An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(25)
Kevin Waddell lives in a newish double-wide in a pretty area shaded by mature elm and oak trees. A dozen mobile homes are generously spaced with concrete driveways and well-maintained yards. I park curbside and take the sidewalk to the deck. I know even before I knock there’s no one home. There’s no car in the driveway. No sound of a TV or stereo coming from inside.
“You’re striking out, Burkholder,” I mutter.
I walk back to the Explorer and slide behind the wheel, sit there for a moment. It’s getting late and I’m tired and cranky. One of the most difficult things for a cop to do when working on a homicide case is go home. That’s especially true if the murderer is at large. How can you walk away when the people you’ve sworn to serve and protect are in danger? Some cops can turn off that nagging, agitated voice. They can curb the urge to keep pushing. I’m the cop that keeps going, past my endurance, sometimes to my own detriment. Good or bad or somewhere in between, that’s the way I roll.
Sighing, I tug out my cell and pull up a map of the area. Buckeye Construction is just south of Millersburg. I shrink the map, isolate the place where the murder occurred. I find the pickup point at the Lutheran church. I measure the distance to my current location. If I were to draw a line from point to point to point, the triangle would include the address of the one place that might call out to a man after a long day. The Brass Rail Saloon.
I pick up my cell and call Dispatch. “Anything come back on Waddell?” I ask.
“No outstanding warrants. Simple assault conviction six years ago. Happened in Wooster. Sixty days in jail. Paid a fine. He’s also had a couple of OVIs. First offense four years ago. Second offense, three years ago. License suspended for a year. Thirty days in jail. Paid a fine.”
“I’m at his place now, but he’s not here,” I tell her. “I’m going to swing by the Brass Rail before I head back to the station.”
“Be careful out there, Chief. I hear that place gets pretty sketchy Thursday nights.”
“Not that you know that from experience.”
She snickers. “I’ll take the fifth on that.”
* * *
The final vestiges of daylight hover on the horizon when I pull into the parking lot of the Brass Rail Saloon. The gravel lot is so jam-packed full of vehicles some of the trucks have parked in the grass. I idle through the lot to see if I can spot Waddell’s white Ford van, and I find it a couple of rows from the front, telling me he’s been here awhile. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
I score a parking spot next to a Ford dually hooked up to a stock trailer—sans livestock—and head inside. A gaggle of young women smoking cigarettes, long necks in hand, line either side of the steps as I take them to the front door.
“Evening,” I say.
The woman sitting on the rail gives me an eye roll. I hear a whispered “bitch cop” as I push open the door, but I ignore the comment. This isn’t exactly the kind of establishment that welcomes cops.
The screech of steel guitar chafes my eardrums when I enter. The place teems with Thursday-night partygoers, getting a jump on the weekend. From the stage, a band belts out a chain-saw rendition of Lou Reed’s “Sweet Jane.” Someone has brought in dry ice, which brings a rise of fog to the light show and makes for a nice effect. Fifteen years ago, a younger me would have been duly impressed. Tonight, the gaudiness of it makes me sigh.
My uniform draws stares as I make my way to the bar. I make eye contact with a couple of people I recognize, but no one greets me. I spot the bartender as I approach and he gives me a nod. Jimmie has served up alcohol and smart-assed commentary for as long as I’ve been chief. He’s fortysomething going on twenty-two and looks snazzy in his white button-down shirt, gold chain, and jeans. His goatee almost hides the scar that splits his chin. He told me he got the scar in a car accident. Rumor has it a biker hit him with a Louisville Slugger. While he may be a touch disreputable, if there’s something shady going on, Jimmie is the man in the know. I make it a point to stay on his good side because, surly as he is, he usually comes through.
“Hey, Jimmie,” I say as I sidle up to the bar. “You staying out of trouble?”
He frowns at me over the tap as he fills two mugs. Hard eyes on mine and laced with something akin to disdain, but I know it’s not personal. “Get you something?”
“Ice water.”
Grabbing a glass from beneath the bar, he jams it into the ice box, fills it from the tap, then expertly slides it over to me. “Heard about that murder over to Hansbarger Road. You guys figure out who did it?”
“Working on it.” Aware that the man sitting next to me is paying attention to our exchange, I lower my voice. “I’m looking for Kevin Waddell.”
“He’s here.” Lifting the two beer mugs he just filled, he takes them to two men a few patrons down.
The place is too loud to hear much but the music. Definitely too loud to carry on a conversation, especially if you want it to remain private. Propping my elbow on the bar, I watch a couple stumble onto the dance floor and break into a raucous hip-grinding lambada.
“What do you want with Waddell?” Jimmie lines up four shot glasses and dribbles a generous amount of Patron into each.
“Just a quick chat.”
His eyes burn into mine. “He’s tipping good tonight.”