“I need you to secure the future of this department.” Wolf’s voice rose above hers. He leaned forward and straightened to his feet. “The future of this department lies in that stupid spreadsheet and in that stupid report. And if it hasn’t already been made clear, I can’t do it!”
She recoiled at the volume of his voice.
“I can’t even put a title on a damned spreadsheet without messing the whole piece of shit thing up. And they need it by the end of today, or else, like you said, MacLean’s going to come back in here and unravel everything we’re aiming to do. Because of my incompetence.”
“You’re not incompetent, it’s just—”
“I’m not done!”
“Ooo-kay.”
“And you’re not my secretary, damn it. You’re the best person I’ve got!”
She blinked. “Okay.”
Wolf walked toward the window, his hands rubbing the back of his neck.
“We’ve got twenty-eight deputies,” he continued in a low voice, “some younger than my own son, out there carrying guns, tasked with a next to impossible job, and we’ve figured out that they can’t trust each other. So what are we going to do about it?” He turned to Patterson. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m the sheriff, at least for now, and I’m putting my best woman on the job. I’m not screwing this up as my final act in office. Okay?”
The sound was sucked out of the room as Wolf stared at her.
“Okay,” she said.
"Good." He quickly straightened the chairs. "And I want you to work from home," he said. "Seriously, think about how comfortable you would be in bed right now with your foot propped on a nice soft pillow, a laptop on your lap."
She dared visualize that for only a second. Maybe a hot tea sitting next to her on the nightstand, Scott bringing her lunch in bed. "No, it's okay," she said. “Really. I’m fine here.”
She silently screamed at herself, willing Wolf to make it an order for her to leave.
It almost looked like he was going to do it. He looked at her foot, her eyes again. “Okay, fine.” He walked to the door and left. The door clicked shut behind him.
She stared after him, letting her mind slip back to a year ago, back to a conversation she’d had with Wolf on his front lawn. It had been during the barbecue for MacLean’s going away and it looked like Wolf was about to be in office for a long time. He’d made it clear that day he didn’t want the job. That he was on the lookout for somebody to train to take his place.
And then he’d looked at her strangely. Like, as in, he’d meant her.
Of course, she’d been mightily drunk that night. The drunkest in a number of years, if that next day hangover was any indication.
But she’d heard what she’d heard.
She straightened upright as a thought hit her. Was MacLean really coming back? What if he wasn’t? Then what?
And how about Wilson? Was he really taking the job down in Denver? MacLean retiring and Wilson leaving would explain Wolf’s current state of mind. Did he know he was going to be sheriff for the long haul and it was stressing him out? It would be just like him to keep that piece of information to himself, letting it eat away at him.
She tilted her head, the new thought physically knocking her skull sideways.
Then who was going to be Undersheriff?
Undersheriff Patterson. Now there was a training ground for sheriff if there ever was one.
She shook her head, flinging the thoughts out of her brain. None of that made any real sense. MacLean was coming back as sheriff. Wilson was coming back as undersheriff. She was moving back to detective and Wolf was moving back into his position as Chief.
The truth was Wolf was just a basket case when it came to paperwork—office work in general, if she was being honest—and it was stressing him out. And that was that.
She looked back at the mounds of paper on her desk. Dang it. She should have told Wolf to hand those over on his way out.
Chapter 6
Wolf walked into the interrogation room at 9:08 a.m., a few minutes late by design, where Eagle McBeth sat alone.
“Mr. McBeth. I’m Sheriff David Wolf, I’ll be joining this interview today.”
McBeth stood and shook Wolf’s hand, and it was like shaking a lumpy sandpaper glove.
Rachette opened the door and came inside, sliding a cup of coffee in front of McBeth. "Here you go, sir.”
"Thank you."
Rachette sat down, putting his notebook on the table in front of him.
McBeth sat comfortably, sipping his coffee. He had a chest-length beard and wore a trucker hat. His outfit said he hadn’t gotten to the laundromat in the last few weeks. Mud caked one arm of his flannel, grease streaked his jeans, and his Pabst Blue Ribbon hat was thoroughly sweated through.
McBeth seemed to read Wolf’s eyes and became a bit self-conscious. His hand went to his muddied sleeve, sending a few flakes onto the floor.
“Sorry,” McBeth said. “Shoot. Getting dirt all over the place. This is pretty much as clean as it gets in my wardrobe these days.”
“It’s okay,” Wolf said with a smile.
“Got a nice shower last night, though,” McBeth said.
“That’s good.”
As McBeth busied himself with one shirt sleeve, the other slid up his forearm, revealing an angry, circular scar climbing up his wrist and out of sight beneath the fabric. He quickly covered the exposed skin and dropped his arm to his side.
"Thanks for coming," Wolf said. “So the place was okay last night, was it?”
"Yeah. Wasn’t bad.”
"Good. And we appreciate you coming in today.” Wolf tapped the digital recorder in the center of the table. “We’ll be recording this conversation to aid our investigation.”
McBeth looked between them. "I thought about bringing a lawyer.”
Wolf said nothing.
“But I have nothing to hide."
Wolf nodded. “Good. Then you’re doing everyone a service. Most of all, Chris.”
"So what happened to him?” McBeth asked.
Wolf let the question hang for a
