Striding toward her with water dripping from his long coat, Ian MacAllister looked like a small-town cop who’d already had a long night. He wasn’t particularly tall, somewhere just shy of six feet, but was built fit and solid. His hair was cut short and, even though it looked brown, Vivi could see streaks of a reddish gold in it. His jaw and general facial features were strong, both in structure and in bearing, and he was younger than she had expected, probably just a few years older than her own thirty-three. His heritage, at some point in time, was likely Scottish. Or, more precisely, she amended to herself as he stopped before her, Celtic.
“Ma’am?” he said, holding out his hand. “Ian MacAllister, Deputy Chief of Police.”
“Vivienne DeMarco,” she responded, standing up to shake his hand. Vivi motioned him toward an empty table in the back. When they reached it, he waited for her to sit then joined her as she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“GPS coordinates,” he said, frowning at the numbers.