he asked, steely-eyed, but I think that was for the others and not me. He had to know that he had been a jerk on the road.

  “Traffic and Parking, sir,” I said, feeling every syllable tear away at my throat.

  “Ah, I see,” he replied. Then he grinned again. “What do you say we chalk this up to opening day jitters?”

  Did he mean his, or mine? Either way, there was nothing to do but agree.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man.”

  Good man? Jitters my ass, but what could I do? I almost broke down and cried when the whispers rose around me. As I turned away, I was certain that I was going to feel the pat on the head that surely must accompany such a condescending dismissal. I could hardly stand it when the snickers from behind me resumed as I scurried, yes, scurried away to the locker room.

  By the time I’d made it back to my little corner of the locker room—don’t worry, it was “shielded” from the men’s side of the room—I was fighting tears of frustration and rage. And Jeffrey was there waiting for me.

  “You’re late,” he challenged, peering around the short row of lockers. Jeffrey has a distinct voice, kind of like he swallowed a swarm of bees.

  “I’m an ass and so is the new chief,” I said, hoping for some sympathy.

  “It’s okay. You’re a cute ass,” he said, noticing the red nose and stretching out an arm to hold me against his chest. As cries go, this was a short one, more of a snort and some heavy swallowing. Afterwards I felt guilty about using Jeffrey’s shoulder as a crying post. This job was the most frustrating thing I had ever done, and that da
y I felt like I was losing it.

  Jeffrey was probably my best friend on the force. He was old enough for there to be a significant generation gap between us, but for some reason that just didn’t matter. We got along great. For one thing, we shared the same gripes about life that come with the job of “meter maid.” Although Jeffrey wasn’t as anxious about advancement as I was, he was still the object of age discrimination and resented the lack of respect from the other men. He was also loyal to my father. This allowed us to band together in an “us versus the rest of the world” club. I really liked having a work friend.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me all about it,” he suggested after I had dried up. “Use as many curse words as you like. I won’t tell on you.”

  “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it by the end of the day. We need to hurry,” I added, glancing at the clock.

  Rising, we walked side by side to the small meeting room in which we conduct our morning orientations. We’re first, followed by the Law Enforcement Division. I had, since my first day of service, been trying to change procedure to allow Jeffrey and me to join the Law Enforcement orientation rather than having to find out what was happening on the crime front when we read the evening paper. The detectives were welcome to sit in on our Traffic and Parking meeting—not that they did—but so far I’d had no luck. We remained second-class citizens.

  The moment I entered the room, everyone put their hands over their ears.

  “Look out, here she comes with her siren of death,” Eddie Rounds warned. “I’m so glad she doesn’t have a gun.”

  “Eat me, Eddie,” Jeffrey growled.

  Welcome to my world. I have never—not ever—been treated seriously, and lately I felt like I was in some emotional prisoner of war camp where the inmates were as cruel as their masters.

  The Traffic and Parking Division can be divided into three distinct groups. First and foremost, there is Traffic Services. Composed of Eddie Rounds and Keith Regan, this group is responsible for installation and maintenance of traffic signs and pavement markings. Need I tell you of the excitement of listening to Eddie explain the details and complain about the difficulties inherent in his job? He’d run out of breath before he’d run out of grievances. Then there’s Safety Services. This group is composed of Mrs. Wicks and the rest of the crossing guards as well as Officer Bill, our mascot. Last, and definitely least, is Parking Services, made up of Jeffrey and myself.