Wickedly Dangerous (Baba Yaga, #1)(35)
Liam opened his mouth to argue, to say that the state guys hadn’t found anything either, despite having better equipment and more men, then closed it again as the mayor said, “I’m sorry, Liam, but Clive is right. Maybe you just don’t have what it takes to do this job anymore. The board is giving you until the end of the month to come up with something concrete. If not, we’ll have no choice but to replace you. I’m very, very sorry.”
Fury bubbled over like a pot on a too-hot fire, despite his best intentions. There was no way some damned mealy-mouthed politicians were going to keep him from doing his job. The people of this town needed him—and his job was all he had left.
“I’ve been working around the clock,” he growled. “Nobody wants to find these kids more than I do. The state cops pop their heads in for a few days, then go back to chasing drug dealers and giving out speeding tickets, saying they don’t have enough manpower to spare to stick around. I live and breathe this job twenty-four/seven.
“If you take me off this case, who are you going to give it to? Some guy with no experience who will have to start from scratch? You clearly don’t have the slightest idea how police work is done, or you wouldn’t be wasting my time with this petty crap. Why don’t you just get off my back and let me do my damned job?”
Harvey Anderson’s mouth dropped open and he started to sputter an apology, but Matthews cut him off before he could get more than a few words out.
“It is just this kind of attitude that makes you unsuitable for such a sensitive position,” Matthews said, his chest puffed out like a rooster. “You heard the mayor. You have until the end of the month.”
“The end of the month is only two and a half weeks from now,” Liam said from between clenched teeth.
Matthews smirked. “I guess you’d better get to work, then.” He gestured toward the door, and Liam somehow made it outside without punching Matthews into the next county. That in itself was a minor victory of sorts.
Once outside, he closed the heavy wooden door behind him and took a deep breath. Two and a half weeks. To find the answers that had eluded him for almost five months. Hell.
“Hello, Sheriff,” a warm contralto voice said from the desk next to him. The mayor’s secretary, Lynette, had a daughter who used to babysit for one of the missing children. “Is there any news?”
He closed his eyes for a minute and inhaled through his nose and out through his mouth, like the grief counselor had taught them. Then he forced himself to smile at Lynette, despite the churning in his stomach.
“Sorry, no. The mayor and Mr. Matthews just wanted to have a little chat with me about the way I’m doing my job, that’s all.”
She gave him a sympathetic look, her kind, pretty face colored with concern. “I know; I heard them talking about it earlier.” She grimaced. “Mr. Matthews has one of those voices that carries.”
Liam chuckled in wry agreement. He’d been in enough meetings with Clive Matthews to know that he always talked louder than anyone else in the room, like a steamroller on steroids.
Lynette dropped her own voice and said quietly, “You should know that they’ve already set up interviews with possible candidates for your job.” Her glance skittered away from his and she looked at the floor. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff.”
He sighed. “Me too, Lynette. Me too.”
ELEVEN
BABA WALKED OVER to the door. Opened it, looked out, glared at the empty green meadow, then slammed it shut and stomped back over to throw herself down on the couch again. A litter of empty chocolate wrappers crinkled as she sat on them, and she disposed of them with an irritated snap of her fingers.
She’d been in a foul mood since waking up from a hideous nightmare, and waiting around for a client who was clearly not going to show hadn’t done anything to sweeten her temper. It didn’t help that it had been three days since she’d seen the stubborn yet appealing sheriff. Yes, she’d told him to leave her in peace, but for some reason, she found it incredibly annoying that he’d actually done so.
It had taken two hours to mix up that decoction for a local woman who’d pleaded for something to ease her nerves. If she didn’t show soon, Baba was going to drink it herself.
She’d spent the last few days treating the folks who lived nearby for everything from third-degree burns to warts. Apparently Bertie down at the diner had taken it upon herself to spread the word about Baba’s herbal remedies, and when Bertie spoke, people listened. Of course, even without Bertie, patients would have found their way to her; they always did. But for some reason, Baba had made a little more effort than usual to be helpful. Bizarrely (for her, anyway), she actually liked these people.
Except the woman who was currently standing her up. She was going on Baba’s list.
The antique silver pocket watch she pulled out of her black jeans said it was after two, and Bob the mechanical wizard had sent her a message yesterday to say the motorcycle would be ready by one. She clicked the cover shut decisively and shoved the timepiece back into her pocket—that was it; she was done waiting. Time to go get her baby back.
“I’m going out for a bit,” she said to Chudo-Yudo, who was sprawled on his back in a lemon-meringue splash of sunshine, looking more cat than dragon. “If that lady comes looking for her order, you have my permission to bark at her.” Bah. She hated when people didn’t do what they said they were going to do.