City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(22)

“No buts. Either I gave you an order or I didn’t, and I don’t know how it works down south, but out here, you disobey an order and you’ll find yourself in the cell until morning.”

Anders steps between us. He shoulders Dalton back, keeping an eye on him, much the way one might ease off a snarling dog.

“He’s kidding,” Anders says. “He’d only keep you in there until dinner hour.” A wry smile, and I’d like to think he’s kidding, but I get the feeling he’s not.

“I know you’ll want to come along,” Anders continues, “but you just got here. What we have out there is death by misadventure. Not homicide. Normally, that’d still be your gig. But let’s just hold off. We’ll bring the body back, I’ll explain the situation, and you can take it from there. Reasonable?”

I nod.

He looks at Dalton. “See how that’s done?” Then a mock whisper for me. “ ‘Reasonable’ isn’t really in Eric’s vocabulary. You’ll get used to it.”

The grin he shoots Dalton holds a note of exasperated affection, as if for a sometimes-difficult younger brother. Dalton only snorts and points at the back of the ATV.

“I thought I’d drive today, boss,” Anders says. “You hop on back.”

Dalton gets on the ATV and revs the engine.

“That means get on or I’m walking,” the deputy says to me. “Eric drives. Always.”

I nod. It’s not a tip about transportation. Employee relationships might be a little casual here, but Eric Dalton is in charge and I’d best not forget it. Which is fine. That’s one reason I like being a cop. My brain understands paramilitary relationships, often better than normal ones.

Anders gives me directions to the station and then says, “Go directly there. Park out back and head in the rear door. Anyone flags you down? Pretend you didn’t see him. Anyone comes into the office? Tell him to come back when we return. Wait for us to make the proper introductions.” He glances at Dalton. “Well, wait for me to do it. Poke around the station, and we’ll grab lunch when we get back.”

“Is Diana—?”

“Later,” Dalton says. “You’re on the clock, detective.”

“Diana is fine,” Anders says. “A bunch of us went out for drinks last night. She’s doing great. As much as I’m sure you want to see her, wandering around town isn’t wise. Not until you’ve settled in.”

He waves me to the ATV, gives me a five-second lesson on how to drive it, and takes off with the sheriff.





Six

As Anders suggested, getting to the station is easy. The fact that I made two wrong turns may have more to do with the ATV ride itself. Dare I say it was fun?

My first boyfriend had a dirt bike. He’d lend me his sister’s so we could ride into a nearby gravel pit. I encouraged those gravel-pit trips, which gave his ego a much-needed boost. I just never admitted it was more for the ride than the make-out sessions.

When my parents found out, they grounded me for three months. Not because I was sneaking off with a boy. I was fifteen, and they trusted I was smart enough not to jeopardize my future by getting pregnant. It was the dirt bike that disappointed them, showing a distinct lack of judgment. My mother gave me medical files of horrific motorcycle accidents and then quizzed me afterward, to be sure I’d read them. The world is a dangerous place. You don’t add to it by doing crazy things like riding dirt bikes. Or fighting back against gangbangers in an alley.

Sometimes, though, taking risks is the only way to feel alive, and that’s what I feel as I whip along those wooded trails, purposely missing my turns. I want to keep going, to ride into the forest and see what’s out there, lose myself in that emptiness. But that’s where embracing risk becomes irresponsible, one lesson my parents did manage to drive into my brain like an iron spike. Never be irresponsible. People are counting on you.

The scenery—like that on the drive up—is breathtaking. As Dalton said, the town is in a valley between two mountains, but they’re distant enough that they don’t cast shade. One is partly bare on this side, and when I see it, I think, I wonder if I could climb that? And I laugh to myself, imagining what my parents would say.

The police station is on the edge of town. Like all the other buildings I can see, it’s a basic wooden box raised off the ground. There’s a rear deck with a single chair and a tin can full of beer caps. The can is rusted, as are the caps below a layer or two. Someone bringing the occasional beer onto the deck, not someone regularly getting loaded on the job. Good to know.

Inside, it’s dark and cool and smells of men: spicy deodorant laced with a thread of sweat. The main room is the size of my apartment bedroom. There’s one desk, a couple of extra chairs, fireplace with a hanging kettle, and filing cabinets. That’s it. Two doors lead to other rooms. I open one, expecting to see the sheriff’s office. It’s the bathroom. The other reveals a tiny holding cell.

I look around. One desk for three cops? This should be interesting.

The filing cabinets are all locked, and not flimsy jobs that can be pried open with a butter knife. So much for advance case study.

I look at the desk. The top is clear, without so much as a paper clip to play with. And the drawers? Yep, locked.

Anders told me to poke around. That’s taken exactly five minutes. I scan the room again and see one thing I missed: a bookshelf. It’s mostly empty, the space being used for office supplies instead. I count five books. The first one I pull out is a history of the Mongol tribes. I flip through expecting to find it contains some sort of hidden information. Nope, it’s actually a history of the Mongol tribes. I walk to the desk, plunk myself in the chair, and start to read.