She listened again, and then put him on hold. “He wants to know what the story is about.”
“Put him on Bluetooth,” Mac said. She nodded.
“Sheriff, Mac Davis. My editor wants a profile of you focusing on the rising interest in the constitutionalist sheriff’s association.”
“You do realize this is the last weekend of the Tulip Festival?” Sheriff Norton said. He had a nice, John Wayne, kind of voice.
“Yes, sir,” Mac said. “I’m currently stuck in traffic on I-5. That’s why I thought we’d better call ahead.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. I usually take a two-hour shift and drive through part of the county every day. You all can join me. Give you a chance to see the tulips.”
“Yes, sir,” Mac said, resigned.
Sheriff Norton laughed as if he heard exactly how much Mac wanted to see tulips and hung up.
“Sir?” Angie asked.
Mac shrugged. “Never hurts. Military training, I guess.”
“You don’t seem overly enthusiastic about tulips.”
And so, he told her about driving Lindy and her friends around for 15 hours while they celebrated and looked at tulips.
Angie laughed. And laughed some more. She went back to reading, but periodically she’d look at Mac and laugh.
Mac looked at her sideways and grinned at her.
Mount Vernon was a pretty town, Mac acknowledged. Its main street was lined with trees, and red brick buildings with white pediments and trim. Planters everywhere were filled with tulips. People filled the sidewalks, window-shopping, taking a break from the tulip fields. Mac pulled into a parking spot near the court house, and he and Angie went looking for lunch.
“Here,” she said, and took his arm to pull him into an old-school café with dim lighting, and cracked Naugahyde booths. There was no waiting. Mac wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or alarmed.
He looked at Angie and raised one eyebrow.
“I emailed my Dad,” she said. “And unlike you, he responds promptly. He recommended it. He’s been up here often. Said it’s got good burgers and fries, and wasn’t likely to be all gussied up for the festival.”
“Well, he’s right about the last,” Mac conceded. “Let’s hope he’s right about the burgers.”
Turned out he was. Mac took a bite, and nodded. “Thank your Dad for me,” he said. “When Lindy dragged me up here, we ate at a ‘cute’ outdoor café with those damn white wire chairs for lunch, and then for dinner, they found a steak house with dancing afterward.”
The steak house had good food, but he’d held his breath the entire evening. He decided later that the cowboys were too surprised by Lindy and her lesbian friends dancing together that they didn’t snap out of it in time to cause trouble.
That, and he may have stood guard by the bar, with full Marine tats showing on his arms.
Angie giggled. “I need to meet your aunt,” she said. “She sounds wild.”
Mac looked at her skeptically. “If you’re gay, I’ll be glad to introduce you,” he said. “If you’re not? I usually don’t take women home to meet my aunt until I’m sure they can handle it. They’ve run for the hills on occasion.”
Which reminded him of Kate, who apparently had wanted to run for the hills, and he called up the email on his phone and read it. It was indeed an invite to Sunday dinner. He sent her a response, apologizing for the delay in responding because of work, and that he would be out of town on assignment.
And he felt damned relieved about it too. Damn it.
Chapter 9
(Skagit Valley Sheriff’s Department, Mount Vernon, WA)
Sheriff Pete Norton was in his 40s, and if he sounded like John Wayne on the phone, he looked more like Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, complete with a very nice dark gray suit, a white shirt and tie. Mac’s eyes narrowed. One of these things is not like the other, he thought. He’s too young, too polished for the voice. Affectation? Living up to expectations? Interesting.
“Come on then,” he said, and Mac decided he was right about the man’s voice. Very John Wayne, western drawl. He led the way through the building, which looked like a house from the outside with light green paint, and darker green trim, to the various vehicles outback. He unlocked a Ford Interceptor. Nice, Mac thought. Doing well for themselves. The Interceptor was a souped-up Ford Explorer — as if an Explorer wasn’t overkill in this state. Did they even get snow in Skagit Valley? Well they did out Highway 20, he conceded. Was that part of Norton’s turf?
“Girl? You OK with riding in the back?” he asked.
Mac started to say something, but Angie spoke up.
“Mac, you should have introduced us. Sheriff Norton, I’m Angie Wilson, we spoke on the phone,” she said, and stuck out her hand. Norton looked at it for a moment, and then shook it gingerly, as if he’d never shook hands with a woman before. Mac knew he must have; he’d seen women in uniform inside. And he was in his 40s, and looked like that? He had to have women chasing him all over the place. He glanced at the man’s left hand. No ring. He felt like he was being shined on, and he didn’t like it.
“And yes, I’m fine with riding in back,” she said, opened the door and hopped in.
Mac said nothing and got in front.
“So, your editor sends you up here wanting the usual quote from a sheriff opposing gun regulations?” Norton said, as he headed out of town. “Do you even know which end to point?”
Mac laughed, relaxing in his seat. “Do I look like some bleeding-heart liberal?” he asked, genuinely amused. The man was baiting him, and he missed his mark.
Norton looked at him out of the side of his eye, but said nothing.
“Sheriff, I’ve got more guns in my rig than you do in this one,” Mac said, still smiling. He looked out the window. Tulips. He rolled his eyes. “Two tours in Afghanistan in the Marines? You think I’m a bleeding heart?”
“Mac Davis,” Norton said slowly. “You did the story that took out Howard Parker. How do you justify that if you’re some gung-ho Marine?”
Mac looked away from the tulips and studied the sheriff a moment. “Howard Parker started sacrificing his men for his own good rather than for the good of the country. And I put him down like the rabid dog he’d become,” Mac said coldly. “What about you? Have you gone rabid?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Norton demanded, red creeping up above that pristine white shirt collar.
“You tell me. What’s with the constitutional sheriff bullshit?” Mac asked.
“This your usual interview style?” Norton asked. Mac just waited.
“Fine. I believe that the Constitution mandates that sheriffs are the top law enforcement, period. We are supposed to enforce the Constitution. No exceptions. And that means none of these gun regulations some Democrat in Olympia thinks we need. They’re unconstitutional, and I won’t enforce them.”
“You think that about all the Constitution or just the 2nd Amendment?” Mac asked. Now that he had the man on topic, he pulled out a notepad and pen to take notes.
“All the Constitution,” he said. “I enforce the Constitution as the people of my county want it enforced.”
“So, most the folks up here are Christian,” Mac said. “Probably don’t believe in drinking. You closing down the bars as part of their First Amendment rights?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “There’s a very small minority who believe that.”
“But if it got to be a majority? What then?” Mac persisted.
“Not going to happen.”
Mac shrugged. “Majority of voters think gun laws are a good idea, especially after these school shootings.”
“We can protect our students without stripping people of their constitutional rights,” he said with a snort.
“How, exactly?”
“We need to arm teachers,” he said. “Train them and arm them. Then we station uniformed cops at schools.”
“The answer to a bad man with a gun
is a math teacher with a gun?” Mac asked. “Man, my math teacher couldn’t remember where he put his glasses most days. And you want to trust him with a gun?”
“Not all teachers, maybe,” Norton conceded. “But there are vets like you who teach. Why not let them have a gun?”
Mac rolled his eyes. “OK,” he said. “Let’s run with that. I’m a math teacher in a high school in Mount Vernon. I see a kid in the hallway acting strange. He’s got a long overcoat on. He’s looking in the windows of the doors to classrooms like he’s looking for someone. Warning bells go off in my head. It’s shoot-don’t shoot time. What do you want me to do?”
Norton actually looked like he was considering the situation. “You wait,” he said.
“Until?” Mac asks. “Say I recognize the kid. He got expelled last week, isn’t even supposed to be on the premises. I know his home is pretty fucked up right now. Still waiting?”
“You ask him what he’s doing there.”
“And he whirls on me. I’m carrying, but it’s not in my hand, obviously, because that would be weird,” Mac said. “So, I’m dead because he shot me. Or, I pull a weapon, shoot him, and find out he’s not carrying, I just startled him. And he’s dying. Or he pulls a weapon, but I hesitate, because Jesus, this is a kid I know, and he whirls and blasts an AR-15 into the classroom and kills six people, because I hesitated.”
Norton scowled.
“Sheriff, I was trained for shoot/don’t shoot scenarios. And a school? No way would a military squad go into a school in a war zone — a place we know people are shooting at us. And you want teachers to make those decisions? Quite frankly any teacher who was willing to should immediately be blocked from having a weapon in a school.”
“So, what would you do?”
“I’d establish no gun zones that include schools. Strict gun safety regulations on who can own guns. Give courts the ability to block someone from having guns if they are deemed mentally unstable. Background checks,” he said. “I have guns. And I’m confident that I can pass any rule that’s established. And if I can’t? I’ll put my weapons in your lock box until I can.”
“And while they’re in my lock box, someone breaks into your house and beats up your family? Then what?”
“I’d hunt him down and make sure he couldn’t do it again,” Mac said, his eyes were cold. “Ask Howard Parker how that turned out.”
“Jesus, your editor know you interview like this?” Norton demanded with a laugh.
“Whatever it takes,” Mac said, noting that the John Wayne drawl was gone. “Let’s start over. What made you go into law enforcement, and how did you end up in Skagit County?”
Pete Norton was actually a California boy, turned out. He’d come up to Bellingham to go to college, majoring in criminal justice.
“How did you decided to come all the way up here for that?” Mac asked, curious. He was also a graduate of the university, but he didn’t think it drew many Californians.
“Baseball,” Norton said with a laugh. “They were willing to let me play baseball. Nice scholarship in fact. Baseball was my top priority in choosing a school.”
Mac grinned. “Got it,” he said. Before he went into the Marines, he was ranking school choices by football.
“Turned out I was lucky,” Norton continued. “Western Washington University suited me. I liked Bellingham. I liked the mountains. I didn’t even mind the rain. So, I graduated with a degree in criminal justice and looked for a job. To be honest? Becoming a cop wasn’t high on my list of jobs. I’m not sure what I thought you did with a criminal justice degree, but it finally registered that you’re supposed to become a cop somewhere. Bellingham has all the inexperienced cops they could possibly need, so I looked farther afield. Got on in Mount Vernon.”
He hesitated, then rolled his eyes. “And I married a local girl,” he said with a shrug. “We started having kids. I ‘settled down.’ When the former sheriff retired, I decided to run. And I was elected. Been re-elected once, up for election again in 2016.”
“Do you like it?” Mac asked. He didn’t completely buy the story, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it sounded practiced? Like the voice thing?
“I do,” he said. “Oddly enough, because I didn’t set out with this job in mind. But I like taking care of people, and that’s what I do. I take care of my people, my county.”
He pulled over. “I want to check out this venue. Walk through, shake some hands,” he said. “You game?”
“I’d rather be shot,” Mac muttered, getting out of the car. “But sure. Angie needs tulip photos.”
Angie grinned at him. “He’s lying,” she said very softly as she got out of the car. Mac nodded. “Do not ditch me here, guys,” she warned. “I will make your lives a living hell if you do.”
Mac laughed. Norton didn’t.
“How is it to work with a woman like her?” Norton asked as they strolled through the crowd of people who were ogling the tulip beds around the farmhouse and barn. Kids were chasing each other. There were tables of ‘art’ set up for sale.
“Like her?” Mac asked.
“In your face, pushy,” Norton amplified.
Mac looked startled. “I don’t find her pushy at all,” he said slowly. “She’s very good at what she does. She doesn’t let people put her down or stop her from doing her job. But she’s very easy to be around. This is the first long shoot we’ve done together. But I couldn’t ask for someone better.”
“You don’t look like a man who lets himself be pussy-whipped,” Norton said. Then he stopped and smiled at an elderly lady he obviously knew. They chatted for a moment, while Mac studied him. He was oozing charm now, Mac observed, and a minute before he was poking at Mac about Angie? Who was this guy?
They walked on. “You work for a woman, too,” Norton picked up his line of questioning again. “That must be tough.”
Mac laughed. “Janet’s easily the best editor on the West Coast, and she’s got the awards to prove it,” he said. “She stands behind her reporters, fights for us with the bosses for better pay, and can edit the hell out of a story. She’s good people. You got something against women? I saw some female deputies.”
“Got to have some,” he said. “They are pretty good at handling domestic disputes or when kids are involved. And you have to keep an eye on the employment stats. But that’s not the same as working for one.”
“You’ve never worked for a woman?” Mac asked curiously. A painting caught his eye, and he stopped to look at it. He actually liked it. Tulips blooming against a dystopian background. It said something. He thought his aunt would like it, and he bought it. Birthday present. Score.
“Once. Hated it,” Norton admitted freely. “I like women.” He grinned, flashing a dimple. “And women like me. But that’s not the same thing as working for one. Or partnering with one.”
“Thought you were married?” Mac asked, puzzled by the direction of the conversation, but he was in no hurry to address gun rights and school shootings at a tulip farm.
“Was. We split up,” he said. “We’re fighting right now because she wants to move down to Seattle for work and take the kids. I won’t let her take my kids away from me like that.”
“Hardly a long drive, man,” Mac said. They were headed back to the SUV, thank God.
“Not the point,” Norton said. Before Mac could ask him what the point was, Norton’s radio went off.
“Sheriff? We’ve got a situation,” a young male voice said anxiously.
“What’s up?”
“We went to serve those papers on Jorgensen? He’s barricaded himself inside that trailer of his, and he’s threatening to shoot.”
Norton sighed. “I’m on my way.”
He looked at Mac. “You better get that photographer of yours here ASAP, or I will leave her behind.”
“I’m here,” Angie said cheerfully coming up to them from the side.
He grunted.
“So, who’s Jorgensen?” Mac asked as they
pulled away from the farm.
“Not a bad guy,” Norton said. “Well, OK, so he’s kind of a bad guy. Lives in a trailer on the edge of Sedro-Woolley. Has a small shop where he sells porn and guns. And I suspect meth, but we haven’t been able to catch him at it. And given the way he lives, he isn’t making a very good living off it if he is. His wife left him, and we’ve been tasked with serving the papers. No private server will touch them — Jorgensen’s known to have a temper. He’s off balance because he’s losing his kids, and that makes him touchy. Can’t blame the man.”
No, of course not, Mac thought. A local sleazebag who’s probably cooking meth and is now pissy because his wife took off? Kudos to the woman. And he has a gun shop? Whoa. No wonder that deputy sounded anxious.
“So, I’ll go and talk him down,” Norton said with a shrug. “My deputies probably surprised him. And men like him don’t take surprise well.”
“He’s shot at people before?” Mac asked. Because if he was reading between the lines correctly, the deputy thought he might.
“He’s been a bit touchy since his wife left,” the sheriff conceded. But he didn’t say anything more.
Norton pulled up alongside another SUV with sheriff written along its side. “Should have dropped you off,” he said with a frown. “Stay in the car, please.”
“Not me,” Mac said. “I want to hear how it goes. Angie?”
“Can’t take photos from the car,” she agreed, and she got out before the sheriff could say anything further.
“Jesus,” Norton muttered.
Mac looked at him levelly for a moment. Norton looked away and got out of the car. Mac followed the sheriff up to his men. His men gave him a rambling account of trying to serve the papers, and Jorgensen’s response. He had actually shot at them. Norton sighed.
“Give me the damn papers,” he said.
Norton walked up to the steps that led to the trailer, a small travel trailer, that Jorgensen had parked next to a single-wide mobile home. It looked like Jorgensen had recently moved the travel trailer to his place of business to live in. At least, Mac couldn’t imagine a family living in it. There had been mention of a wife and kids.
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