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town.”
    “You sure you want to wait that long to get the medical examiner out here?”
    “Yes. Control. That’s our motto here. Control. I need to tell Harlene to clamp down on the phone calls.” His gut churned, acid and fear and regret all mixed together. “And I need to tell the chief.”
     
     
     
SIX
     
     
    Russ Van Alstyne was really, really pissed off. It surprised him; he had figured he had hours, if not days, of leaden, white-noise numbness ahead of him. Of course, he hadn’t counted on getting picked up—picked up! Like he had a warrant out on him!—by one of his own officers. At the meat counter of the IGA.
    He had to admit, Mark was good. He had hustled Russ out of there and into his squad car almost before he knew what had happened. It wasn’t that Russ minded getting called in on a moment’s notice. Lord knows, that had happened more than once in his life. Although he couldn’t recall a time when he had had to abandon a half-filled basket of groceries.
    No, what hacked him off was Mark’s refusal to tell him what was going on. “I can’t say” became “I really don’t know anything,” which turned to “Your guess is as good as mine, chief.”
    Russ knew he was being a pain in the ass, but he couldn’t figure out anything that would require Mark to drag him in to the station with zero intel on the situation. Even if the unthinkable had happened, and one of his men had been wounded or killed, it would be squawking all over the radio.
    The radio. It was part of a nifty computerized information system, currently dark, mounted below the edge of the dash. The whole computers-in-the-cars thing still amazed him. Probably more evidence that he was rapidly approaching the age where they could push him out into the open sea on an ice floe.
    He started pressing on buttons. Computer, radio, monitor.
    “Uh.” Mark turned toward him. “I don’t think you ought to do that, Chief.”
    “Keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to wind up in the ditch.”
    Mark snapped to front, but his attention was all on the small screen, running its boot-up sequence. “Uh. Deputy Chief MacAuley told me to maintain radio silence.”
    “Did he, now?” Russ unhooked the mike. “Did he say anything about
me
maintaining radio silence?”
    “No… but I think he—”
    “Were your orders to put me under arrest, Durkee?”
    Somehow, Mark managed to come to attention while sitting behind the wheel of a moving car. “No, Chief!”
    “Then let me explain how it works. Lyle is the deputy chief. That means he gets to tell you what to do. I’m the chief. That means I get to tell
him
what to do.” The computer screen was asking for an officer number before allowing access. Russ tapped his own into the small strip of keyboard bolted in beneath the screen. The system happily blipped him in.
    He keyed the mike. “Dispatch? This is—” He turned to Mark. “What’s your car number?”
    “Fifty-four-ten.” Mark was either defeated or disgusted. Russ couldn’t tell which.
    “This is fifty-four-ten inbound. I’d like to know why I’m not at home making soup right now.”
    There was a long pause.
    “Dispatch?” He pulled the mike higher, checking for a loose connection.
    “Chief? Is that you?” Finally. Harlene sounded odd.
    “Yes. It’s me. And I want to know what the hell is going on.”
    Another pause. “It’s…” A crackle. “I think…” A staticky beat. “Just get here as soon as you can. Dispatch out.” Harlene clicked off from her end.
    He stared at the computer. Harlene never hung up on him. Never. He keyed the mike. “Dispatch. Dispatch? Harlene?” She wouldn’t come back on the line. “Well, if that’s not the damndest thing I’ve ever seen.” He frowned at Mark. “Is this some sort of elaborate practical joke? ’Cause if it is, I can guarantee you I won’t be laughing.”
    “Honest, chief. I got the call, MacAuley said to bring you in, and that’s all I know.”
    Christ on a