A Night at the Operation by JEFFREY COHEN Read Free Book Online Page B

much going on at police headquarters, which wasn’t a tremendous surprise. A large-bellied man in ugly pants came in to bother the dispatcher for a while, but was ignored. As he was in (relatively) plain clothes and carrying a gun, I’m guessing he was the detective on the really late or really early shift. Other than that, it was me and the dispatcher, who did his best to avoid looking at me, for quite some time.
    Finally, the door opened, and I began to stand, expecting Dutton. But the little man who walked in, bringing a freezing breeze with him, was the chief’s exact opposite: small, thin, Caucasian, and unimposing.
    “What’s up, Doc?” The dispatcher grinned.
    “Just on my way home,” the little guy said. “Figured I’d drop the report by.” He waved a blue file toward the dispatcher, who nodded.
    A sheet of paper from the file flew out and landed at my feet. I picked it up and handed it back to “Doc,” but almost snatched it back again when I saw the name Chapman printed at the top.
    “Is this the autopsy report on Russell Chapman?” I asked the little man.
    “Yuh,” he said. “Just finished it. You the detective?”
    I considered it, but the dispatcher was watching. “No,” I said, “I’m not even an interested party.” And I sat down again, trying to vanish into thin air. Like Sharon.
    The little man slid the file through the bulletproof glass and waited until the dispatcher looked at it, signed a form, and gave the form back to “Doc.” Then the little man yawned broadly and headed to the door.
    He walked out just as Dutton walked in. The chief nodded at the dispatcher, then walked to me as I stood up.
    “Why, exactly, am I here at this ungodly hour?” Dutton rumbled.
    “Sharon’s missing,” I said.
    Dutton looked at me. For a while. A long while.
    “Why, exactly, am I here at this ungodly hour?” he repeated.
    “I mean she’s really missing,” I said. “Up until now, I thought she was just off licking her wounds. Now I’m sure she’s being held somewhere against her will.”
    Dutton’s eyebrows did a quick cha-cha on his forehead, but his voice stayed steady. “Let’s go talk in my office,” he said.
    On the way there, he poured himself a cup of coffee that looked like it had been sitting on the counter in the hallway for six or seven weeks. He did not offer me a cup, and I was grateful.
    Dutton opened the door to his office, turned on the light, and blinked a few times to adjust his eyes. He sat down behind his desk and gestured me to the chair in front of it. “Now get your breathing back to normal and tell me what you’re talking about,” he began.
    “When I got back to the town house, everything in my living room had been tossed,” I told him. “The futon was slashed and the stuffing was all over the room. The DVDs were out of their boxes and scattered to the corners. The . . .”
    “The DVDs?” Dutton’s eyes widened. He’s seen the DVD collection.
    I nodded. “It was obvious someone was looking for something.”
    “Or, they just wanted to hit you where it would really hurt.”
    I hadn’t considered that. “But it’s too big a coincidence that this happens the same time Sharon vanishes. She didn’t just go away. She must have been taken.”
    “Elliot, there’s no evidence that Sharon has been taken anywhere against her will. No signs of forced entry at her home, her office, or her parking space.”
    I bit my lips. “Forced entry at a parking space?”
    Dutton nodded. “No broken glass. No evidence anybody broke into her vehicle. She got into her car and she drove away.”
    “Then maybe it was someone she knew,” I suggested.
    “Maybe. But as a police officer, I’ve got to tell you, there’s nothing that points to a kidnapping. Nothing.”
    I sat there and looked at him.
    “Okay,” Dutton said, “what is it you expect me to do?”
    “Look for her.”
    “I’ve been looking for her since yesterday afternoon,” the chief countered.