The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [111]
I am so screwed, Roelke thought.
When he knocked on the door, Chief Naborski waved him inside. “Shut the door behind you.”
Roelke did as he was told.
“Sounds like you had quite the night,” Naborski began. “Simon Sabatola arrested for murder.” The words were fine, but the tone was not congratulatory.
“Yessir. I made a lot of—”
“I read Skeet’s report. Including the part where Sabatola resisted arrest. I understand you had to take him down. And that Sabatola cracked his ribs against a coffee table when he fell.” The chief’s expression made it clear that he questioned that last detail.
Roelke squeezed the arms of his chair. Skeet, you idiot! he thought. Why had Skeet lied? All that did was complicate the mess.
“I have yet to read your report.”
Roelke held it out, but instead of taking the report, Chief Naborski folded his arms. “The head of the Police Committee stopped by my house last night.”
The edges of Roelke’s vision began to waver, as if he was getting a migraine. When this was over he’d sleep for three days. Then he would try to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
“They decided to give the permanent position to you,” Naborski said.
After a pause Roelke said hoarsely, “They … they made a mistake. The job should go to Skeet.”
Naborski stood, turned his back, and looked out the window. Roelke waited for him to say something. It seemed as if he waited a long time.
Finally Naborski turned again. He looked grim. “Officer Mc-Kenna, the Police Committee took their task very seriously. They invested time, reviewed the applications, conducted the interviews. They discussed the options at length and in good faith. I can go back to the committee and tell them they made a mistake. If I do, however, they will probably begin to wonder just what kind of department they’re paying for. They will wonder why an officer who’s put in a year of part-time work while waiting for a permanent position to open would go through the process, just to change his mind. Is that what you want me to do?”
Roelke couldn’t find an answer.
Naborski shook his head. “You have good instincts. This Sabatola thing is only one example.” The chief’s eyes narrowed. “But if you ever put me in this position again, your ass will hit the asphalt. Your career will be over. Do you understand me?”
Roelke jerked his head—one tiny nod.
“I believe your report was poorly prepared.” Naborski gestured to the papers still clutched in Roelke’s hand. “Do it over.”
This time Roelke couldn’t even nod.
“Dismissed!” Naborski barked.
Roelke stood, headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned. “Does Skeet know?”
“He does. I sent him home. Told him to take a couple of days off so he can think about what he wants to do.”
Roelke left the office, dropped into a chair, and scrubbed his face with his palms. He had the job.
He also had one hell of a lot to prove. To the chief. To Skeet. To himself.
“I’m glad we came to Volksfest today,” Chloe told Markus. Frieda and Johann had died just two days earlier, and she’d been dubious about immersing herself in New Glarus’s celebration of Swiss independence. Now, though, it seemed completely fitting. A flag-throwing demonstration was underway at the far end of the Tell Shooting Park just outside of town. Three men played alphorns nearby, the low tones making Chloe’s sternum quiver.
And the crossbow competition was underway, with Martine already showing as a strong contender. As Chloe watched, she couldn’t help flashing back to Thursday evening when Martine had stood like some old pagan goddess, unmoving and strong, arrow pointed toward Guest. Wunderlicher, she’d called herself. An odd one.
Well, you’re my hero, Chloe told her silently, as the other woman took aim. Martine’s arrow whizzed through the air and hit the target with an audible thump. “Way to go!” Chloe called.
When the applause died down Markus