Clearly, this young precinct chief wasn't the type to manage his station through sheer authority. When Alice started pouting and pleading for an early start to the party, he could only smile wryly. "Alright, alright—but not too early. We still need to clean this place up."
Alice stamped one heeled foot in mock protest. "Come on, boss. Today's my favorite holiday! I even wore my special holiday boots just for the occasion!"
Then she raised her chin with a playful pout, striking a mock-serious pose. "Even if we all go our separate ways tomorrow, it should be after a fun party."
Jack didn't need to be a profiler to see how much effort she'd poured into the decorations. The tinsel, lights, and festive setup were clearly her work—and she took it seriously.
"How could I possibly let you down then? Go enjoy yourself," Sheriff Ronick said with a subtle arch of his brow, finally giving in.
—
"So you're really just passing through?" Ronick asked as he placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Jack. Sitting behind his desk, he casually flipped through a folded newspaper.
"I used to be LAPD. John and I were coworkers. He ticked off his union president and got shipped here for a week. I happened to be heading back to New York from L.A., so... yeah, I'm just passing through."
Jack spoke plainly, setting his credentials on the desk.
"Supervisory Special Agent Tavoller—you're younger than I imagined," Ronick said, giving the badge a quick glance before handing it back.
Jack glanced at the faint stubble along Ronick's jaw. "You too. I mean, for a precinct chief in a major city."
Ronick caught Jack's glance at his wrist and—without hesitation—rolled up his sleeve, revealing a worn tattoo.
"Five years undercover earned me this. Eight months ago, I thought I'd be limping for the rest of my life," he added, slapping his right thigh with a grin.
Ah. So he'd been reassigned after an undercover injury. No wonder he became a precinct chief this young—even if it was for a station about to be decommissioned.
Jack raised a hand with a disarming shrug. "Sorry, I was just curious. I've been to Chicago, but this is my first time in Detroit. There's a lot I don't know about this city."
Detroit's decline was the stuff of grim legend. Even in recent mayoral elections, four of the eight candidates had felony convictions—for drugs or murder.
This wasn't a recent fall from grace either. Back in the 1960s, race riots had rocked the city, prompting President Lyndon B. Johnson to deploy the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions along with the National Guard—complete with tanks.
The riots took five days to quell, at the cost of 1,200 injuries, 2,000 buildings destroyed, and over 7,000 arrests.
Then came the oil crisis of the '70s, which devastated the U.S. auto industry—especially Detroit, home to GM, Ford, and Chrysler. The population plummeted from 1.8 million to under 700,000. And the infamous white flight and economic collapse had left deep scars.
Ronick must have caught the undertone in Jack's words. He sighed. "If you came looking for those urban legends, you might be disappointed. The Detroit River now has alarm sensors every 150 feet—with cameras. At least the downtown core is relatively safe."
Jack chuckled, raising his hands. "No, no. I'm not here for urban horror tourism. If that were the case, I'd be heading to Kensington Ave in Philly."
He leaned back and added, "I'm more of a muscle car guy. I own a 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am."
Considering how many vehicles he'd personally destroyed in the line of duty over the years, Jack figured he'd earned the right to claim that.
Ronick's eyes lit up. "No kidding? I've got a second-gen Dodge Charger. Once the snow clears, maybe I'll drive us out to see the GM and Ford headquarters."
"It's a deal," Jack said, extending a hand across the desk. They shook, and for the first time, it felt like they were more than strangers passing through.
Despite his nagging sense that Ronick's face looked oddly familiar, the guy didn't resemble any action star Jack could place. Maybe—just maybe—this trip to Detroit wouldn't be so bad after all.
That's when the rapid click of high heels on hardwood echoed down the hallway and stopped at the door.
"Something up, Alice?" Ronick asked.
Before he'd even finished the question, the door opened to reveal Alice's smiling face.
"Boss, your regular Friday appointment is here."
Ronick glanced out the window at the raging snowfall and groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."
A sultry voice floated in behind her. "As much as I know you love your therapist, Sheriff, that tone is very hurtful."
The speaker stepped into the office—a striking woman in a violet coat, her presence instantly commanding the room. She paused upon seeing Jack, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.
"Ah, I wasn't expecting company. Just caught me off guard."
Ronick stepped out from behind his desk, clearly planning to introduce them. "This is Dr. Sabian—she's the union-assigned psychologist. And this here is Jack... uh... he said to just call him Jack."
Clearly, he'd already forgotten Jack's last name.
"Jack Tavoller. I know who you are," the woman said with a smile. "I'm Ellyx Sabian. You can call me Ellyx."
She extended a perfectly manicured hand, her poise exuding the refined confidence of someone used to being the smartest person in the room.
Jack reached out to shake it, eyebrows raised. "Have we met before?"
"Not personally," she replied, her tone amused. "You're the author of Detective Jack, right? Professor David Rossi recommended your book. I loved it. I even chatted with Maureen Cahill about you—she said you're currently pursuing a master's under her."
Jack winced slightly. His author photo had been deliberately awkward: oversized glasses, a goofy expression, deliberately unflattering. Yet somehow it hadn't worked.
"I'm impressed you recognized me. That photo was supposed to make me unrecognizable," Jack muttered.
Ellyx laughed. "I'm also a forensic psychology consultant for NCIS. Your name's been coming up a lot lately. And since you're here, I'm guessing the situation in Hawaii is over?"
Jack blinked in realization. "Oh. Yes—it's been handled."
He couldn't help but smile.
"Well... small world, isn't it?"
______
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