“Let me rephrase the question,” she replied. She’d get to any prejudices he might have later. When she caught him in an unguarded moment. “Why would the sheriff want an outsider poking about the department? Why not issue a press release? In any event, why do you think your day-to-day operations would be of interest to the general public?”
“Why would the public be interested in how we run the department?” he asked, his expression growing darker. “Did you skip your junior-high classes on local government?”
“No. I happen to have loved—”
“Let me spell it out for you.” The muscles in his jaw twitched as he leaned back against the desk. “The history of this office—this public-safety office—goes back to England and the days of Robin Hood. The sheriff’s an elected official, the highest law-enforcement official in the county. Entrusted with keeping the peace.”
“The point being?” It was her turn to bridle. She’d never liked lectures. And she didn’t like overbearing men.
“The point…” He tapped her notepad with his index finger. “If the electorate has the sense they were born with, they better damn well want to know how we’re carrying out our duties.” As his voice rose, he accidentally knocked a stack of file folders off a tall cabinet onto the floor. He ignored the mess.
Heavens. If this was the deputy in charge, what was the sheriff like? Chloe refused to be daunted. If the truth be told, his civic ardor excited her. Electrified the room. What good was a career if you weren’t passionate about it?
She crossed her legs, sat up straight and met the deputy’s fierce expression. His eyes weren’t merely dark brown, they were hickory-nut-brown, she noticed. And hard. “Then we’d better back up. The sheriff said y’all had turned the office around. What was the problem?”
He remained immobile for several moments, staring at her. The information had to be public record. Narrowing his eyes, he appeared to come to a decision.
“Five years ago,” he began with great deliberation, “Zach Taylor sold four hundred acres of prime land to a real-estate developer who, in turn, built two complexes—year-round executive homes and expensive vacation homes. Those complexes attracted hundreds of families to Applegate. The population of Colum County soared.”
“Bringing new problems to your department.”
“It wasn’t our—Sheriff McQuire’s—department at the time.”
“But there were problems.”
“Yes. But I think Sheriff McQuire intended that you concentrate on the present, not the past.”
That wasn’t how the media worked, but she knew to choose her battles. “How have things changed?” She tuned into his body language as she waited.
He began to pace the cramped quarters, stepping over the spilled folders. “For one thing, we now run things strictly by the book.”
Chloe took down his words without comment. There would be time enough to determine if the new sheriff ran an honest department. Believe only what you see, what you can prove, her mother, a scientist, always said.
She raised her head. “And for another?”
“For another, we’ve brought the department into the computer age.”
Suppressing an urge to yawn, she bet her next paycheck her readers couldn’t care less about the sheriff’s computers. But the personnel might be a different issue. Take this particular deputy, for instance. Confrontational. Ardent. Protective. But what, exactly, was he protecting? She’d find out soon enough.
“What about the sheriff’s staff?” she asked.
“What about us?”
“What makes you different from the last batch?”
He flinched. “We’re handpicked—”
“Not elected like the sheriff?”
“No, but—”
“Mack!” Another deputy stuck her head through the office doorway. “You’re wanted at the high school. Stat.”
As Deputy Whittaker reached for his Stetson, Chloe stuffed her pencil, notebook and camera in her backpack, then activated her pocket tape recorder. When the two deputies left, Chloe trotted along right behind, observing every move, picking up every word.
“What’s the story?” Whittaker asked.
“Rival groups again,” the second deputy answered. Her name tag read Breckinridge. “Same old beef. This time someone pulled a knife.”
“Do we have anyone out there?”
“McMillan and Sooner answered the call. The kids are being held in the school cafeteria until you and the parents get there. Most of them are from The Program. That’s why Principal Cox called for you.”
Chloe didn’t understand everything they were saying. She hoped the recorder was picking it up, allowing her to get clarification later. This was the kind of eye-witness involvement she’d anticipated, the kind that would lead to a compelling story. Her pulse raced.
Deputy Breckinridge halted at the big double doors leading to the parking lot, but Chloe slipped outside behind Whittaker. He didn’t acknowledge her presence.
When he got to his cruiser, she automatically went to the passenger door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked across the roof.
“I’m working my story.”
“Today’s interview is finished.” Abruptly he got into the driver’s side and slammed the door. She opened the passenger door and climbed in, slamming her door for good measure.
“Get out.” By his tone of voice, he meant business.
So did she. “Drive.”
He glared at her.
“While you’re driving,” she added, “you can explain the history of this altercation.”
Muttering under his breath, he turned the key in the ignition. As he pulled the patrol car out of the parking lot, she could feel the anger radiating off him.
“I’m not going to waste time arguing with you.” The veins corded and pulsed along his temple. “When we get back, though, I’m calling the Sun to request your replacement.”
He wouldn’t dare. But in case he did, she hunkered down in her seat and prepared to defend her right to be there.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS ALL MACK COULD DO not to speed. At least Deputies Sooner and McMillan had this call under control. The kid—the reporter—wouldn’t be in any danger. Only in the way.
When he heard a click, he looked over at her. She had taken his picture. An itchy heat crawled up the back of his neck to join forces with the headache. “Put that thing away,” he warned, holding up his hand to shield himself.
“You’d better get used to it. Do you know how many photos I’ll have to take to get two or three perfect ones for the article?”
He grasped the steering wheel tightly and concentrated on the double yellow line in front of him. On the evergreens and granite boulders crowding the edges of the two-lane county road. On anything but her. She was an invasion.
“Put it away for this call,” he ground out. “Even under the best of circumstances, you’d have to get written releases to photograph the students. And these aren’t the best of circumstances.”
“But I’m photographing you—”
“Put it away.”
She sighed.