Read Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery) for Free Online

appreciate a heads-up on this one, Mr. Graves,” she would say smoothly, sweetly, and maliciously. Then she would add, “Although I’m not sure it’s what you want to hear.”
    Hardin cleared his throat assertively. “Don’t know if you saw the duty roster, Chief. I’m due to take the next ten days for vacation. Brother-in-law and I have rented a boat at Rockport. We’re supposed to leave this afternoon. Of course, when I put in for the time off, I didn’t know we’d be so shorthanded. If you want me to hang around—” He eyed her.
    “Negative,” Sheila said firmly. Yes, she had seen the duty roster, and yes, they were even more short-staffed than usual, between court appearances, vacations, and a couple of guys out sick. But Hardin had the time coming. They’d manage.
    “The Timms case is in the bucket,” she added. “So go, Clint. Get yourself some trophy redfish.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Hardin said it with a slight touch of insubordination, as he always did. Not heavy enough to call for anything like a reprimand or even an informal reproof, but noticeable. And definitely irritating. He headed for the door, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll remind Bartlett that he’s reporting directly to you while I’m gone.”
    The door clicked shut behind Hardin, and Sheila sank back into the oversize chair, pushing out a long, weary breath. He had been one of the candidates for the chief’s job when she was appointed, and he never let her forget it. She ought to be glad that he was out of her hair for a fewdays. It was one less conflict to manage, although their relationship was such a perpetual source of conflict that it more or less faded into the background and only came up when one of them felt like butting heads. She ought to be looking forward to the gotcha conversation with Graves, too. Opportunities like that were few and far between.
    But right now, Sheila couldn’t whip up a lot of enthusiasm about anything. She had been up since before five for her morning run with Rambo, her drug-sniffing Rottweiler who worked the day shift in the K-9 Unit—nights, too, when he was called out. She was at the desk at six thirty, uniform sharply creased, tie neatly tied, duty belt fastened around her waist. She always came in before seven to get an early start on the stack of paperwork. Didn’t count for much, though, because there’d be an even bigger stack the next day.
    The paperwork was all part of the job—just not the job that all those TV cop shows portrayed. She had never seen a single episode that showed the chief sitting behind a desk pushing papers, or logged onto a computer displaying the latest report. Unfortunately, the shows made everybody think that policing was a nonstop game of cops and robbers, every car chase ending up with three bad guys on the ground in an ankle-deep pool of blood, a detective standing over them with a smoking 40-caliber Smith & Wesson. But it wasn’t. At least, not her end of it. Her end of it was forms, memos, notices, and reports, more of them all the time. If she didn’t stay on top of things, she’d be overwhelmed.
    And like it or not, the chief’s desk was the last stop for all that paperwork. Even though she might prefer to be out on an investigation— interviewing, following leads, connecting the dots—this was her job now. Bottom line, it was up to her to create a supportive environment in which every police officer could do his or her work. It was
her
job to get them the resources and tools and training they needed to do
their
jobs safelyand effectively. It was the job she had wanted and fought every day to keep—although there were plenty of days when she’d a heckuva lot rather be out on patrol or doing an investigation instead of sitting in this oversize, ill-fitting chair.
    Which was ironic, wasn’t it? After hours and hours of discussion, she and Blackie had tossed a coin to see which one of them would stay, which of them would go. Heads she’d quit,