Free I Shall Not Want by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

one of them do time for resisting?”
    “Donald. Got five in Plattsburgh, out in three. Tried to run over the state trooper who was taking him in for D and D.”
    “So, be careful.” The chief pointed at McCrea. “Anything strikes you funny, ease off and call for backup.”
    “Will do, Chief.”
    The chief pushed the chairs away and slid off the table. “That’s all.” He gathered up his folders and stalked out of the squad room. Through the doorway, Kevin could hear Harlene telling him about his calls.
    “Christies. They put the dirt in dirt poor.” MacAuley shook his head. He squinted up at McCrea from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I’ve been to Bruce Christie’s place. How did you tell where the deliberate trashing ended and the usual trashing began?”
    McCrea snorted. “I wouldn’t have wanted to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary, I’ll tell you.” He jerked a thumb toward Entwhistle. “Noble here was freaked out by the great big googly-eyed Jesus tapestry he had tacked to the wall.”
    “It was creepy,” Noble agreed. “Its eyes followed you around. Like in that Stephen King book.”
    “
Carrie
,” Kevin supplied.
    “Thank you, Kevin.” McCrea smiled at him.
Shit
. There he was, doing it again. He had to stop trying to be so damn helpful all the time.
    “You know how you know if a Christie girl is still a virgin?” MacAuley grinned. “She can run faster than her brothers.”
    McCrea looked at him meaningfully and nudged his head toward Hadley Knox.
    “Uh—” The deputy chief was seized with a convenient coughing fit.
    Hadley rose from her seat. Looked at MacAuley. Looked at McCrea. “The way I heard it, it’s if she can run faster than the sheep.” She tucked her folder beneath her arm. “You coming, Flynn?”
     
     
     
II
     
     
    Clare was three miles out of Millers Kill, at the end of a five-hour drive from Fort Dix, when she realized she was out of booze. She groaned, thinking of returning to her cold house—when she was away for Guard training, she turned the thermostat down to fifty to save on oil—and facing the evening with nothing but some undoubtedly sour milk and a two-day-old Thermos of coffee. No wine. No sherry. No scotch.
    No way. She cruised up Route 57, watching the river that gave the town its name running brown and gold beneath the long rays of the setting sun. Driving past St. Alban’s, she continued on toward Main, then crossed over the river, headed for the town line. She’d been doing her shopping in Glens Falls, the better to avoid running into Russ Van Alstyne. But Napoli’s Discount Liquor ought to be safe, seeing as the chief of police was a nondrinking alcoholic.
    In the parking lot, she unfolded out of her seat and stretched gratefully—up, down, and side to side. The breeze from the west was still cool with the snow lingering in the mountains, but the warmth thrown off by the asphalt testified to the power of the spring sun. Winter was gone, and good freaking riddance to it. If she never saw another snowflake in her life, it wouldn’t be too soon.
    She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and checked her messages. One from her parents touching base, one from Deacon Elizabeth de Groot, assuring her that they were all doing splendidly without her, and one from Hugh Parteger. “Vicar! Thanks for stopping by for lunch on your way to that pestilent place south of the Palisades.” She assumed he meant New Jersey. Hugh may have been born in England, but he was a true New Yorker at heart. “Next time”—his voice dropped—“why don’t you just
tell
your congregation you’re reporting for duty and stay the weekend with me? I promise I can show you maneuvers the U.S. Army has yet to think of.”
    “Not happening, Hugh,” she told the phone. She erased the message, laughing.
    Checking out her order, Mr. Napoli kept peering at her, frowning a bit as he placed the Macallan’s and the Harveys and the bottles of Shiraz in their narrow