“Oh no. Rachette?” Patterson used his last name, knowing Charlotte had started referring to her own husband by his last name to avoid confusion with their son, Tom.
Charlotte laughed. “No, he hasn’t peed anywhere interesting in a few years. The plant is doing much better.”
They chatted some about the efficacy of overnight diapers, until Charlotte picked up a sheet of paper from her desk. “You want to know something interesting I just saw?”
Patterson looked over her shoulder. “Sluice-Byron County Pension Fund contribution to stop…” her voice faded as she read the name printed on the sheet.
William James MacLean.
“What does this mean?” Charlotte asked. “They want to stop paying contributions to his pension? Now? When he’s about to be reinstated?” She slapped the paper down. When she turned around her eyes were alight with mischief. “Or, are we seeing the first evidence he’s really retiring? That he’s not coming back?”
Patterson blinked. Holy cow. Maybe her hair-brained idea yesterday wasn’t so crazy. Maybe she was about to be Undersheriff after all. Her breathing tensed. How did she feel about this? What did this mean?
She checked herself. Just wait a minute. This was crazy. She had to be wrong.
“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Charlotte said.
“I don’t know.”
“But why stop contributing to his pension, then?” Charlotte pecked her finger on the paper. “And look at the date? It’s the date he’s supposed to return.”
Patterson shook her head. “Listen, that’s not what I’ve heard. You know him, he’s pretty financially savvy. He’s making some play that’s beyond our comprehension.”
“I think he’s retiring.”
“Please don’t start that rumor.”
Charlotte straightened and backed away. “Geez. Yeah. I wasn’t going to, I was just…”
“Just what?”
“Nothing. Yeah. You’re right. It’s weird, but we have no clue what it means. We’ll know in a couple weeks.” Charlotte got busy checking paperwork again.
Heather watched her, thinking about telling Charlotte to refrain from telling her husband. She thought about reminding her that people like Rachette spread rumors through the county building faster than viruses spread sickness. But she knew that no matter what she said it was too late. This was going to be dinner conversation tonight at the Munford-Rachette household.
“Please tell Tom to not tell anybody,” Heather said. “Not until we know more.”
Charlotte put on a short-lived appalled face, then shrugged. “I’ll tell him to shut up about it.”
“I’m sure that will work. See you later,” Patterson said, crutching to Wolf’s office.
She popped open the unlocked door and ducked inside.
Wolf’s sleeping bag wasn’t on the floor.
She stood in the silence, thinking about that sheet of pension paper she’d just looked at. She was inclined to think Charlotte was right, although she’d never handled any HR matters so she didn’t know what to think.
Patterson looked around the office. The space was surrounded by people depending on you, looking through the windows to see what you were doing. Judging. Criticizing. The glass walls of this office bore the load of the rest of the building. If they cracked, a lot of people would be crushed.
She could help Wolf do it, though. With both of them holding up these walls, this place would be rock solid. Things wouldn’t slip through the cracks the way they were now. There would be no cracks.
Wilson was good, but she would be better. Was that egotistical? No, it was just fact.
Wolf’s desk was clean, devoid of paperwork for once, the shiny oak reflecting the slivers of light streaming through the blinds.
She backed out and shut the door, and then stopped at Charlotte’s desk one more time.
“Not to start any more rumors or anything,” Patterson said.
Charlotte looked around at the empty room. “Yes?”
“But have you heard anything about Wilson leaving?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yeah. He’s been looking at that job down in Denver. Assistant Chief of Police or something, right?”
“Yeah. But there’s no official word on that?” She gestured to her desk. “No official human resources paperwork coming through?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. Why?”
Patterson turned and left before the conversation turned into uncharted territory. “I’ll see you later.”
Patterson went back to her office and pulled another chair over behind her desk to prop her foot on, groaning as the pressure and pain released.
For the next thirty minutes she sipped her coffee and worked quietly, while echoing voices grew to a crescendo as seven o’clock neared.
Two sharp knocks rapped on her door and Wolf ducked his head inside. "Good morning.”
He stepped in and sat down. "I saw that spreadsheet and report. It looked really good. I just sent it off to Margaret."
She set down her pen. “You did? I wanted to go over that with you before you sent it."
He shrugged. "Why? It was perfect. No reason to. Seriously. Good job."
"Well, I just wanted to know if you wanted to make any changes."
"Do you think there needed to be changes made to it?"
She shook her head. "No."
Wolf smiled. "That's why I sent it off. Really, it was great. I knew you were perfect for the job."
She nodded, eyeing him. He was in a better mood than she’d seen in a long time. Maybe it was the load of the report off his back.
"What?" Wolf asked.
"Nothing."
“Did you talk to Hammes’s parole officer yesterday?” Wolf asked.
She pushed a manila folder forward. “There’s his file.”
As Wolf opened it up, Rachette barreled through the door, knocking as he entered. "Hey, what's going on in here?"
“Hammes’s parole file,” Wolf said, flipping pages.
Rachette stopped behind him, looking over his shoulder. “Yates is down with Lorber, checking on the prints off those beer bottles and Mary Dimitri’s autopsy.”
“Good,” Wolf said. He tapped his finger on the sheet in front of him. “There’s nothing in here about Rick Hammes working at a construction company in Aspen or Vail.”
“Did you talk to his boss at the casino?” Rachette asked. “I was hoping maybe he quit amicably. Maybe told somebody where he went next.”
Patterson looked at
