Neon Cop's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Neon Cop watched the crates come ashore again and could do nothing. He crouched behind the rocks at the tide line, patrol boat idling in the dark cove behind him. Three men hauled sealed boxes off a small skiff. He had counted this same drop for six nights straight. Smuggling had turned his quiet beach town into a supply route, and he meant to catch the boss behind it. But watching was all he had. Without proof of who ran the ring, he could not touch a single one of them. He pressed his camera to his eye and shot photo after photo. Faces stayed hidden under hoods. The men worked fast, said nothing, and vanished up the cliff path. Same as always. Neon Cop lowered the camera and swore under his breath. Six nights, and still no name. A small voice piped up beside him. "You're doing it wrong." He nearly dropped the camera. Julie crouched in the sand next to him, sunglasses on in the dark, her orange sneakers glowing faintly. Her shirt read NEON COP JR. She was five years old and lived two doors down from the station. She followed him everywhere, and he had never once managed to send her home. "You can't be here," he whispered. "This is dangerous." "I found a box," Julie said. She pointed up the beach. "It fell off. They didn't see." Neon Cop stared at her. "What box?" She grabbed his sleeve and pulled. He followed her low along the sand to a clump of driftwood. A single crate sat wedged in the tangle, dropped and forgotten in the men's rush. He pried the lid loose. Inside sat packets wrapped in plastic, and taped to the top, a folded shipping paper. He read the name printed at the bottom. Frank Bander. His chest went tight. Frank Bander. The old man in the tweed suit who sat outside the snack stall every afternoon, feeding gulls, tipping his cap to tourists. Everyone in town knew him. Nobody suspected him. And here was his name on the manifest, tied to the whole shipment. "Is that a clue?" Julie asked. "That's a lead," Neon Cop said quietly. He had watched for six nights and gotten nothing. A five-year-old had handed him everything in six minutes. He carried the crate to the boat and radioed Chief Parker. The chief answered slow and gruff, half asleep. "This better be good." "I've got a name and evidence," Neon Cop said. "Frank Bander runs the smuggling." A long pause crackled on the line. Then Parker's voice came back, hard and low. "Bander? You'd better be dead sure, son. That man has friends everywhere. Bring me that crate. Now." Neon Cop looked at the packets, then at the name. He finally knew who to hunt. But if Bander had friends everywhere, some of them wore badges. And Neon Cop had no idea which ones.