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Dash smiles. It’s an endearing smile that has gotten him through life. He is endearing, if she’s honest about it. Unreliable, but endearing, with his kind heart and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo persona, complete with the scruff on his chin. And who’s she to judge? Dash makes good money at the car dealership and isn’t living in his old bedroom.
“I got ya, Sis. Now get on down to the station house. Before we defund you people.”
Her dad laughs too hard, breaking into a coughing jag. The dishes will be there when she returns, she knows, but she decides to let it go.
After getting her father back in bed, moving the chunky cordless landline phone to the nightstand, and telling him to call if he needs anything, she heads out.
The heat hits her like a brick wall. Summer in Kansas would give hell a run for its money. In more ways than one. She drives her father’s Ford Escort down the main street and parks in the garage under the station. It’s a small force, inexperienced, the sheriff said during the Zoom interview. He claimed she’d be a welcome addition, with her military police experience.
The inside of the station house is even more sweltering. The woman working the front desk seems to know Poppy is coming, stands up. Explains that the air conditioner is out and that it isn’t always this awful, sweetie. Margaret is her name. Everyone’s so happy Poppy’s there, she says. Says that Poppy’s sweet big brother—a local celebrity after his single season in the NBA who now uses his charm to sell cars—gave her nephew a great deal on an F-150.
Poppy’s office is decent enough. It has pressed-wood furniture, but it’s clean, has a window overlooking a parking lot. The computer is old, but it’ll do.
She’s brought only a few things in her backpack. A Tupperware container with her lunch, a framed photo for her desk—the family during better days, at her goodbye party before she left for basic training—and a charger for her phone.
She stares at the bare white walls, wonders if she should’ve brought something to make the room less drab, but suspects a Beyoncé poster is out of the question.
Sheriff Walton pops his head in. “Settling in?”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Whoa, soldier. No need for ‘sir’ anymore. You can call me Ken.”
“Sorry, old habits…” She smiles, tries not to look defeated with where life has taken her. She’d imagined that after serving her country—which, as it turned out, was checking IDs at the front gate to the base—she’d be a G-woman, taking down mobsters and terrorists and serial killers.
A long quiet follows. Sheriff Walton—Ken, she reminds herself—has a friendly-neighbor air about him. Maybe it’s his last name, but with his full head of gray hair, crinkles around forgiving eyes, he reminds her of the dad from The Waltons reruns Poppy used to watch with her mother.
“How’s your dad?” The sheriff and her father served together in the Gulf. Poppy knows it’s the real reason she has this job.
“His doctor says he’s doing okay, though he’s a bit ornery.”
The sheriff chuckles. “I’d be worried if he wasn’t.”
Poppy has only vague memories of the sheriff from when she was younger. But what kid focuses on their parents’ friends? There’s a photo of a much younger Ken Walton with Dad and another one of their war buddies on the fireplace mantel.
“You started on the right day,” Sheriff Walton says. “We’ve had some excitement around here.”
“Oh yeah?” Poppy says.
The sheriff holds up his smartphone, gestures with his head for her to follow him. “Some YouTube jackasses found a vehicle submerged in Suncatcher Lake.”
Maybe this job won’t be all speeding tickets and DUIs.
“Do they think it’s Laura Palmetto’s car?” The local news has been going on about the missing teen who disappeared two weeks ago from Platte County, only fifteen minutes away.
The sheriff shakes his head. “Car’s been down there a long time. We’re gonna catch hell, because our team searched the lake and found nothing five years ago.”
Poppy immediately understands.
It’s Alison Lane’s car.
3
On the drive to Suncatcher Lake, Poppy sits in the passenger seat next to the sheriff and watches the YouTube video. Cold Case Company, which appears to be just a couple guys with pontoon boats and sonar equipment, posted the clip two hours ago.
On the screen, a man with a chinstrap beard sits in a boat and talks in a low whisper. Pointing to a laptop screen, he says, “It’s definitely a car down there. I need to be quiet because the townspeople know we’re here searching for Laura Palmetto’s car, and I don’t want to start a ruckus.” The camera pans to the shore where a few bystanders are looking out at the water. “We know law enforcement has swept the lakes, but we have better equipment, and we’ve got a lot of experience—we’ve helped solve thirty-two cold cases.”
The screen turns black, a time lapse, and then jumps to the man’s partner in a wet suit, emerging from the water. He looks up gravely at the bearded man in the boat and, with some obvious drama for the camera, says, “We need to call the authorities.”