She Felt No Pain Read Online Free Page B

music coming from the parking lot as a car door slammed and bootsteps came toward the door. “Morning, ladies, I mean officers.”
    Constable Chirakumar (Chipper) Knox Singh gave them a winning smile as he entered. At over six feet in his light-blue custom-made turban, he was Bollywood handsome, a trim beard adding a few years to his boyish, café au lait face. Chipper had entered the force nearly twenty years after Baltej Singh Dhillon had become the first Sikh to wear the turban as a member of the RCMP. Nearly two hundred thousand disgruntled Canadians took the case all the way to the Supreme Court and lost in a landmark decision. The five symbols, including the turban and a symbolic wooden dagger, were becoming familiar to people in the land of multiculturalism. She suspected that he took some grief for his career, and that as they got to know each other, they’d swap stories. She remembered the Playboy cartoons and tampons taped to her rookie locker. It was a broad and dangerous path between waving the white flag and showing some ovaries, so to speak.
    Chipper placed his hat in the closet, opened his jacket at the neck and took a seat at his desk, swinging around to face them, the lightest scent of sandalwood drifting their way. “The traffic’s heating up out there, even with gas prices. Guess if you blew two hundred thousand dollars on a diesel RV, what’s a few more bucks?” The provincial government’s two-and-a-half-cent carbon tax, returned in a one-time, chump-change rebate, had seemed negligible when the oil prices soared and now was as irrelevant as a male mosquito.
    Holly gave him a nod. In contrast to the more serious Ann, Chipper had at twenty-eight a sunny personality. The fact that he awarded her more respect than did many silverback males gave her confidence in their generation. Women had only been accepted into the force in officer positions in the late Seventies. One had recently climbed to the top in the B.C. forces. “Any contributions for our provincial coffers?”
    “A Ducati motorcycle passed me where I was set up with the radar near French Beach. He was doing 150 kmh. Sweet ride, though.” He kissed his long, tapered fingers and mimed a handlebar flourish. “Wish I could afford one. Dad would be fine with it, but I doubt Mom would agree.” Chipper lived at home with his parents over their small store in Langford, closer to Victoria. Speaking of coddled, his mother still starched and ironed his shirts and made his lunch.
    “You caught him before he could exit the gene pool, taking someone along, no doubt. Good job. The next all-you-can-eat pizza buffet is on me.” The long and winding road to Port Renfrew attracted motorcycle runs every weekend, especially at the Gordon’s Beach strip, where the speed limit rose to 80 kmh. She didn’t look forward to scraping someone off the pavement on a hairpin turn where the highway had been patched one too many times. The latest cheap-fix method of smearing asphalt on the cracks not only crossed drivers’ eyes but left slippery spots for even experienced riders.
    “Back atcha, Guv,” he said, suppressing a wink and knowing that she preferred it to Ma’am , which made her feel older than Ann.
    Holly told him about the report on Bailey Bridge. Chipper nodded. “Reg told me that the place attracts in the summer. Last year they were pretty quiet, though. We had a cold, wet summer, so not many came out. This year, with the sunny days, they’re back in business. I’ve only stopped by once. An older guy runs the show. He called me over to take in a teenager sloshed to the eyeballs at noon. We had a bulletin on the kid, turns out. A runaway from Nanaimo. Lucky he barfed before he got into the backseat.” He steepled his hands in a prayer gesture.
    “Guess we’d better schedule regular drive-bys,” Holly said, making a mental note.
    Chipper stuck out his lower lip and shook his head confidently. “I know that creek. Another month, and it will be