Until The Ride Stops

Walker shrugged. “Seems like it would be safe to do that, but you never know when someone’s going to want to see the real thing. And these are actual public and criminal records.”

Caroline’s heart thumped in her chest. “Do people request old records very often?”

“No. Big city departments, maybe. But not here, not in years. Especially not records from before you were born.”

She pulled out the first folder in the drawer and turned on the scanner. “Am I going to find anything interesting in here?”

The chief rolled back and forth in his chair, watching as she carefully laid papers inside the marked area on the scanner glass. She closed the lid, pressed a button and a blue streak of light slid out.

“Probably not,” Walker said. “In my career here, I’ve only seen a few things that would make it onto the evening news.”

“Such as?”

“Rash of car thefts in the 1990s, right from the parking lot. People stole cars and stereos.”

“Pretty bold.”

“They were,” the chief agreed. “That’s why we have the tower in the parking lot. Used to be the worst job sitting in that tower watching the cars.”

“Worse than scanning all these files?”

“Tough call.” He leaned back in his chair. “We also had some fights over the years, some of them ugly like the one last summer, but you already knew about that one ’cause you were there. Employee theft from cash registers,” he continued, “thefts in the dorms or the hotel. But quiet for the most part. I’ve had years’ worth of petty stuff and general peace.”

“When was your first summer?” Caroline asked.

“1985.”

Her heart flipped again. “You’ve been the chief that long?”

He laughed. “No. I started out just like you. Nonbond without a gun for a few summers, then the academy, then bonded officer for a few years before I moved up the chain.”

“Wasn’t 1985 the year of the accident on the Loose Cannon?” she asked, trying for a casual tone. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, a chance to bring up the old case with someone who was there. Who better than a police officer?

The chief spun his chair around so she couldn’t see his face when he said, “Yes.”

“And you were a nonbond?”

“I was.”

He completed the spin and met her eyes. “That was a real shame.”

“The accident?”

“All of it,” he said.

“Were you part of the investigation?”

He shook his head. “No. I was low man in the pecking order. And ride accident falls under the state anyway. They came out and did the inspection, wrote it up.”

“Did they find out what caused the accident?”

He scratched his head.

She waited.

Jenny Knight’s parents had already told her it was ruled as undetermined. But Caroline didn’t want to show her hand. She was more interested in hearing what he knew.

“It was an accident, they said. Sometimes you never know exactly what goes on.”

Caroline slid the paper off the scanner, replaced it in the folder and put it back in the drawer. She took out the next folder, marked February 1974, and began scanning the thin file of documents.

Chief Walker got up abruptly and his chair rolled into the wall with a solid clunk. “Happened a long time ago.”

Caroline finished the February folder quickly. Not much action in the winter.

“The Loose Cannon was in the same place the new ride’s going, wasn’t it?” she asked, as if she were just killing time with conversation. “It’ll be nice to have something fun there instead of just concrete and benches.”

The chief grunted. “You seem awfully interested in this,” he said.

She smiled at him, trying to make her curiosity seem innocent. “I want to be an investigator someday. I have to practice asking questions.”

“And learn when it’s best to stop,” the chief said. He shuffled out to the dispatcher’s desk, said something to the officer on duty and left the station.

Caroline watched him leave and wondered how many questions she should risk asking. Was he right about learning when to stop? Or was he issuing a warning?

CHAPTER THREE (#ua32b0c63-fd2b-5923-8518-3d87215e3c13)

TRAFFIC DUTY. Not her favorite. There was no shade on the Point Bridge. There was no end in sight to the line of cars flowing across the bridge for a Saturday in the park. And why couldn’t people understand how to follow the orange traffic cones? Was it rocket science?

Last summer, she’d watched her partner bounce off the hood of a car whose driver wasn’t paying attention. That was an experience she’d never forget. Or repeat.

Caroline kept her eyes on the incoming cars, their drivers distracted by digging through purses and wallets for the parking fee or for their season pass. One more hour and she could hand this job to someone else and take up her post along the midway where she usually guarded the construction zone. A shade tree with her name on it was waiting for her.

A heavy-duty pickup truck, loud diesel engine rumbling, pulled up in front of Caroline’s post near the tollbooth. The driver cut the engine. What was he doing? There was a line of cars a mile long behind him and he was blocking an entire lane.

She tried to give him the move-it-along look she’d been practicing, but bright morning sun reflected off his window and she couldn’t see his face.

The window slid down a moment later and Matt Dunbar rested his elbow on the frame.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “I can’t work unless I know you’re outside my construction fence keeping me safe.”

“I don’t always work in that zone,” she said. “Nobody likes traffic duty, so we have to take turns.” She approached his truck so she wouldn’t have to shout over the traffic noise. “You have to move along. You’re blocking a lane.”

Matt drew his eyebrows together, erasing his easy smile. “Seems dangerous out here with unpredictable drivers. You don’t know what they’re thinking.”

Caroline crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head.

“I know,” he said. “Like me.” He reached onto the floor of his truck and picked up an orange hard hat. “At least put this on, just in case.”