There’s no sign of Pickles’s vehicle. I pick up my mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve reached my destination.
“Roger that.”
I rack the mike and start toward the service bay. The four men inside are young, in their early twenties. At least two are Amish. They’re not dressed in Amish garb, but the “Dutch boy” haircuts give them away. An old Pink Floyd number blares from a speaker set up on the workbench at the rear. The two men standing beneath the car are wearing grease-stained coveralls. One is twisting a ratchet wrench, right arm pumping. The other man is holding something in place with a gloved hand.
All eyes turn to me as I approach. I notice a couple of double takes. They’re not expecting a visit from the chief of police. I recognize Vernon Fisher immediately. He’s sitting in a steel folding chair, smoking a cigarette, looking at me as if he finds my presence amusing. The fourth man has gotten to his feet and stands next to a big rollaway toolbox, watching me. A bottle of tequila, uncapped, sits on the sill of a window that looks into the office.
I enter the garage, aware that everyone’s attention is fastened to me. Expressions more curious than put off, telling me they’re bored and open to some unseemly entertainment, at my expense if they can manage. The car on the lift is a Mustang with wide tires and blue metal-flake paint.
“Vernon Fisher?” I say as I approach.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tossing a hold-my-beer-and-watch-this grin at his cohorts, he rises and crosses to me. Fisher is tall and lanky with angular limbs and well-defined muscle. Wearing jeans and a raggedy work shirt, he looks as if he’s settled into the English life with ease.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
Though he knows exactly who I am, I show him my shield. “Is there a place where we can speak privately? I have a few questions for you.”
“What’d he do now?” one of the other men mutters beneath his breath, and a round of laughter follows.
“Uh … well, I don’t exactly have an office yet,” he says. “How about we talk right here?”
“I understand you bought a truck from Aden Karn,” I begin.
“I wondered when he was going to sic the cops on me.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “Look, I gave that dude a six-hundred-dollar down payment. I took the truck home and two weeks later the damn thing stopped running. I said I’d give him back the truck and asked him for my down payment back and he frickin’ refused. I told him I wasn’t going to pay the rest. Who would? Two days later, him and his buddy sneak over here in the middle of the night and steal my truck. I’m out six hundred bucks. I’m the one who should be calling the cops.”
“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?”