Beginner's Luck

"I don't mind at all," he said. But it was plain from the look in his eyes that he felt insulted by Joyce's request. As he reached toward a back pocket of his trousers, his hand swept his jacket open and Joyce saw his gun. It was holstered at his left hip, its handle forward for a cross-draw. It had the flat grips of a semiautomatic, and she spotted the base of its ammo magazine before his jacket fell back to cover it.

Swinging his hand toward Joyce, he opened his wallet. She caught a glimpse of a gold star before he flipped the wallet shut. "OK?" he asked.

"Fine," Joyce said. She managed a shaky smile. "For a minute there, I was starting to wonder."

"Well, I can't blame you for being careful. You've probably been warned, all your life, about talking to strangers."

"Policemen don't count as strangers," Joyce said. She climbed into the van and sat down on the torn passenger seat.

Stevens shut the door for her. He walked around to the other side, opened his door, and got in behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition key, and the engine started right away.

"This sure messes up my day," she said as they pulled away. "I was planning to hit about a dozen more bookstores."

"Oh?" he said, steering slowly down the lane of the parking lot.

"Yes," Joyce told him. "I have a mystery story in a magazine that just came out."

"You're a writer?" he asked.

"That's right. I've sold two stories, so far. Are you sure you haven't heard of me? Joyce Walther?"

"I don't read much," he admitted.

"Well, I helped the department a few months ago. They even gave me a special award. I helped catch a couple of guys." Stevens glanced at Joyce and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, sure I remember. Joyce Walther. You were the talk of the department.''

She nodded. "One guy held my mom and me hostage while his partner forced my dad to take him to the coin shop. He was after Dad's rare coins, you know."

"Sure, I remember now."

"I'm kind of an amateur detective. I'm really fascinated by police work."

Stevens gave her a stern look. "You should leave police work to the professionals. It can get dangerous, you know."

"I can take care of myself," Joyce told him. She hoped she was right.

In silence, she stared out the dirty windshield. She squinted against the sunlight as the van eased out of the lot and began moving up the street.

"If I can't take care of myself," she thought, "I'm in big trouble. Because the man behind the wheel of this van is not a police officer."