I walk backward and hold a glass door open at the front of the building. There’s a second glass door that exits into the parking lot, but I herd our class into the vestibule between. Once Harris brings up the rear and closes the door, the sun shining in makes it feel as though we’re in a sauna. The students look to me for an explanation as to why we’re roasting here.
I motion to the doors leading back into the building. “These are locked at night.” I motion to the doors leading to the parking lot. “These are not. So if anyone is being chased, they can run in here and hit the intercom button that connects to our 911 dispatchers. Officers on duty have the ability to remotely lock the front door to keep the victim safe until they can get out here to help.”
Gemma points to the door on the parking lot side. “Is that glass bulletproof?”
I pause in surprise. Either she’s more perceptive than I realized or, on top of being a druggie, she’s also planning a way to break into the police department. “Yes.”
She grabs her pink diary from her roommate and busies herself with writing notes again. She jots some more when I lead them to the practice lot that resembles the back lot of a movie studio but is used for tactical training. And even more when I show the map room, where the locations of crimes are pinpointed so we can try to predict the next strike.
I finish the tour by leading our group into the holding room, where we’ll take fingerprints for background checks. I’m not too wary of anybody in this class. There’s a bearded gentleman in Harley gear, which means he could be involved in one of the outlaw biker gangs coming into our area, but it’s more likely he belongs to the ninety-nine percent of motorcycle clubs that follow the law. You just never know though. It’s probably the sweet, middle-aged stay-at-home mom in bright retro high-tops who I’ll find out has served time for embezzlement.
Harris leans against the doorway, obviously not too concerned either. “Citizens are allowed to take photos in here if they wish.”
He isn’t even finished making the announcement before the Hawaiian guy has his phone out. He snaps a few selfies with Gemma and the other member of their entourage, then the three of them take turns posing on the line painted for sobriety tests in positions that make them look as if they can’t walk straight.
And she claims she’s not an actress.
“I hate to break up the party.” Not really. I’m a professional party pooper. “But we need to get started if we’re going to make it through everyone’s fingerprints. If anyone wants to volunteer to get their prints taken for the background check in front of everyone, I’ll show you how we do that right now.”
Gemma jolts forward.
I should’ve known. Though, with the way her torso tipped before she took steps to catch her balance, I’m guessing one of her male friends had something to do with her being so quick to volunteer.
“The lieutenant will practically have to hold your hand to take your fingerprints,” her talkative buddy says, confirming both my suspicions that he can’t tell a lie and that he pushed her to volunteer.
Harris gives a little hoot from the door, which I ignore. I’ll deal with him later. Right now I’m too busy trying to figure out thisThree’s Companydynamic.
If Gemma’s roommates are encouraging her to get closer to me, then maybe they’re not interested in her as more than a friend. I find this surprising, which means I’m admitting to myself it would be hard to spend a lot of time around the beauty and not be attracted to her. Though I’d rather deal with looters and rioting than go down that relationship route again.
Gemma squeezes between a couple of other attendees to plant herself in front of me and the scanning device, where I’m going to roll her fingers one at a time so they will appear on the computer monitor. “I’ll volunteer,” she offers sweetly.
I don’t realize I’m inhaling deeply until I smell coconut again. I decide to hate that scent since it’s going to make me think of her whenever I smell it now. She’s summer vacation personified. I’ll have to make my time with her quick so I don’t get burned.
I type her name and info into the computer, concentrating on the cursor and letters. But I feel her presence warming my arm like rays of sunshine.
“This has been really fun.” Her voice is all soft and dreamy.
I have to look at her then to see if she’s serious. Because I never think of my job as fun. And I especially don’t get soft and dreamy about it. Law enforcement is pretty awful most of the time. Just ask my ex.
Her eyes sparkle, and I realize she’s not thinking about the realities of police work. She’s thinking of Sylvester Stallone and Bruce Willis with their shirts off.
I place this thought in the forefront of my mind as I hold out my hand for hers.
She raises her long slender fingers. They are bronze, of course. She wears one thumb ring that looks like a bunch of little rings stacked together. Her nails are short and rounded, clean and painted peach.
Her jewelry and nails aren’t pretentious. They’re also more appealing than I’d expected. I take a moment to mentally chastise myself, then I take her smooth palm in mine. Since when do I have expectations about hands?
I robotically press all her fingers down onto the glass at once. The slopes and swirls of the designs from her finger pads appear on the monitor in front of us. Thankfully, the computer doesn’t show any blurs or smudges, and it beeps its acceptance so we can move on.
“I’ll start with the index finger on your right hand.”
She curls the rest of her fingers in and waits for me to grip her wrist and guide her. “I’m so glad you don’t have to use ink anymore.”
I can’t help giving a snort before rolling her finger to create a print from one side of her fingernail to the other.
“What?” she asks, and with the way I’m tipped forward over her hand, her breath tickles the back of my neck. It’s warm, but somehow it makes me want to shiver.
The light underneath the glass pad flashes green, and I don’t wait for her to switch fingers for me. I curl and straighten them myself. Her fingers glide easily between mine, and I remind myself they are probably still moisturized from all the sunblock she slathered on earlier.
