Emerald's Secret

CHAPTER 1 - BOOTS

SOUTH FLORIDA WHEN GAMBLING WAS A CRIME

Louise Harper, in her police officer uniform, waited at the wheel of a Metro-Dade Police car, wondering if she had time to make another trip to the bathroom before her partner returned from his errand inside the Tropical Western Wear store.

Officer Greg Hallstead, also in uniform, browsed a row of soft leather moccasins on a shelf inside Tropical Western Wear. He passed a mirror that reflected both himself and, over his shoulder, the chubby, peroxide-blonde salesgirl, who was making moon-eyes at Greg's tight-fitting uniform.

Greg browsed onward, to a row of work boots. He passed another mirror, in which the salesgirl cast a hopeful smile at him. A man with Greg's physique got used to hopeful smiles from females. He smiled back, without showing teeth, and moved on.

When Greg came to a row of elaborately decorated cowboy boots, his eyes lit up. He pulled a flashy eelskin boot from the shelf and held it high, with a toothy smile for the salesgirl.

"Got this in a 10-D, honey?"

"If I have to go to the factory for it!" the girl vowed, hurrying toward the stock room in the back.

Greg stood admiring the boot display. He could take his feet out of Montana – and he had – but he always liked to have a little piece of Montana on his feet.

Outside the store, Louise reacted to a radio call, grabbed the mic and snapped a response. Then she leaped from the car and raced toward the store.

By the time Louise arrived inside Tropical Western Wear, Greg was standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring the outrageously colored cowboy boots on his feet. He handed the salesgirl his credit card without taking his loving gaze from the boots' reflection.

Louise entered the store on a run.

Greg saw her in the mirror and sent her a John Wayne drawl, "Whattaya think, Partner?"

"I think we've got a call, so you better get your cayoose in gear, cowboy." Louise ducked out the front door.

Greg ran after her, shouting and blowing a kiss to the salesgirl as he went, "I'll be back for my credit card, honey, and don't lose my shoes!"

Outside, the patrol car's engine roared. Louise had the door open and the car already moving when Greg jumped into the passenger seat. A beat-up red Camaro passed them at high speed a moment later.

"That's him!" shouted Louise, slamming the accelerator to the floor. "Call it in!"

Greg dutifully and tersely reported to Dispatch that he and Louise were in pursuit of the subject vehicle. He gave their position, speed, and direction, and he requested back-up units.

The red Camaro raced northward on U.S. Highway 1 alongside the elevated train tracks, under the elevated Plexiglas pedestrian tunnel, up the I-95 expressway on-ramp, and past the balconies of rainbow-colored high-rise condos.

Louise's patrol car screeches in pursuit as both vehicles wove through traffic, barely missing concrete sound barriers 20 feet tall and sending a yellow cab spinning across the wide asphalt. The cab sideswiped a rickety-looking landscapers' truck that tilted crazily and spilled a dozen potted palms across eight lanes of Interstate.

Inside the patrol car, Louise concentrated on maneuvering the vehicle while Greg stroked his boots as if they were a new pony. "So, whattaya think?"

Louise was too busy to spare him even a look. "Okay. What I think is, you blew a week's pay, and you'll be hysterical the first time you step in a cow pie in those things."