I woke the next day to the sound of my cell phone. It was Nick.
“Chief wants to see you,” he said.
“What about?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t say. He wants you here right away though.”
I recalled a time as a child when my mom forced me to sit at the table for hours after I refused to eat the last few pieces of mushrooms on my plate. I didn’t care how long I sat there or how cold the mushrooms got. The hours ticked by, and I didn’t budge. I wasn’t going to eat them no matter how much she coaxed me. Driving to the station I had a similar feeling of disdain. Except this time, I felt it was my duty to go whether I liked it or not.
A year earlier when Wade Sheppard was named the new chief of police in Park City, he suggested I learn the ropes and become a cop. I declined. After working for myself for so long, I couldn’t imagine going through all the training just to be put on beat for several years while I waited for the chance to become a detective. I preferred life on my own terms without all the red tape. Sure, I stepped on a toe or two now and then, but I only answered to one person: me. And freedom like that wasn’t worth giving up, at any price.
Coop was perched by the entrance when I walked in, his body hunched over the coffee machine. He tipped his head at me but didn’t smile.
“Miss Monroe.”
“Coop,” I said.
“Hear you got yourself a new case.”
“I did.”
“Do yourself a favor. Quit while you’re still ahead.”
Before I had the chance to respond, Chief Sheppard took one step out his door and glared at me. “Sloane, my office, now.”
As I walked away, Coop sounded off in the background. “Good luck, you’ll need it.”
The chief’s office was in its usual disheveled state. The drawers to the file cabinet were open to various degrees, and files were strewn across his desk. In the center of the desk on top of a heap of paperwork rested the day’s paper. The chief paced back and forth and then grabbed the paper, hurling it in my direction.
“What in the hell is this!”
Plastered on the middle of the front page was a picture of Charlotte and the headline: LOCAL GIRL DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT.
“Well?” he said.
I tossed the paper back on the desk. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
He threw the paper back at me and stabbed at the article with his finger. “Read it, all of it.”
The article offered the usual information. It cited the date of Charlotte’s death and where it took place, followed by a brief mention of her career and her stint as a professional skier. It sounded like the usual hum drum until I reached the end:
The cause of death, while accidental, has not yet been determined. Audrey Halliwell, sister of the deceased, had this to say. “I don’t believe my sister’s death was an accident. She was an experienced skier. I tried explaining this to the local police, but they didn’t take me seriously, and in my opinion, there’s some kind of cover up going on. The cops had a good laugh at my sister’s expense, leaving me no choice but to make sure justice is served myself.”
I folded the paper and placed it back on the desk.
“Tell me you’re not involved with this unbalanced woman,” he said.
“She believes there’s more to it than a simple accident.”
Beads of sweat pooled around his forehead and I braced for impact.
“More to what? How does a damned accident make the front page as a possible homicide?”
“She hired me to do a job, and I intend to see it through, whatever the outcome.”
“I want you to drop it.”
In all the years I’d known him, he’d never interfered with my work before.
“May I ask why?” I said.
“My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day. I’ve got reporters crawling all over me for an interview about what really happened to this woman.”
“I didn’t speak to the media.”
“But your client did,” he said. “She’s a loose cannon who’s struggling with her sister’s death. Talking to the press won’t change anything.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
His expression relaxed a little. “And you’ll tell her you can’t proceed?”
“Not yet.”
“It was an accident, Sloane, nothing more.”
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem if I check it out,” I said.
The chief clenched his fists into a ball and slammed them down on the desk. The coffee in his cup splashed into the air, dispersing liquid in every direction.
“Damn you, Sloane, and damn your client too! I’m giving you an order.”
“With all due respect Chief Sheppard,” I said, “I don’t work for you.”
He pressed both hands into his face with so much force I thought he’d pierce his own skin, and then he grabbed a file from his desk and waved me out of his office.
“We’re done here, you can go.”
On my way out, I glimpsed Coop in the corner with his fellow officers, all of them in hysterics. Coop broke from the huddle and looked at me.
“Shall I call the tree in for questioning?”
The two officers next to him erupted in laughter, adding fuel to his fire.
“Yes, uh, Mr. Tree, where were you between the hours of say ten a.m. and twelve p.m.? And you didn’t move all day, you say?”
From the looks of it, the chief wasn’t the only laughing stock.