Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [19]
And once, Roelke had milked those cows in that barn. After high school he’d left the farm behind, moved to Milwaukee. And if he’d sometimes thought about his maternal grandparents—both dead, by then—he’d given little thought to their farm. But since he’d moved back out from the city … well, sometimes he felt the impulse to drive by the old place.
God knew why, though, he thought. He checked for traffic, put the truck in gear, and did a tight U-turn on the road.
Ten more minutes and he was back in Eagle. He pulled into the space at the village parking garage that he’d vacated before driving to Chloe’s house.
The Eagle Police Department employed half a dozen officers. All but one of those were part-timers, most trying either to break into a police career or to ease out of one. Roelke was officially part-time as well, although the chief gave him extra hours when he could, and had recommended him for pick-up shifts in nearby Palmyra and North Prairie.
Chief Naborski had a private office. Marie, the clerk who entered citations and filed reports and prepared everything for court, had her own desk in the small squad room. The officers shared workspace and a typewriter, a necessity that generally worked out but sometimes got on Roelke’s nerves. Skeet Deardorff, who’d come on as Roelke went off, was out on patrol. Now would be a good time to catch up on paperwork.
He had a lot of paperwork waiting. Chief Naborski liked being able to show the taxpayers exactly how his officers spent their time. In addition to Mrs. Lundquist’s accident and the usual speeding citations and a report of property damage, Roelke had also arrested a drunk driver the evening before.
For some reason, though, he had trouble concentrating. He got up and opened his locker. On the top shelf sat a small photograph of a pretty young woman, smiling from a simple gold frame. His muscles tensed. He’d met Erin Litkowski only once, and weeks went by without him really seeing the photo. Sometimes, though, her smile chided him. Like now. He picked the photograph up, stared at it, put it back in place. When he sat down again he turned back to the DUI report he needed to complete, looked at it, and put it down, too.
When the phone rang he snatched the receiver before it could kick over to dispatch. “Eagle Police, Officer McKenna.”
“For cripes’ sake, Roelke,” a woman complained in his ear. “If I needed help, your tone would scare the crap out of me. When are you going to lighten up?”
“When are you going to stop calling me when I’m working?”
“You’re not working. You went off duty over an hour ago. I tried your place first, and when I didn’t get an answer, it didn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out where to find you.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching the phone cord as far as it would go. “I’m staring at a stack of paperwork that would—”
“Why don’t you come over to my place? I’ve got bratwursts simmering in beer and I just lit the coals.”
“I went by the farm this afternoon.”
“You—why? Why do that?”
“I don’t know. I just did.”
Libby exhaled audibly. “Roelke, put away whatever you’re doing and come by. The kids want to see their favorite uncle.”
“I’m their second cousin.”
“See you in ten.” She hung up.
The wall clock ticked noisily as Roelke replaced the receiver, contemplating an evening with his cousin and her two kids. Libby had never lost her I’m-older-than-you attitude. She’d scold him for faults both real and imagined, jab the hot buttons she’d identified by age seven, and then make him scrub the grill after dinner.
He grinned. The reports could wait.
Chloe made it to work the next morning in time to attend the interpreters’ briefing with Byron, held on-site in the basement of the Four Mile Inn. Byron was somewhere in his late twenties,