An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(56)

“You still on?” I ask, knowing she worked last night and never left.

She startles, sets down her phone. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Get me a ten-twenty-seven on Jimmie Baines.” I spell the last name.

She swings back to the computer, taps a key.

“Run him through LEADS,” I add.

She cranes her neck forward, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “What’d he do?” she asks.

“Nothing, I hope. I just need to talk to him and since we’re cops it’ll be nice to know if he’s wanted for anything before we show up at his door.”

She recites a local address and I put it to memory.

“You busy?” I ask.

She grins.



* * *



Jimmie Baines lives on a three-acre tract a few miles outside of Painters Mill proper. I pull into a gravel drive and park just off a rusty metal building. The overhead door is halfway down and crooked as if it’s come off its track. The house is an older bungalow with a wood deck in front that isn’t quite level.

Next to me, Mona recites her findings from various police databases. “Fifty-six years old. Divorced. OVI back in 1997. Disorderly conduct arrest in 1998. Charges dropped. Possession of a controlled substance in 1999. Charges dropped. Domestic back in 2001.” She scrolls. “Looks like he’s kept his nose clean since.”

“Let’s have a chat with Mr. Keeps His Nose Clean and see if he remembers anything interesting about Aden Karn.”

We get out and take a beaten-down dirt path to the front of the house. I’m cognizant of the wood planks creaking beneath my feet as I take the steps to the deck. Opening the storm door, I knock.

He doesn’t keep us waiting. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a partially clad Jimmie Baines—and more than I ever wanted to see of him. His left cheek is creased, his hair sticking up on one side. Even his goatee is mussed. He’s wearing a black muscle shirt with a big gold chain hanging down. Farmer’s tan on muscular arms. I can’t tell if his pants are shorts, pajamas, or underwear, so I keep my eyes trained on his face.

“Well, this is a surprise.” He squints at me, too cool to be discomfited. “What time is it?”

I look at my watch. “Ten thirty.”

“Didn’t get out of the bar until four,” he says.

“Sorry to bother you so early.”

He makes no move to open the door; he just stands there looking loose and relaxed, so I add, “I’m working on the Aden Karn case, Jimmie. I have a few questions, if you have a minute. May we come inside?”

I see him mentally tally the condition of his house—trying to remember if he left anything he’d rather I not see in plain sight. It takes him half a minute to decide. “I think that would be all right.” He slants a sideways look at Mona.

“Hey, Jimmie.” She smiles.

One side of his mouth lifts as he recognizes her and I realize she’s frequented the Brass Rail and been served drinks by him.

He takes us to a small living room furnished with a sofa, a chair, and a TV the size of a truck. He motions us to the sofa, then goes to the chair, lifts a pair of jeans off the arm, turns his back to us, and slips them on. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Mona and I avert our gazes. I feel her cast a grin in my direction, but I don’t look at her.

“So what do you want to know?”

I turn, and even though I don’t lower my eyes, I can see he’s still zipping up, not the least bit embarrassed.

“You know who Aden Karn is?” I ask.

“I know who he is.” When his pants are buttoned and zipped, he takes the chair. “I know he’s the one got killed.”

I take the sofa, lean forward, put my elbows on my knees. “You heard anything about that?”

“Not really. People are surprised mostly.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Just seen him in the bar. Last six months or so, he was a regular. Drank a lot of Heineken. Liked to dance. Play pool. Smoke cigarettes out back.”

“You ever see him with anyone?”

“He came in once or twice with his pals from work. You know, that construction crew.”

“Anyone else?”

“Came in with some Amish dudes a few times. I mean, they weren’t dressed like pilgrims, but you can tell they’re Amish.” He touches his hair, gives a half smile. “Fuckin’ Dutch boy haircuts crack me up.”

“You ever see him with a woman?”

“I seen him with plenty of women. Dude never came in with one, but he never left alone.”

Wayne Graber’s reluctance to talk about it scrolls through the back of my mind. “English women?”

“A different one every time.”

“You ever have any problems with him? Arguments? Or fights?”

The bartender’s eyes sharpen on mine. “I never saw anything inside. I mean, I’m behind the bar and stay pretty busy. Most of the guys who come in are well-behaved. Especially the Amish.”

I can tell by the way his eyes skitter away that there’s something there. He’s not trying to hide it, but he wants me to work for it. “What about outside?” I ask, knowing that’s where some of the problems occur because I’ve responded to a fight call once or twice myself.