An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(35)

“Ten-ten,” comes my second-shift dispatcher’s voice, using the ten code for “fight in progress.”

Skid is on duty until midnight, and he’s more than capable of handling a fight, depending on the number of individuals involved, of course. But when the dispatcher rattles off an address I recognize—the old service station where Vernon Fisher lives—I realize I’m not going to make it home anytime soon.

I snatch up my radio. “Ten-seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m en route. “Who’s the RP?” Reporting party.

“Ricky Shafter says he drove by there on his way home from work, Chief. Said there were a bunch of guys in the driveway slugging it out. He thought someone might get hurt so he called us.”

“Skid, ten-twenty-five,” I say, requesting he meet me there.

“On my way,” he says.

It takes me four minutes to reach Fisher’s place. Sure enough, when I pull into the driveway, I spot a commotion in front of the overhead door. My headlights illuminate at least two men on the ground, locked in battle. The silhouettes of half a dozen people surround them. Young men holding beers and cutting up, egging the fighters on.

“Shit,” I mutter beneath my breath as I cut the engine and scramble out.

“Police Department!” I call out.

By the time I push my way through the crowd, the fighters have separated. A disheveled Vernon Fisher stands just inside the overhead door, his T-shirt wet with sweat and covered with grime. The collar hangs down, stretched to three times its normal size. Wayne Graber is just around the corner at the side of the building, bent at the hip, gulping air as if he’s just run a four-minute mile.

I recognize three of the bystanders from when I was here the other day. Three others I don’t know, at least two of whom are Amish. All of them are looking at me, pumped up on alcohol, adrenaline, and testosterone. One of the Amish men is leaning against the wall next to the overhead door, a bottle of tequila in his hand.

I point at him. “Who was fighting?”

He startles, looks around, not wanting to get his pals into trouble. “Uh … they were just … horsing around.”

I shift my gaze to Fisher. “You.” I point to the external office door. “Go stand outside by the door and do not move. Now.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. For an instant I think he’s going to refuse—or charge me. Despite the haze of alcohol, he shakes off the urge, steps back, and starts toward the door.

I’m about to approach Graber when the lights of Skid’s cruiser flicker off the side of the building. I turn to see him tear into the parking lot, dust flying. He slides to a stop behind my Explorer. Then the door flies open and he’s striding to me, his eyes taking in the scene. “Chief?”

I jab my thumb at Fisher, lower my voice. “I think he was fighting. Get his story. I’ll talk to Graber.”

“I wasn’t fighting!” Fisher snarls.

“Be quiet.” Skid approaches Fisher and motions to his vehicle. “Let’s go.”

Two of the bystanders move closer to me, eyes alight with the kind of disrespect that could quickly edge into hostility. Too drunk to realize any physical contact would be a very bad idea. I raise my hand and shove my finger at them. “Don’t do anything stupid. Do you understand?”

I make eye contact with each of them as I stride past. I don’t miss the smirks, the open expressions of glee, of insolence in their eyes, or that they’re enjoying this a hell of a lot more than I am.

I keep them in the periphery of my vision as I approach Graber. He’s still bent at the hip, hands on his knees. He raises his head and looks at me as I approach and mutters, “Shit.”

“Why were you fighting with Fisher?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he straightens. “We were just goofing off, Chief Burkholder.”

The shirt he’s wearing looks as if someone tried to tear it from his body. Several buttons have popped off at the waist, revealing a belly covered with a sprinkling of dark hair. There’s dribble of blood beneath his left nostril. An abrasion the size of a marble next to his eyebrow.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say.

“We weren’t fighting.”

“I saw you, Wayne. When I pulled up.”

He tosses me a sheepish look. “Look, we had a few beers. A few laughs. We started talking MMA, you know, mixed martial arts, cage fighting, and one thing led to another.”

I laugh. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.” Looking uncomfortable, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The tequila didn’t help, I guess.”

Aware that the other men are craning their necks in an effort to eavesdrop, I motion Graber to my Explorer. “Let’s go,” I tell him. “Put your hands against the fender.”

“You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Throwing up his hands, Graber slogs over to the Explorer. “This is a bunch of crap.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

I follow him to the Explorer. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the fight is about the truck. If it’s about Emily Byler or related in any way to the murder of Aden Karn.

We reach the Explorer. “Put your hands against the fender,” I repeat. “Spread your feet.”