An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(15)

“Did you confront him?” I ask.

“I gave him some shit about it. I mean, the dude ripped me off.”

“Did you file a complaint?”

He shrugs. “Figured it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Do you have a bill of sale or contract?”

“We done it on a handshake.” He blows out a sound of regret. “Guess there’s a lesson in there somewhere, huh?”

A pornographic calendar hangs on the wall behind him, a nude woman, legs spread, baring it all. I tamp down a rise of disgust as I tug out my spiral notebook.

“When’s the last time you saw Karn?” I ask.

“Three or four days ago? I went to his house and told him I want my money back and we can call it even. He told me to hit the road.” He looks at his counterparts and sighs. “What the hell is the world coming to when you can’t even trust the fuckin’ Amish?”

A round of hearty laughter ensues.

“Where were you this morning between three and eight A.M.?” I ask.

He cocks his head and for the first time he looks at me as if he’s taking our conversation seriously. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind you have to answer,” I return evenly. “You can do it here, or we can do it at the police station. It’s your call.”

He swallows what was probably a nasty response. “At three A.M., I was in bed, sleeping.” He smirks. “At eight, I was … having sex with my girlfriend.”

“What’s her name?” I ask.

A raucous round of laughter erupts. I look around, see one of the men point to the grimy window that looks into the small office. I follow his point. At first glance, I think there’s a nude woman sitting at the desk. But I quickly realize it’s a full-size sex doll replete with exaggerated breasts and bright pink genitalia.

The men fall into riotous laughter.

“Her name’s Leandra,” one of them blurts, wiping his eyes.

“He’s in love!” someone else says.

“I think he’s gonna pop the question!”

I look at Fisher, keep my annoyance at bay. “Do you have a valid hunting license?”

He sobers, gives me a puzzled look, wondering about the change of topic. “Do I hunt? Sure. During the season. Deer mostly. Coyote.”

“The only thing he hunts is pussy,” one of the men mumbles.

More laughter, but I ignore it. “Is your hunting license valid?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you own a crossbow or combination bow?”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Burkholder, what does that have to do with the truck?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer the question.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man standing next to the rollaway pick up the bottle of tequila and take a long swig. Making a face, he passes it to one of the men standing beneath the car, who does the same. They’re a tight-knit group. Like-minded. Troublemakers. Agitators looking for fun and games.

“I don’t use a crossbow or combo,” Fisher tells me. “Never have. I prefer a rifle. Like the feel of it. The accuracy.”

The crunch of tires on gravel alerts me to the arrival of someone else. I glance over my shoulder to see Pickles park his cruiser next to my Explorer and get out. A couple of the other men notice, too, and exchange looks, wondering why a second officer has arrived.

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Fisher asks. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Sounds like she’s trying to pin something on you.” The man next to the rollaway stares at me; his expression has gone cold and deadpan.

I maintain my focus on Fisher. “Have you ever borrowed a crossbow?”

“No, ma’am.”

Eyeing me with unconcealed disdain, the man beneath the car takes another swig of tequila. He offers it to me, but I ignore him. Smiling, he passes it to the man next to him.

“Fuckin’ cops,” one of the men hisses beneath his breath.

Pickles comes up beside me. He’s in full uniform, his trousers creased, uniform shirt stiff with starch. He’s wearing his trademark Lucchese boots, which are buffed to a high sheen, and he smells of Old Spice aftershave and the cigarette he sneaked on the drive over. I can tell by his expression that he knows exactly what’s going on here—and that he’s not the least bit fazed.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” He looks around, taking in his surroundings, sizing up the men. “Nice Mustang. Sixty-six?”

“Sixty-eight,” Fisher replies.

“Good year.” Pickles spots the calendar. “Three-oh-two engine?”

“Three-ninety,” Fisher says. “Four-barrel.”

“Damn.” Whistling appreciatively, Pickles strides past the men, so close to Fisher he has to step back. Pickles goes to the workbench, plucks the calendar off the wall, and rips it in half.

“Hey, old man, that ain’t yours to fuck with,” says the man next to the rollaway.

Taking his time, Pickles tosses it into the trash bin, then turns to face the man next to the rollaway. “Just saving you some trouble.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Some ten-year-old kid walks in here to air up his bike tire and sees your classy calendar, and you geniuses are going to find yourselves in hot water.”