Gone(9)

*

The sheriff closed the door after the rest of them filed out, trapping Rondeau in the room.

Rondeau took a seat at the desk, Oesch stood, arms folded, by the door.

“You think this is the right call?” he asked. It was a vague question, but Rondeau knew what the sheriff was asking; whether their department could handle the case.

Oesch was new. He’d been the undersheriff and primarily responsible for the jail until Dunleavy had stepped down. Oesch took over and was the only one running in the previous fall election. He still seemed to be trying out the shoes. It would take time, but Oesch was earnest. Rondeau had once seen a dog-eared copy of Enthusiasm Makes the Difference in the sheriff’s office, non-fiction from the 1950s about the power of “positive thinking.”

“With respect, Sheriff, this is what you created the squad for. This is why I’m here.” He added, “Hopefully, you know, this is all just some big misunderstanding. Some family member or friend will come forward, or the Kemps will just show up again. But, you know, maybe not.”

Oesch nodded, and his eyes drifted over the stacks of files and general mess of Rondeau’s office. No self-help books here. The only self-help taste Rondeau ever acquired was The Big Book, after the shots of Cutty Sark and six packs of Budweiser tallboys had gotten the better of him.

“But you don’t think it’s overreaching to set up Incident Command?” Oesch asked.

Rondeau shook his head. “Not at all. I think that’s just what needs to happen, Sheriff. Pragmatic, basic. Let’s physically search for these people.”

Oesch rubbed his chin, looking at Rondeau. “So what do you think?”

“At this point?” Murder-suicide, Rondeau thought again. But that was just years on the job making him cynical; there was no physical evidence yet something like that had occurred. “It could be anything, really.”

“Yeah, could be anything. Well, I’m glad you took the call. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Rondeau smiled. He knew the sheriff was nervous; a missing person’s case could be costly. And the sheriff’s office had a history. A couple years before, there had been a case involving a dead teenager. Deputies could investigate crimes, but in Stock County, they primarily ran the jail and worked patrol. The investigation had gone to the state police but Dunleavy, sheriff at the time, wanted to keep one of his deputies involved. The deputy wound up dead. Dunleavy had never been able to forgive himself. Close to retirement anyway — the same baby boomer generation as Swift — Dunleavy resigned, he and the wife sold their house, took the dogs and moved away. Oesch wanted to keep the department’s nose clean.

Rondeau realized the sheriff was staring at him. Rondeau had fallen silent, lost in thought. He snapped out of it.

“I’ll do my best, Mike.”

Oesch made to leave, then stopped. He looked bemused. “You know, Dunleavy retired to Myrtle Beach?”

Rondeau’s skin prickled. He’d just been thinking about the former sheriff. “Didn’t know that. South Carolina?”

“Yeah. I guess there’s an Elvis-themed restaurant there.”

“Elvis-themed, huh?”

Oesch nodded, smiling. “I heard Dunleavy takes his wife once a week and always orders his favorite, the Love Me Tenderloin.”

Rondeau laughed. Oesch wrapped his knuckles on the door, almost a superstitious gesture. Then he made one last remark. “I want you to know I put in a word for you, with Captain Bouchard.”

Oesch was referring to the drone shooting. Bouchard was the state police captain. Since they’d handled the call, it had been theirs for the charging. No criminal charges were being pressed. Oesch was saying he’d had a hand in that. Between the jokes about Dunleavy and the comment on Bouchard, he was trying to bond. Rondeau looked across the small office and said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck, Jason. Let’s find this family.” He closed the door after him.

Rondeau felt a weight slide over his heart. In two years, there’d been nothing as heavy as this. This case could go bad in several ways, and it was all on him.

He spread his hands out over the files and marshaled his focus.

Hopefully Stokes would be quick locating extended family, and Silas would come up with something useful from the family’s home. And who knew? Maybe they’d just decided to take a trip — realized how short life could be, and been spontaneous.

That would be nice.





CHAPTER SEVEN / Addison Kemp

Stokes brought Addison Kemp into Rondeau’s office. Stokes was excited and presented her like the key witness in a major trial.

Hutchinson Kemp’s sister was attractive — in a natural, girl-next-door way. But there was something about her which struck Rondeau right away: the woman was tough.

He offered her the chair on the other side of his desk, sparing Stokes a look, who seemed to be trying to hide himself in between the file cabinets.

She wore jeans and a faded black Metallica t-shirt beneath an expensive leather jacket. It wasn’t a thrown-together ensemble. Addison had money, Rondeau decided, but she didn’t want to look like she had money.

“What happened to my brother?”

She also came right to the point.

He shifted in his chair, wincing at the way it squawked. He glanced at Stokes and jerked his eyes at the door, still open. Stokes closed it. “We’re going to find out,” Rondeau said. “So, you’re Hutchison Kemp’s biological sister, yes?”