Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [58]
“New York,” Roelke said slowly. “I’m not sure what we can do, other than sending—”
Pauline shook her head. “I’m not asking you to do anything. Erin asked me not to look for her, and I’m honoring that request.” She opened her purse. “But I wanted to give you this. My name and number are on the back. If you ever see her, or hear from her … please, get in touch with me.”
Roelke stared at the small, framed photograph that Pauline shoved into his hands. Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Erin had been one call in a very busy day, in a very busy week, in a very busy month. “I will,” he said.
“Thank you.” Pauline stood. “And thank you for trying to help Erin. She said you were kind.” She fished a tissue from her purse, blew her nose, and hurried away.
And Roelke had continued to sit still amidst the chaos of a busy district police station, staring at the image of Erin Litkowski. She had the kind of prettiness that came mostly from her smile. And some SOB had made her life so miserable that she had felt compelled to go into hiding.
Roelke had never again seen, or heard from, Erin or her sister. He didn’t know what to do with the photo, so he simply kept it. Was Erin Litkowski alive? Or had her husband traced her, and made good on his threats? He’d likely never know.
He put the photo back on the locker shelf and shut the door. He hadn’t done enough for Erin Litkowski. And he couldn’t do anything for her now. But he could look out for Libby and her kids, even if she was too damn stubborn and proud to like it.
And he could try to do the same for Chloe Ellefson. That Ethan guy, whoever he was, was doing a piss-poor job of it.
A big, noisy, motorcycle zoomed past Chloe the next morning as she drove to Old World’s administration building. By the time Chloe parked, Ralph Petty was taking off his helmet.
“Good morning,” Chloe said.
“Morning.” The site director pulled a briefcase free from its storage compartment and jerked his head toward the building. “Come on in.”
Ralph had summoned her for a meeting. Once inside, Chloe helped herself to a cup of coffee from the percolator on the kitchen counter before following the site director into his office. Something to occupy her hands—not to mention a jolt of caffeine—seemed like a good idea.
“So, are you settling in?” Ralph asked, with a smile that was half cheerful, half solicitous, and totally artificial.
“I’m working on it.” Chloe matched his fake smile with one of her own.
“You know you can always come to me if you have questions or problems.”
“Thanks.” Chloe sipped the coffee, which was wretched. She and Ralph faced each other across a table. He was a compact man of middling height, early fifties, with a short beard he’d probably grown to compensate for a receding hairline. Chloe fervently hoped he wasn’t about to ask for a detailed account of her accomplishments to date.
“I wanted to see what progress you’ve made in terms of developing a plan for a permanent collections storage building,” Ralph said.
How much progress had he expected her to make in a week? “My assessment is coming along,” Chloe said vaguely. “I’m scheduled to meet with Leila in Madison on Tuesday. I’m sure we’ll discuss it.”
Ralph frowned. “I doubt that Leila will have time to be of much help. It’s important that we get a proposal drafted as soon as possible so I can proceed with fund-raising.”
“I’m all for that.” Since Chloe hadn’t even met Leila in person yet, she wasn’t going to offer any opinions on the division curator’s priorities.
Ralph picked up a thin file on his desk, and handed it to her. “I’ve drawn up some rough plans for you to look at.”
“I see.” Chloe opened the file and flipped through the half-dozen pages inside. Most contained pen sketches of a new facility, with scribbled notations: textile