Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

get lost. Evidence gets lost. It happens all the time. It would mean the world to me and my wife if you could make this go away.”
    “You’re asking me to cross a line, Auggie.”
    “Kate, I’m desperate. This situation has been a nightmare. If Bradford is tried as an adult and convicted, these charges could ruin his life. He’ll have a record.”
    That’s when I realize this is an argument I’m doomed to lose. Auggie Brock is, indirectly, my boss. But he’s also a father, and I know better than most that blood always trumps lesser loyalties, which include right and wrong.
    “For God’s sake, Catherine is going to have a breakdown over this. You should have called me instead of arresting him! Why didn’t you let me take care of it?”
    “ Take care of it? ” I take a deep breath, close my eyes briefly, remind myself Auggie is a good man who’s been placed in an untenable situation by someone he loves. “I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation.”
    The line goes dead before I finish.
    Shaking my head, I drop the phone onto the console. I feel compassion for Auggie and his wife. But there’s no way I’m going to falsify police records or “lose” evidence to keep his snot-nosed punk of a son out of jail. As far as I’m concerned, a stint in juvenile hall might be the kick in the pants the kid needs to get back on the right track.
    A few minutes later, I arrive at the police station and park in my usual spot. The department is housed in a century-old redbrick building replete with drafty windows, noisy plumbing, and an array of unexplained odors, most of which are unpleasant. Mona and Lois hide air fresheners in creative places, but the reception area invariably smells of old plasterboard, rotting wood, and maybe a dead mouse or two. The decor looks like something out of an old Dragnet episode. And I don’t mean retro cool, but truly butt ugly. The town council did spring for a new desk and computer for our dispatch station a couple of months ago. But only because the old computer went up in flames—literally.
    My conversation with Auggie niggles at me as I enter. Mona Kurtz sits at the reception station, hunched over her computer with her headset on and the mouthpiece pushed aside. She’s eating grapes out of a Baggie with her left hand, clutching the mouse with her right. As usual, the volume on her radio is turned up a little too high and she’s tapping her fingers to a funky Linkin Park number.
    I’m midway to her desk when she spots me. Offering a quick smile, she flicks off the radio and plucks a dozen or so pink slips from my message slot. “You’re a wanted woman this morning, Chief.”
    “And it’s not even ten A.M. ”
    “Ever think about cloning yourself?”
    “Somehow, I don’t think the world is ready for two of me,” I tell her.
    Her hair is a slightly darker shade of black today, with a contrasting burgundy stripe on the left side of her crown. She’s wearing skinny black pants with a snug T-shirt and a blue scarf that’s tied around her neck like a noose. I’m glad I can’t see her shoes from where I’m standing.
    I page through messages. One from Tomasetti. Two from Auggie. Six from Kathleen McClanahan. It takes me a moment to place the name and then I realize she’s the mother of Angi, the girl from earlier this morning. “McClanahan mention what she wants?”
    “You mean aside from your head on a stick?”
    I chuckle. “She’s going to have to stand in line.”
    “I swear, Chief, that woman can cuss. It was like being at an auction.”
    “There’s something to look forward to.” I start toward my office. “Let me know when everyone’s here.”
    “Roger that.”
    I grab a cup, fill it to the rim with coffee, and drink half of it down hot on the way to my office. Using my key, I open the door and flip on the light. The odors of paper dust and toner greet me when I walk in. It’s a small space, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with bad lighting and a dingy window that looks out over Main Street. It’s jam-packed with a metal desk, a mismatched file cabinet, two hotel-fare visitor chairs, a half-dead ficus tree, and a bookcase upon which a broken coffeemaker sits. Shortcomings aside, this is my home away from home, and most days I’m unduly glad to be here.
    Dropping my overnight bag at the door, I go directly to my desk and dial Sheriff Rasmussen’s number from memory. I’ve known the sheriff for almost a year now. We’ve drunk