Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

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