“Interested enough to drive up?”
“You mean now?”
“Clock’s ticking. I thought we could meet here in Richfield. Take care of the red tape. Introduce you to the suits. There’ll be a formal briefing. Some forms to sign. They’ll supply you with a temporary ID. You up for it?”
A sensation that’s a little too close to excitement flashes in my chest. “Let me tie up some things here. When’s the briefing?”
“As soon as you get here. Call me.”
I start to give him a time frame, but he disconnects. I sit there for a few seconds, smiling stupidly, energized by the prospect of consulting for such a well-respected agency. But I know most of what I’m feeling has more to do with John Tomasetti than it does with BCI. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But it’s honest, and I resolve not to analyze it any more closely than that.
My mind jumps ahead to the tasks I need to complete before I leave. I’ll need to brief my team, speak to the mayor, get my shifts covered. We’re chronically understaffed in Painters Mill. But Skid—the officer I stood in for last night—is due back today. I was scheduled to have the weekend off. It could work.
Sleep forgotten, I hit my radio and hail Mona. She answers with a perky “Painters Mill PD!”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“I want you to call the guys in for a quick briefing.”
“This morning? What’s going on?”
I recap my conversation with Tomasetti. “See if you can get everyone there within the hour. I’m going to swing by the house for a quick shower and to pack a bag.”
It takes me an hour to shower and pack enough clothes for a few days on the road. I’m no fashionista—not by any stretch of the imagination—so it takes me a good bit of time to figure out which clothes to take. Usually, I wear the old standby: my police uniform. We’re talking basic navy with a leather shoulder holster. No frills. After three years of being chief, that’s the way I’ve come to identify myself, at least with regard to style. This consulting stint promises to take me out of my comfort zone by a couple of light-years. That’s not to mention the issue of Tomasetti. I may not be into the whole fashion thing, but I’m still a woman. I might have grown up Amish, but there’s a small part of me that is vain.
I opt for business-casual and go with the khaki boot-cut slacks, black trousers, and a pair of blue jeans. A couple of blazers and a few camis, a blouse, some nice T-shirts. Impatient with myself for taking so long when I still have a one-hundred-mile drive ahead, I forgo jewelry, toss my toiletries into the bag, and head for the door.
I call Mayor Auggie Brock on my way to the station and break the news, going heavy on the “This will improve our relationship with an important state law-enforcement agency” angle.
“How long will you be gone?” is, predictably, his first question.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “Two or three days.”
He makes a noise that tells me he’s not happy about the situation. But he knows he can’t say no, because for three years I’ve forgone vacations and, most weeks, a day off. I’m well within bounds to push the issue if needed.
“You’ll have to do this on your own time,” he tells me. “I mean, you’ll need to take vacation days. And of course we can’t afford travel funds for you. We’ve got bud get constraints.”
“They pay a daily stipend and expenses.”
“That’s good.” I can practically hear him thinking this over, weighing all the pros and cons, trying to think of a worse-case scenario.
An awkward silence ensues. I’m trying to think of a way to end the call, when he broaches the one subject I’d wanted to avoid. “Before you leave,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been meaning to call you about Bradford. I mean, about the charges.”
“Auggie—”
“He’s a minor . . . a good kid with his whole life ahead of him.”
“Everything’s already been turned over to the county attorney. You know that.”
“You could . . . pull the charges.”
“ ‘Pull the charges’?” Incredulity rings in my voice; this is nervy even for Auggie. “We caught him with drug paraphernalia and an ounce of pot. He slugged one of my officers. T.J. had to get stitches, Auggie. There’s no undoing that.”
“There were extenuating circumstances. Bradford was upset about—”
I don’t know Bradford Brock, but I read the police report. The so-called good kid had enough marijuana on his person to supply the high school potheads for a month. The blood test that came back confirmed that he was high on methamphetamines, as well.
“Stress over a high school government exam isn’t considered extenuating circumstances,” I tell him.
“Look, I’m finding it difficult to believe my son had an entire ounce of marijuana on him. Perhaps T.J. . . . overreacted. Maybe you could . . . correct his report. At least with regard to the amount of pot.”
The conversation has taken a path I have no desire to tread. Uneasiness presses down on me. “I don’t think we should go there, Auggie.”
“I have to go there. He’s my son.” He sighs. “Come on, Kate. Work with me here.”
“What, exactly, are you asking me to do?”
“Nothing that doesn’t happen every day.” He pauses. “Come on. Reports get lost. Evidence gets lost. It happens all the time. It would mean the world to me and my wife if you could make this go away.”
“You’re asking me to cross a line, Auggie.”
“Kate, I’m desperate. This situation has been a nightmare. If Bradford is tried as an adult and convicted, these charges could ruin his life. He’ll have a record.”
That’s when I realize this is an argument I’m doomed to lose. Auggie Brock is, indirectly, my boss. But he’s also a father, and I know better than most that blood always trumps lesser loyalties, which include right and wrong.
“For God’s sake, Catherine is going to have a breakdown over this. You should have called me instead of arresting him! Why didn’t you let me take care of it?”
“
The line goes dead before I finish.
Shaking my head, I drop the phone onto the console. I feel compassion for Auggie and his wife. But there’s no way I’m going to falsify police records or “lose” evidence to keep his snot-nosed punk of a son out of jail. As far as I’m concerned, a stint in juvenile hall might be the kick in the pants the kid needs to get back on the right track.
A few minutes later, I arrive at the police station and park in my usual spot. The department is housed in a century-old redbrick building replete with drafty windows, noisy plumbing, and an array of unexplained odors, most of which are unpleasant. Mona and Lois hide air fresheners in creative places, but the reception area invariably smells of old plasterboard, rotting wood, and maybe a dead mouse or two. The decor looks like something out of an old
My conversation with Auggie niggles at me as I enter. Mona Kurtz sits at the reception station, hunched over her computer with her headset on and the mouthpiece pushed aside. She’s eating grapes out of a Baggie with her left hand, clutching the mouse with her right. As usual, the volume on her radio is turned up a little too high and she’s tapping her fingers to a funky Linkin Park number.
I’m midway to her desk when she spots me. Offering a quick smile, she flicks off the radio and plucks a dozen or so pink slips from my message slot. “You’re a wanted woman this morning, Chief.”
“And it’s not even ten A.M.”
“Ever think about cloning yourself?”
“Somehow, I don’t think the world is ready for two of me,” I tell her.
Her hair is a slightly darker shade of black today, with a contrasting burgundy stripe on the left side of her
