Page 39 of Trapper Road

She presses her lips together slightly. “Hmmmm. Chief Parks is a very busy man, as I’m sure you can imagine. What’s the case you’re interested in?”

“Juliette Larson.”

Her expression tightens. “And may I ask what your interest is? Are you a reporter?”

I reach for my wallet and ID card. “No, I’m a private investigator. The Larsons hired me to look into her disappearance.”

She looks like she has something to say about that, but instead she says, “Mind if I make a copy of that?” She nods to my ID.

I hand it over and she feeds it into a rather modern and slick scanner. We’re both silent — southern niceties abandoned for now — as she clicks her keyboard a few times, then places my ID back on the counter. “All right then, let me pop my head into his office and see if he can make time for you.”

It’s bullshit, and we both know it. The reception area is as empty as the parking lot and when I’d scrolled through the local news website I hadn’t seen anything more pressing than reports of someone’s yard being toilet papered.

I give her a forced smile of thanks, and she disappears through a door next to the reception desk. She’s gone longer than one would expect, but it’s all part of the act. She wants to make sure I know that her boss is important and that I’m not. It’s fine. I can be patient when I need to be.

Plus, I’m guessing the chief is currently googling my name to see what he can find. Good luck with that, I think to myself with a smirk. It would take days to sift through the tens of thousands of hits he’ll get on me.

While I wait, I pull out my phone. I’m itching to text Lanny and ask how things are going, but it’s still early and the last thing I want to do is wake her up. That’s a guaranteed way to get only one-word responses. Instead, I check her location and find her icon tucked into one of the freshman dorms at Reyne. Sam’s icon blinks at a motel on the edge of campus. It gives me comfort to know he’s so close by in case anything happened.

The receptionist reappears with a tight smile. “It’s your lucky day,” she announces. “Chief’s got a few minutes free and would be happy to chat. Come on back.”

I follow her through the door and down a brightly lit hallway. I’ve been in plenty of police stations in my life, and most have a worn down, antiseptic feel to them. Not this one. Instead of scuffed linoleum, the floors are wide planks of hearts of pine that have been lightly waxed to a soft luster. The ceilings are high, ringed with intricate crown molding that matches the chair rail and baseboards. We pass several closed doors, each of them with windows stenciled with various officer names. I don’t see any hint of a bullpen or any other open area.

A door stands open at the end of the hallway and the receptionist pokes her head in first. “You ready, Chief?” she asks.

I hear a murmured response, and she steps aside, gesturing for me to go in.

The office is large and well appointed, more suited for a country estate house than a modern day police department. Several windows let in copious amounts of natural light, turning what might have been a dreary wood paneled room bright and airy. A large wooden desk sits in the center of the room, facing the door. Behind it is a wall crowded with photographs. Most are of the same man clasping hands with various people — few that I recognize. Likely local celebrities and bigwigs.

The same man stands from behind the desk and comes around to greet me. “Mrs. Proctor,” he says, holding out his hand. “Good morning. I’m Chief Parks. Glad to meet you.”

“It’s Ms,” I inform him.

He seems slightly put off by the correction, but he covers by giving me an aw-shucks grin. “Sorry about that, ma’am. That’s what I get for assuming.Ms. Proctor, then. Pleased to meet you.”

I take his hand, and his fingers dwarf my own. Chief Parks isn’t a small man, and it’s doubtful he ever was. He looks like that type who played linebacker in school, and over the years since, all that muscle slowly turned soft. His neck is still thick, and his wide face makes his round eyes look small. His upper lip is hidden behind a thick brown mustache a shade redder than his hair.

He gestures toward one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

Despite the differences between this police station and others I’ve visited, it’s likely one thing is the same and that’s the coffee. I’m guessing it’s strong, thick, and tastes like yesterday’s leftovers. I tell him no thanks as I settle into the chair.

“Now, Mrs. Mayweather says you’re a private investigator.” I assume Mrs. Mayweather is the receptionist.

“I am.” I start reaching for my ID.

He waves a hand. “No need. And the Larsons hired you to look into their daughter’s disappearance?”

I nod again. “They hired the company I work for, and I was assigned the case.”

He blows out a breath, and presses his index fingers together under his nose as he considers. There are generally two ways this meeting can go. Parks can get defensive that the Larsons brought in an outsider, implicitly questioning the Police Department’s work, or he can welcome the additional help.

I’m guessing it will be the former. I’ve found that few police officers like being second guessed.

Ultimately, he clucks his tongue. “That case,” he says, shaking his head. “Still haunts me to this day. I’ve asked myself a hundred times what we could have done differently, and if it would have made a difference.”

This surprises me. Rarely have I heard a cop, much less the chief of police, readily admit to possible mistakes. “Really?”

“I thought for sure we’d find the truck she rode off in and the boy who’d been driving it, and that would answer all our questions.” He spreads his hands wide, and then lets them drop. “We never did. Either that truck’s at the bottom of some lake, in pieces in some junk yard, or so far away now we’d never be able to find it.”

---