Wake of the Storm - The Mason Storm Series Book One

Chapter 23

At the top of the stairs I'm met by Bev, who is NOT a sight for sore eyes. She gets close enough for me to smell the remains of last night's cheap liquor before barking out at me.

"Right now! The Chief's office!" She blurts, pointing in that direction.

Just for fun, I try to get around her and head toward my own office, but I don't think she's in the mood to play games with me. She uses her body to block and redirect, like I'm a steer trying to escape a pen.

The Chief's door's open and he's on the phone. He looks moody, vile, and fresh out of humor. A week-old beard covers his face and his suit looks slipshod and crusty. His tie is loose with the top button of his shirt undone. He's had a rough night, and it's run over into his morning.

I'm standing just outside his office when he looks up. It's pretty obvious he's not exactly tickled pink to see me. I'm thinking I should say nothing here. But, then again, maybe a little levity would improve things. I wave, like we're old friends, and he slams down the phone in mid-sentence.

"Hey Chief!" I say, still at a safe distance, chummy and still waving. "You wanted to see me?"

He uses a few choice words to tell me to get into his office. I take two steps in and the climate of the room is thick with verbal abuse. I can tell a tongue-lashing is in the next song. In my periphery I see movement and turn . . . it's Mia. She looks up and I recognized the recent browbeating across her face. She's tension-ridden and the tete-a-tete with the Chief hasn't done her any good. She's taken another one on the chin for me.

"SIT!" The Chief orders. "And don't open your mouth, Storm!"

The Chief's demand ricochets around the office and lands on my chest. I'm aware of Bev behind me, still standing in the doorway, her nose where it doesn't belong. I turn back around and slam the door in her face before sauntering on in. I ignore the two seats in front of his desk, and take a seat with an air of insolent compliance next to Mia on the couch in the back. Who says I can't follow orders?

The Chief launches right into his rant and rave about me ditching the news conference, then moves onto what he calls my "-don't-know-when- to-shut-your-mouth-attitude" with the governor. I'm trying my best to listen, but my thoughts continue to U-turn and shift. The shackles of my self-control are barely holding on by a thread as he continues to reshuffle what can't be fixed.

I've got a bad reputation I'm trying to live up to and no matter what I do, it'll always be a part of me. Finally, I loudly shift my weight, just like a pouting teenager. There's a dogmatic madman killing innocent people out there, and I'm being rebuked about my sandbox manners with a thimble-wit.

He's partially through trying to make a certain point when I interrupt.

"Gee, Chief, I feel a lot better now that we've had this talk, but I have a public tormentor murdering people and typically, they don't stop until they're caught, or killed. So, can we forgo the father/son chit-chat for now?"

I don't think he was looking for this type of apology, but it seems to run him aground. He pauses long enough to consider what I've just said.

"You might try and humor me with a break, Storm. And quickly! Something I can feed these wolves to get them out of my shorts."

The Chief just shifted gears, so I roll the dice. I'm only going to get one shot, so I need to choose my words carefully . . .

"I want permission to investigate this pompous prick, Pennington."

I told you. Carefully. I sit and wait for the objections.

He puts his head down and snickers to himself, like he has a laugh up his sleeve he doesn't want to share. I don't need to look at Mia to know she realizes something's up, too. The Chief is still speechless, so I need to move the centerpiece for my bizarre request into his focus. I do that with all the finesse of which I am amply capable: in short, I lower the boom.

"I met with Melanie Pennington, his wife, this morning and she claims he's definitely capable of committing these murders," I say.

So I fabricated a little . . . I'm a detective, not a priest. I look over at Mia, whose shoulders fall flat, like she's just been cheated. I mouth a worn-out, "I'm sorry" to her, as her eyes fall back to her lap.

The Chief's now staring at me with a look to kill barely waiting for me to explain myself, so I start at the beginning, with the telephone call from Mrs. Pennington first thing this morning, and finish with handing him the pictures of Sophia. I know I've just painted him into a corner. If it turns out Pennington is indeed the culprit and the Chief chooses not to investigate, his career would be history.

He's tap-dancing around rationale, when a flickering smile finally dents the corners of his mouth. "I'll give you one thing, Storm, you've definitely got a pair of stones. I've never liked either one of those schmucks."

His reference to the governor and Pennington makes me smile. He finishes by telling me to stay in bounds, and don't let my past blur my vision. I stand to shake his hand and thank him, but before I can finish the goodbyes, Mia's out the door and halfway down the hall.