An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(14)
“According to Doc, Karn was shot at least twice,” I say, thinking aloud. “Did the killer know Karn and target him? Or was it a random killing?”
“Not many people on that stretch of road,” Glock says. “Of course, if you’re up to no good and looking to kill someone, you’d have no way of knowing when someone might happen by, and you’d likely have a lengthy wait on your hands.”
I consider that a moment. “If I were to guess, I’d say this was targeted. The killer knew Karn’s routine. Knew his route. Waited for him to show.”
“And ambushed him.”
For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, our minds working through the repercussions of that.
“Karn worked for Buckeye Construction,” I tell him. “When you finish up at the scene, run up there and find out who was supposed to pick him up this morning. Find out where they meet and who else rides with them.”
“You got it.”
“Find out where the crew was working, too. See if there were any problems on the job. With coworkers. Or the client.”
“Will do.”
I relay the story about the truck. “I’m on my way to talk to Vernon Fisher.”
“Watch your back.”
“Just so you know, I have a profound fear of sharp projectiles that travel at three hundred feet per second.”
He laughs. “You and me both.”
* * *
Red’s Gas Station has been a scar on the landscape as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my mamm once took me in for a red pop. I don’t recall why we were there, but even then it had been a ramshackle business that smelled of rubber and oil and spilled gas. A dozen FOR SALE signs have come and gone over the years, but no one wanted to buy the place. Until Vernon Fisher came along, anyway.
The establishment sits on a lesser-used county road a stone’s throw from State Highway 83. It’s a cinder-block structure, the kind that was popular in the 1960s, with a low-slope roof and a mullioned front. The old Sohio sign mounted on a pole is shot through with holes from shotgun pellets. Most of the window glass is gone and has been replaced with plywood upon which someone has written Wanted: Used cars and below that scrawled a phone number. A double auto bay takes up the left side of the building. One of the overhead doors stands open. Inside, a muscle car straddles a lift, two tires missing, a rusty chain hanging down. As I pull into the weed-riddled parking lot, I see the silhouettes of two men beneath the car. Two more men occupy lawn chairs against the wall.
I park next to the concrete island where three gas pumps used to be. Two are gone. The remaining pump is rust covered and lies on its side, its glass face crushed.
There’s no sign of Pickles’s vehicle. I pick up my mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve reached my destination.
“Roger that.”
I rack the mike and start toward the service bay. The four men inside are young, in their early twenties. At least two are Amish. They’re not dressed in Amish garb, but the “Dutch boy” haircuts give them away. An old Pink Floyd number blares from a speaker set up on the workbench at the rear. The two men standing beneath the car are wearing grease-stained coveralls. One is twisting a ratchet wrench, right arm pumping. The other man is holding something in place with a gloved hand.
All eyes turn to me as I approach. I notice a couple of double takes. They’re not expecting a visit from the chief of police. I recognize Vernon Fisher immediately. He’s sitting in a steel folding chair, smoking a cigarette, looking at me as if he finds my presence amusing. The fourth man has gotten to his feet and stands next to a big rollaway toolbox, watching me. A bottle of tequila, uncapped, sits on the sill of a window that looks into the office.
I enter the garage, aware that everyone’s attention is fastened to me. Expressions more curious than put off, telling me they’re bored and open to some unseemly entertainment, at my expense if they can manage. The car on the lift is a Mustang with wide tires and blue metal-flake paint.
“Vernon Fisher?” I say as I approach.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tossing a hold-my-beer-and-watch-this grin at his cohorts, he rises and crosses to me. Fisher is tall and lanky with angular limbs and well-defined muscle. Wearing jeans and a raggedy work shirt, he looks as if he’s settled into the English life with ease.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
Though he knows exactly who I am, I show him my shield. “Is there a place where we can speak privately? I have a few questions for you.”
“What’d he do now?” one of the other men mutters beneath his breath, and a round of laughter follows.
“Uh … well, I don’t exactly have an office yet,” he says. “How about we talk right here?”
“I understand you bought a truck from Aden Karn,” I begin.
“I wondered when he was going to sic the cops on me.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “Look, I gave that dude a six-hundred-dollar down payment. I took the truck home and two weeks later the damn thing stopped running. I said I’d give him back the truck and asked him for my down payment back and he frickin’ refused. I told him I wasn’t going to pay the rest. Who would? Two days later, him and his buddy sneak over here in the middle of the night and steal my truck. I’m out six hundred bucks. I’m the one who should be calling the cops.”