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Brocker ignores him and starts pointing at the sky. "I was just wondering when the helicopters were going to show up. You know, since you called every other damn officer in a hundred square miles here today. It looks like I've got an active shooter on the premises rather than a thirty-year-old cold case."
Oh shit, Brocker is starting to lose it with this place and the people. I clear my throat. "Chief, what I think Mr. Brocker is trying to say is—”
Brocker jabs a finger in the air toward the chief. “That you are a fucking moron! This is a gross misuse of department funds. What is every officer in the department doing out here?”
The chief’s jowls quiver, and his face cycles through various shades of red and purple. “Brocker, you’d better get control yourself or I'm going to kick you off of your own fucking property.”
Brocker’s giving the chief such a death glare that I’m almost considering standing between them. “You're going to kick me off my property. How about you kick the six fucking rubberneckers off my land that I just found strolling around the place? One was taking pictures. Pictures!”
I’ve never seen Brocker so mad or heard him raise his voice. No matter what level of professionalism the chief tries to exert, by the end of the day he is going to need a drink.
Brocker flicks a thumb over his shoulder toward the community’s entrance. “You forced my men from setting up a security post to help control the flow of traffic in and out of the development and replaced them with your men.” Owen uses air quotes, and my lips wobble. I look away so I don’t start laughing.
“One of the looky-loos was Kenny Brown! I know that you know he owns Brownie’s Tavern, the epicenter of the rumor mill around this town. Kenny just walked up to me about ten minutes ago, on this highly secure crime scene, laughing his ass off. To him, this is the greatest thing that could happen. He wants to badmouth my community. He wants Golden Meadow to hit rock bottom so he can buy it for next to nothing.”
The chief glowers. “You're out! Brocker, you’re not allowed to put one foot on this investigation site for the next twenty-four hours. You can go wait at your lodge, and I'll send an officer once there’s something to report, but until then, I don't want to see you or hear of you stepping on this property for the next 24 hours.”
Brocker storms off, and Chief’s bulbous face snaps in my direction. “What the hell are you waiting for? You and your men are kicked out of here too!”
That seems a little premature. I reach out and shake his hand. “Thanks for everything, Dick.”
I never thought I’d look at an enormous resort like Brocker Lodge and feel caged. But we've been holed up in a conference room all day waiting on local law enforcement officers to give us news.
Brocker leans back in the high-backed office chair at the head of the long conference table and scrubs his palms over the backs of his eyes. The two of us nearly bolt from our chairs when we hear the sound of high heels coming down the hallway. When Brooke opens the door, it feels like she’s brought a wave of fresh air with her.
Her smile lights up the room, and all I want to do is pull her into my arms and head back to my captain’s quarters. I couldn’t stop thinking about Brooke all day today, and it was a major thorn in my side when I had to be dragged away to go sit with Brocker in his conference while he stewed.
“Brooke, I’m glad you’re here. I need to speak with the two of you.”
That comment catches my attention. Brooke’s eyes snap to mine, and I try to give her a reassuring smile, but she fidgets a bit before sitting down beside me at the conference table.
With his fingers steepled, Brocker looks back and forth between us like he’s watching a tennis match. “Should I know anything?”
Brooke looks pale with worry, and without thinking about it, I reach out and place my hand on her leg underneath the table. Whack! She startles at my touch and jumps, slamming her knee into the bottom of the table and crushing my hand against the wood support brace in the process.
Cursing, I yank my hand out from underneath the table. If things weren’t awkward before, they certainly are now. She nervously tucks her hair behind her ears and mouths that she’s sorry.
Brocker starts chuckling. “You know what, I needed that today. I said tell me, not show me.”
There’s no stopping the chuckle that rumbles through my chest. Brooke looks like she wants to die and melt in between the floorboards.
I clear my throat, hold up my red and aching hand, and spill the beans. “Owen, you might as well know that Brooke and I are now in a relationship because I don’t intend on hiding it from anyone.”
A knowing smile spreads across Brocker’s lips, and a mischievous twinkle appears in his eyes. “You’re now in a relationship? What about the time you two were engaged? Does that one still count as a relationship?”
Brooke makes a noise in the back of her throat and reaches for one of the glasses of water the lodge staff put out for us earlier. “Sir, I can explain,” she begins after taking a gulp of water.
Brocker holds up a hand. “No need. Your Aunt Trudy already did.”
I glance over at Brooke, and her jaw looks unhinged from shock. “Oh, sweet Lord. No, please don’t tell me you learned about us from her. She probably told you—”
“Everything?” Brocker provides and grins. “Yes, she did. But I just wanted to wish you both well. I was all set to share a property line with Samantha Evans, and she hated me on sight when I first met her. Then”—he spreads his hands—“things happen. I believe that love should be celebrated not reprimanded. However, I am running a business and expect that this relationship will not impact your professional duties or obligations.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s a considerable relief, especially to Brooke.”
The joyful moment of the day is interrupted when there’s a soft knock on the conference room’s door. A lodge employee walks in, and a local Frost Forest cop trails him. “Excuse me, sir, for the interruption, but I’d like to introduce you all to Officer Logan Hamilton. He was sent to speak with you about the Weller interrogation.”
Logan nods, pulls a chair out for himself at the table, and matter-of-factly explains, “The Wellers aren’t involved in the disappearance of a Miss Sherry Fritz thirty-two years ago. Their timelines wouldn’t have lined up with the crime, and they would’ve been young boys, ages seven and nine.”
