“More like knocked their heads together.” Hank eyed Jack with rare approval. “When does she start?”
“I have a candidate coming at ten today. That’s why I asked you to come in on a Wednesday. I wanted you both to meet her.”
“What’s her name?” Luke asked.
“Marta Lopez.”
“Sounds Mexican,” Hank said.
Jack shot him a hard look. Working in law enforcement, your world became divided into Cops and Everybody Else.Us versus Them. The distinction became easier and uglier when prejudice crept in, when “They” had darker skin or different last names or spoke another language. It used to make him sick sometimes back in Philly, the way some cops talked about the people they were sworn to protect. The words they used. The attitude.
He wouldn’t tolerate it. Not in his office, not in the field. And if Hank thought otherwise, he was out of here.
“She’s Hispanic, yes,” he said evenly. “We could use somebody who speaks Spanish in this department.”
“My nephew Josh is friends with a Miguel Lopez,” Luke said easily. “His mom works at the realty office.”
Jack nodded, keeping his eyes on Hank. “That’s the one. According to Sam Grady, she’s been with them twenty-five years. Worked her way up from the cleaning crew to the office. He says she’s smart, organized, and used to handling calls and pressure.”
“So why’s she leaving them?” Hank asked.
“She says now that her boys are older, she’s looking for more of a challenge.” Jack wondered how she’d deal with Hank and his redneck attitude.
“Sounds like you already made up your mind,” Hank said.
“She’s qualified,” Jack said carefully. “Not experienced, but most dispatchers train on the job.”
Hank grunted. “Let’s hope she can make coffee.”
“I can make coffee.” A woman’s voice, assured. Amused. “As long as you don’t expect me to serve it to you.”
Hank turned to the doorway, shoulders bunching like a bulldog’s at the sight of a cat.
Marta Lopez stood in the door to the office. Early fifties and confident in her skin, with generous curves and thick, dark hair and a handsome face. What Jack’s dad would call a nice handful. And then Ma would dig him in the ribs with her elbow.
Jack bit back a smile. “Marta, this is Hank Clark. Our reserve officer.”
She pursed bright coral lips. “I know who he is. I’ve seen him driving around in his car. You used to be with the sheriff’s department.”
Hank nodded, apparently strangled by his collar.
“And Patrol Officer Luke Fletcher.” Jack continued the introductions.
Marta cocked her head. “Josh’s uncle? You’re Tess Fletcher’s son.”
Luke, over six feet of Marine Corps muscle, grinned at her like the Boy Scout he’d undoubtedly been. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re just back from Afghanistan, then. Welcome home.” She smiled with genuine warmth, offered her hand. Bright nails, no rings. “Thank you for your service.”
The phone rang.
Before Luke could pick it up, Marta looked at Jack, raising dark, elegant brows. “You want me to get that?”
In a few sentences, she’d established her island pedigree and her ability to hold her own. Good for her, Jack thought. And good for him. If she handled calls as easily as she’d handled introductions, she was in.
He gestured toward the desk. “Please.”
She took off one big gold earring and laid it on the desk before tucking the receiver to her ear. “Dare Island Police Department, how can I... Oh, hi, Dora. It’s Marta Lopez. What’s up?” A series of sympathetic hums, and then, “When did you notice? Hold on. I’ll check.” She punched the hold button. “Dora Abrams on Teach Street. Something’s caught in the trap under her house. Since this morning, she thinks, but it could have been last night. When can someone go out there?”
