Part 8 (1/2)

Thursday, March 17 Orwell was one Irishman who disliked St. Patrick's Day and all the nonsense that went with it - green beer and ridiculous hats. He did allow for a decorous measure of emerald trim in the station, provided the place was kept leprechaun-free. All shamrocks and harps had to be promptly removed by the morning of the 18th.

”Morning, Staff. Harold Ruth show up yet?”

”No, Chief. They've still got him. He could be en route, but I have no official . . .”

”Dorrie, Captain Rosebart. Right away.”

”I'll get him for you, Chief.”

”They'd better be handling him with kid gloves.” Orwell stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He was back in three seconds, jacket half off, hat still on his head. ”Well?”

”Trying to locate him, Chief.”

”How can that be hard, on a workday morning? This isn't the first time they've pulled this nonsense. Tramping all over my town like we don't matter, kidnapping suspects. That's right: kidnapping. Dorrie?”

”Still can't locate him, Chief.”

”All I can say is Mr. Ruth better look as fresh as a newborn babe when he shows up. And he'd better by G.o.d show up soon or heads will roll. Heads will roll!”

This time Orwell's office door stayed slammed.

Stacy enjoyed it when the Chief got all oratorical. From the far side of the big room she could hear the Voice booming inside his office. She couldn't tell whether he was yelling into a phone or holding court. ”What, no one knows where she is? I find that hard to . . . yes, would you do that for me, please?” It was a phone call. She heard him hang up, heard his tone turn rhetorical, perhaps addressing the world in general. He did that sometimes. ”No problem? Is that what pa.s.ses for polite discourse these days? No problem?” Brennan was in a mood. No doubt about it. ”Of course it's no problem. It's your job.” She saw the Chief appear at his office door and scan the room, perhaps looking for anyone who might disagree with him about something. ”Dorrie, according to Detective Laka-whatever . . .”

”Lacsamana,” Dorrie corrected.

”. . . who has been giving me the runaround for the past ten minutes.”

Dorrie handed the Chief a piece of paper. ”I wrote it down.”

Orwell glanced at the paper, crumpled it and jammed it in his pocket. ”With any luck I'll never be forced to speak to the man again. According to . . . him, Detective Moen is taking some personal time and is unavailable. Un-available. Nonetheless, would you keep trying her number at regular intervals?” The Chief pointed at Stacy. ”Detective Crean? Are you available?”

The Chief wasn't alone in his office. Staff Sergeant Rawluck was at parade rest, with his hands behind his back, his s.h.i.+ny boots shoulder width apart. Stacy's immediate boss, Lieutenant Emmett Paynter, recently promoted from detective sergeant, was sitting by the window wearing his usual shapeless grey suit. The Owl, they called him - round gla.s.ses, feathery hair, very slow blinks. Emmett wasn't a bad boss. Stacy had no problem with him. He was organized, had a sense of humour (if you liked fart jokes), knew the town, used his small force effectively and wasn't blind to the fact that his most productive investigator was a woman.

”Grab a chair,” said the Chief.

”Thank you, sir.” She nodded at the other men. ”Good morning, Lieutenant. Staff Sergeant.” She looked around for the designated chair. It was facing the Chief, but Stacy got the impression that it was Emmett's show, at least for the moment.

”You'll be at Billy Meyer's going away bash tonight?” Emmett asked. It wasn't really a question.

”Yes, Lieutenant. I'll certainly put in an appearance.”

”Good, good, glad to hear it. Irish House.”

”Can I put you down as a designated driver, Detective Crean?” Roy Rawluck wanted to know.

”Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she said. Stacy didn't drink. ”Happy to.”

”Fine. Some of the lads might overdo the auld lang syne if you take my meaning.”

Stacy waited quietly. She knew Billy Meyer's retirement party wasn't the reason she'd been called into the Chief's office.

Emmett s.h.i.+fted in his chair, blinked slowly. ”So. Randy Vogt's going to be on his own, come, oh I guess Monday morning.”

Had to happen. Might as well get it over with. ”You're partnering me with Detective Vogt?”

”Yes, well, that was the plan. I don't have a lot of options.” She saw Emmett and the Chief exchange a look.

”Sir? Was the plan?”

”Still is, still is, in the long run. But Detective Vogt has some vacation time coming, couple of weeks, and I think we can wait until he gets back to finalize things. That okay with you?”

”Yes, sir, certainly.”

”Right then.” He looked at her. A smile might have twitched the corner of his mouth, but she couldn't be certain. ”Until things get sorted out you can work solo, a while longer.”

Some days you get a reprieve. ”Certainly, Lieutenant.”

”Chief Brennan here asked if I could free you up to look into a few things for him.”

”And your boss has generously offered to lend me your services for a little while.” The Chief stood, signalling that the meeting was over, for some of the partic.i.p.ants at any rate. Emmett stood, she stood, Roy Rawluck came to attention.

”What did we wind up getting him, sir?” she asked.

”Retirement gift? I think it's a . . .”

”A Kitchen-Aid mixer,” Roy said. ”Has all the attachments.”

”. . . right,” Emmett finished. ”He's going to take cooking lessons, I hear.” He looked dubious. ”Well, leave you to it then.” He nodded at the Chief, headed for the door. ”Irish House. Any time after eight.”

”Looking forward to it,” Orwell said.

The Chief motioned Stacy to resume her seat. She heard the door close. She was on her own.

”Cooking lessons,” Orwell said. He sat, rubbed his big hands together as if preparing to dine. ”Well, comes to us all, I suppose.”

”Cooking lessons, Chief?”

”Retirement, Detective Crean. Hobbies, diversions, avocations. Fancy chickens.”

Stacy allowed the Chief a moment to contemplate the inevitable, then got back to business. ”What things would I be looking into, sir?”

”Well, for starters, the late Detective Paul Delisle's service weapon, a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, is still missing. Lorna Ruth says he did have a gun, but Detective Moen believes it was his backup piece, a .32. So far, the .357 hasn't turned up among the dead detective's possessions.” The Chief stood, motioned to her to stay where she was. He wanted to widen his range. ”Now, there's nothing to suggest that the gun is anywhere around here, and there's nothing to suggest that it isn't simply in Delisle's apartment, or with a gunsmith for repairs, or any one of a hundred innocent explanations, so I'm not sending up any red flags, but can we all at least admit that there's a gun floating around somewhere?”

”Yes, sir.”

He turned to the window. ”Really coming down out there,” he said. The rain was steady, he could almost see Armoury Park growing greener under the shower. His voice turned conspiratorial. ”And while you're nosing around, ostensibly looking for a missing revolver - which evidently is no problem to anyone else - you might have a discreet chat with the dance instructor, Ms. Daniel, and with Dr. Ruth.”

”Yes, sir. Anything specific I'd be looking for?”

”Wish I could help you there, Detective. You're the investigator. Go investigate.”