the hell is wrong with you—scaring the poor woman—”
“She has reason to be scared, Chief. Her son is missing.”
“That has yet to be established. He's probably playing at a friend's house.”
“She says she checked with his friends.”
“Yes, but she's panicked. She's probably forgotten to look in an obvious place.”
“Or somebody grabbed the kid.”
Mitch scowled harder because it took an effort to dismiss her suggestion. “This is Deer Lake, O'Malley, not New York.”
Megan arched a brow. “You don't have crime in Deer Lake? You have a police force. You have a jail. Or is that all just window dressing?”
“Of course we have crime,” he snarled. “We have college students who shoplift and cheese factory workers who get drunk on Saturday night and try to beat each other up in the American Legion parking lot. We don't have child abductions, for Christ's sake.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the nineties, Chief,” she said sarcastically. “It can happen anywhere.”
Mitch took a half step back and jammed his hands at his waist. The president of the Sons of Norway lodge went into the men's room, smiling and nodding to Mitch. A cloud of chokingly sweet air freshener escaped the room as the door swung shut. Mitch blocked it out just as he tried to block out what Megan was telling him.
“The people in St. Joseph didn't think it could happen there, either,” Megan said quietly. “And while they were all standing around consoling themselves with that lie, someone made off with Jacob Wetterling.”
The Wetterling case in St. Joseph had happened before Mitch had moved to Minnesota, but it was still in the hearts and minds of people. A child had been stolen from among them and never returned. That kind of crime was so rare in the area that it affected people as if someone from their own family had been taken. Deer Lake was nearly two hundred miles away from St. Joseph, but Mitch knew several men on his force and in the sheriff's department had worked on the case as volunteers. They spoke of it sparingly, in careful, hushed tones, as if they feared bringing it up might call back whatever demon had committed the crime.
Swearing under her breath, Megan grabbed the telephone receiver. “We're wasting time.”
“I'll do it.” Mitch reached over her shoulder and snatched the phone from her.
“A little rusty on our telephone etiquette, aren't we?” she said dryly.
“Our dispatcher doesn't know you” was all the apology he offered.
“Doug? Mitch Holt. Listen, I need a bulletin out on Paul Kirkwood's boy, Josh. Yeah. Hannah went to pick him up from hockey and he'd gone off somewhere. He's probably in somebody's basement playing Nintendo, but you know how it is. Hannah's worried. Yeah, that's what women do best.”
Megan narrowed her eyes and tipped her head. Mitch ignored her.
“Let the county boys know, too, just in case they spot him. He's eight, a little small for his age. Blue eyes, curly brown hair. Last seen wearing a bright blue ski jacket with green and yellow trim and a bright yellow stocking cap with a Vikings patch on it. And send a unit over to the hockey rink. Tell them I'll meet them there.”
He hung up the phone as the Sons of Norway leader emerged from the men's room and sidled past them, murmuring an absent greeting, his curious gaze sliding to Megan. Mitch grunted what he hoped would pass for an acknowledgment. He could feel Megan's steady gaze, heavy, expectant, disapproving. She was new to this job, ambitious, eager to prove herself. She would have called out the cavalry, but the cavalry wasn't warranted yet.
The first priority in a missing persons case was to make certain the person was actually missing. That was why the rule with adults was not to consider them missing until they had been gone twenty-four hours. That rule no longer applied to children, but even so, there were options to consider before jumping to the worst conclusion. Even levelheaded kids did stupid things
“She has reason to be scared, Chief. Her son is missing.”
“That has yet to be established. He's probably playing at a friend's house.”
“She says she checked with his friends.”
“Yes, but she's panicked. She's probably forgotten to look in an obvious place.”
“Or somebody grabbed the kid.”
Mitch scowled harder because it took an effort to dismiss her suggestion. “This is Deer Lake, O'Malley, not New York.”
Megan arched a brow. “You don't have crime in Deer Lake? You have a police force. You have a jail. Or is that all just window dressing?”
“Of course we have crime,” he snarled. “We have college students who shoplift and cheese factory workers who get drunk on Saturday night and try to beat each other up in the American Legion parking lot. We don't have child abductions, for Christ's sake.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the nineties, Chief,” she said sarcastically. “It can happen anywhere.”
Mitch took a half step back and jammed his hands at his waist. The president of the Sons of Norway lodge went into the men's room, smiling and nodding to Mitch. A cloud of chokingly sweet air freshener escaped the room as the door swung shut. Mitch blocked it out just as he tried to block out what Megan was telling him.
“The people in St. Joseph didn't think it could happen there, either,” Megan said quietly. “And while they were all standing around consoling themselves with that lie, someone made off with Jacob Wetterling.”
The Wetterling case in St. Joseph had happened before Mitch had moved to Minnesota, but it was still in the hearts and minds of people. A child had been stolen from among them and never returned. That kind of crime was so rare in the area that it affected people as if someone from their own family had been taken. Deer Lake was nearly two hundred miles away from St. Joseph, but Mitch knew several men on his force and in the sheriff's department had worked on the case as volunteers. They spoke of it sparingly, in careful, hushed tones, as if they feared bringing it up might call back whatever demon had committed the crime.
Swearing under her breath, Megan grabbed the telephone receiver. “We're wasting time.”
“I'll do it.” Mitch reached over her shoulder and snatched the phone from her.
“A little rusty on our telephone etiquette, aren't we?” she said dryly.
“Our dispatcher doesn't know you” was all the apology he offered.
“Doug? Mitch Holt. Listen, I need a bulletin out on Paul Kirkwood's boy, Josh. Yeah. Hannah went to pick him up from hockey and he'd gone off somewhere. He's probably in somebody's basement playing Nintendo, but you know how it is. Hannah's worried. Yeah, that's what women do best.”
Megan narrowed her eyes and tipped her head. Mitch ignored her.
“Let the county boys know, too, just in case they spot him. He's eight, a little small for his age. Blue eyes, curly brown hair. Last seen wearing a bright blue ski jacket with green and yellow trim and a bright yellow stocking cap with a Vikings patch on it. And send a unit over to the hockey rink. Tell them I'll meet them there.”
He hung up the phone as the Sons of Norway leader emerged from the men's room and sidled past them, murmuring an absent greeting, his curious gaze sliding to Megan. Mitch grunted what he hoped would pass for an acknowledgment. He could feel Megan's steady gaze, heavy, expectant, disapproving. She was new to this job, ambitious, eager to prove herself. She would have called out the cavalry, but the cavalry wasn't warranted yet.
The first priority in a missing persons case was to make certain the person was actually missing. That was why the rule with adults was not to consider them missing until they had been gone twenty-four hours. That rule no longer applied to children, but even so, there were options to consider before jumping to the worst conclusion. Even levelheaded kids did stupid things
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