30

SNOW BEGAN FALLING IN large, dry flakes as Mike pulled the cruiser into the parking lot behind the police station. The flakes drifted lazily to the ground, slowly covering the layer of ice which had still not begun to melt with anything more than the vaguest hint of sincerity and making Mike fear that the driving conditions would deteriorate rapidly once again.

“Maybe the Two Stooges will drive into a tree somewhere and we won’t have to deal with them for a while,” he said when Sharon noted the absence of the State Police detectives’ unmarked Caprice from the lot.

She answered, “That might not necessarily be a good thing. Could you imagine the shitstorm that would rain down on us if one of those two was the next to get dismembered?”

“That’s a good point, but I can dream, can’t I?”

They stepped out of the cruiser and slipped and slid into the station, alternately holding each other up and waving their arms for balance. The heavy winds and driving rain that marked the storm prior to this afternoon had moved on, but this snowfall could turn out to be just as dangerous. It was impossible to differentiate between the icy spots and the areas that were more or less safe to walk on.

The station house was quiet, with most of the officers on duty out in the forest performing the search mandated by Detective O’Bannon. The two threaded their way around workstations to Mike’s office at the rear of the building. He closed the door and took a seat behind his desk, looking up the contact number for the recently retired Chief Wally Court.

Mike dialed and then stared at the telephone receiver in disbelief as a recorded message told him, “The number you are calling has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

He activated the speaker so Sharon could hear the recording. “Did you hear anything about Chief Court planning to leave town after his retirement?”

She shook her head. “Not a word, but as you might imagine, being a female officer and the new kid on the block to boot, I would probably have been the last person to find out from Chief Court or anyone else in this little Boys’ Club.”

“That’s strange, though,” Mike said. “He moves away two weeks after retiring and doesn’t leave a forwarding number, or post a note in the station, or send an email, or as far as we know say anything to anyone? It doesn’t make sense,” he said, almost muttering to himself. “Let’s try his cell number, although with the spotty coverage around here, we probably wouldn’t be able to contact him even if he was sitting in the next room.”

Mike dialed Court’s cell number and was surprised when the call went through, although it was routed straight to voice mail. A recording in the gruff voice of the ex-Paskagankee police chief advised him to leave a message. Mike thought it was probably an exercise in futility, since who knew how often the man checked his cell-phone voice mail but left a quick one anyway. “Hello Chief, this is Mike McMahon. As you have probably heard, we have suffered a couple of horrible murders in the last few days, and I was hoping to take a few minutes at your convenience to pick your brain. Please return my call as soon as possible.” He shook his head in frustration. “Where the hell could the guy be? I hope . . .”

“What?”

“I hope the hell he hasn’t become a victim.”