An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(57)

“You’re not asking me to break the bartender’s code of silence, are you?”

Next to me, Mona clears her throat.

I hold his gaze, wait.

Jimmie looks away, considering, then nods. “Karn drank too much, and he couldn’t handle his booze. Got shit-faced on a regular basis. Whatever female he was with usually drank too much, too. Most of the time, it was harmless stuff. Young people acting a fool. A spilled drink. Smoking in the bathroom. A little pelvis grinding on the dance floor.” He sighs. “A few weeks ago, I heard things got carried away out in the parking lot.”

“How so?”

“He took a girl out there. To his buddy’s car, you know. And they started going at it in the back seat.”

Next to me, Mona leans closer.

“You mean they were having sex?” I ask.

“Might’ve started out that way; I don’t know. But they ended up getting into a knock-down, drag-out fight. She must have said no or changed her mind, because Karn got pissed.” He grimaces. “Real pissed. We’re talking Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Next thing I know this chick rushes into the bar, shirt ripped half off. She’s drunk and crying, face all smeared. She was marked up, too.”

“What kind of marks?”

He shrugs. “Scratches from what I could see. From him pawing at her.”

“Did he hit her?”

“I asked. She said no, but her face was marked up.”

“Black eye? Cut lip?”

“Didn’t see either of those things. She got hostile when I pushed, so I backed off.”

“So he assaulted her?” Mona asks.

Jimmie shifts his gaze to her. “I didn’t see it happen and no one would say, but judging from the way she looked, I’d say he roughed her up good.”

“Did you talk to Karn?” I ask.

Another grimace, this one darker. “Look, I know that kid’s gone and I ain’t one to talk poorly of the dead. But when he drank, all that boy-next-door bullshit went out the window. I been around the block a few times and I got a lot of tolerance for a lot of shit. I see it go down and I look the other way. The one thing I won’t abide is a man putting his hands on a woman. So, yeah, I went out to the parking lot and I had a little talk with that son of a bitch.”

“And how did that go?” I ask.

“He calmed down real fuckin’ quick.” His eyes flick left to the hallway that leads to the rear of the house.

I follow his stare to a baseball bat leaning against the wall. It’s been carved with what looks like a gargoyle head on the business end.

“Do you know this woman’s name?” I ask.

“I asked around. One of the waitresses said her name is Mandi Yoder.”

The name pings in my memory as I write it down. A few months ago, one of my officers took a call when an Amish woman, walking alongside Highway 62 after dark, was struck by a vehicle. She suffered only minor injuries and was transported to the hospital. Only later did we learn that the incident was a possible suicide attempt.

“Amish?” I ask.

“She wasn’t dressed Amish, but she had that look about her.”

“Age?”

“Too young to be alone in a car with that sack of shit Karn.”

I’ve heard Jimmie described as having a “scary stare.” When the situation gets tense, he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. Or back down to anyone. If someone told me a set of eyes could tear someone’s heart out of their chest, I’d think of Jimmie.

“Karn catch any flak for that?” I ask.

“Not that I heard.”

“He get into fights with anyone else?” I ask. “Any other women?”

“Not that I heard, but the Rail’s a big place, especially the parking lot. We’re all about our clientele at the Rail, if you know what I mean. We keep it dark out there for a reason.”



* * *



“Jimmie has a slightly different take on Karn, doesn’t he?” Mona says as we walk to the Explorer.

“Bartenders see people at their worst,” I say as I open the door and slide behind the wheel. “They’re like cops that way.”

As I back out of the driveway, I recap my conversation with Christina Weaver.

“Holy cow.” Mona shakes her head as if the information won’t quite settle. “That’s the last thing I expected to hear about Karn.” She looks at me. “You believe Weaver?”

“I do.”

Her brows knit. “So if Karn was a mean drunk and abusive toward women…” Mona is still mulling what she’s learned about Karn, trying to figure out how it fits into the big picture. “Might be a motive in there somewhere.”

“I think it’s worth checking.”

She nods. “You put your hands on someone’s sister or girlfriend, someone might get pissed off and decide to do something about it.”

I glance over at her. “Call Lois. Ask her to run Yoder through LEADS. See if she has any outstanding warrants. See if she can come up with an address.”

She’s already reaching for her cell phone.



* * *



Mandi Yoder lives in a four-unit apartment building in Painters Mill, two blocks from the slaughterhouse. It’s a two-story brick structure with peeling white paint and an ornate door some creative soul has painted a pretty shade of turquoise. Mona and I take a cracked sidewalk to the main entrance door, which isn’t quite closed. I push it open enough for us to slide through and step into a small vestibule. There are two apartments downstairs, neither of which matches the number I have, so we take the curved staircase to the second level.