I pull into the station parking lot at oh-six-hundred, Jessica in the passenger seat of my department-issued SUV. She's wearing dark jeans and a cream-colored blouse that's just professional enough for a law enforcement setting. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
A couple of days with Carlos on job sites, then Pedro and now it’s me.
When Jessica announced she wanted to rotate between all four of us for work, spending a day or two with each of us throughout the week, I thought she was joking. But she was serious. Said she needed to earn money and wanted to learn what we all did. Said it wasn't fair to pick just one of us.
Carlos immediately volunteered to go first. Pedro actually argued for second position. Sergio's getting her Friday and Saturday at the rink for some youth hockey event he's coaching.
We're not complaining. Having Jessica around, even while working, is better than not having her around at all. And if she wants to spend time with each of us individually while earning money? We're not stupid enough to argue.
Plus, based on the way she's been glowing lately, the "work" involves a lot more than just duties. Carlos can't stop smirking. Pedro's been taking very long lunch breaks. And I fully intend to continue that tradition.
"The position is straightforward," I explain as we walk through the station's front entrance. "You'll be stationed at thedispatch desk. Calls come in through the main line. You assess the nature of the emergency, log the details in the system, and relay relevant information to officers in the field."
"Assess, log, relay." Jessica nods firmly. "I can do that."
"The radio codes are posted at the station. Ten-codes for most common situations. If you're uncertain about anything, Deputy Marcum will be available for consultation."
Jessica glances around the station as we pass through the bullpen. It's early enough that only the night shift remains, a skeleton crew finishing paperwork before the day team arrives. Deputy Fowler looks up from her desk and raises an eyebrow at our guest.
"New dispatcher?" Fowler asks.
"Temporary assignment." I keep my voice neutral. "Ms. Delacroix will be assisting while we search for a permanent replacement for Gonzalez."
"The one who moved to the big city?” Fowler leans back in her chair.
"The same."
Fowler's expression shifts. News travels in Largo Waters, and I have no doubt she's heard about Jessica's previous employment attempts through the departmental grapevine.
"Good luck," Fowler says to Jessica.
The words sound sincere. They also sound like she doesn't expect luck to be sufficient.
I guide Jessica to the dispatch station, a horseshoe-shaped desk equipped with multiple monitors, a radio console, and enough technology to coordinate emergency response across the entire county. She settles into the chair and surveys the equipment with an expression that's equal parts determination and terror.
"This is a lot of buttons," she says quietly.
"You'll only need these four." I point to the relevant controls. "This one answers incoming calls. This one connects to the radio. This one logs the call in the system. This one transfers to emergency services if the situation requires personnel beyond our jurisdiction."
She takes a breath. "I can handle four buttons."
"The call log template is already open on the center monitor. Date, time, caller information, nature of complaint, location, assigned unit. Standard format for all entries."
She nods, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "What if someone calls about something really serious? A shooting or a kidnapping or..."
"Those situations are statistically rare in Largo Waters. Most calls concern noise complaints, minor traffic incidents, and the occasional dispute between neighbors." I pause. "If a critical situation arises, you contact me immediately. My direct line is programmed into the phone. Button seven."
"Button seven. Got it." Jessica looks up at me.
I should leave. I have paperwork waiting in my office. Reports to review. A budget meeting at nine that requires preparation.
Instead, I find myself lingering by the dispatch station, watching Jessica familiarize herself with the equipment.
Her scent drifts toward me in the climate-controlled air, cutting through the station's usual smell of stale coffee and printer ink. The combination does something to my focus that I don't care to examine.
"You'll be fine," I hear myself say. "The position is designed for simplicity. Minimal room for error."
She looks up at me, brown eyes wide and earnest. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
