“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.”
I pick up the glass and drink. “I’ll try not to screw up his mojo.”
He gives me a halfhearted smile. “Last I seen, he was in the booth over there at the back, by the men’s room.”
I lay a ten-dollar bill on the bar and start that way. I spot Waddell as I weave through the crowd. He’s sitting with three men, talking animatedly. A pitcher of beer and four mugs on the table in front of him. According to his driver’s license, he’s thirty-two years old. But he looks older. Long blond hair. Scruffy beard. Light blue eyes. A wiry build covered with the sinew of a man who works with his hands.
I reach the booth. “Kevin Waddell?”
Four pairs of eyes sweep to me. I see varying degrees of surprise and drunkenness. Uneasiness interlaced with curiosity. A little scorn thrown in for good measure.
Waddell sets down his mug. “Can I help you?”
I can tell by the thickness of his tongue, the glassiness of his eyes that this isn’t his first beer. Probably not his second. Certainly not an ideal situation for gleaning information, but I don’t want to wait until morning.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your evening,” I tell him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a minute.”
The four men exchange looks, telling me they’ve likely heard about the murder. The man next to him breaks into a grin, elbows him. “Told you they were going to come for you.”
“At least she’s polite about it,” one of the other men says.
“She don’t look too bad, either.” He snickers. “And it ain’t even midnight.”
I don’t acknowledge any of it.
Waddell doesn’t so much as break a smile. “This about Karn?”
I nod. “It’s a little loud in here,” I say. “Would you mind stepping outside with me?”
I’m aware of eyes on us as I lead him to the exit at the rear. I push open the door. Two men smoking to my right. I go left, stop next to a dumpster.
“What’s this about?” Waddell says as he approaches me. He’s trying to look sober. Back straight. Walking with the meticulousness of a man being given a sobriety test.
“You’re not in any trouble,” I begin, hoping to put him at ease.
“That’s good because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I understand you drive Aden Karn to work every day.”
“Ain’t no law against that, is there?”
I give him the fundamentals of what happened. “He was found on Hansbarger Road around eight o’clock this morning.”
“Dang. Hated hearing about that. He was a nice kid.” He shakes his head. “Hansbarger is just a couple miles from where we meet. That old Lutheran church out there by the ice shanty.”
I nod. “How well did you know Karn?”
“Aw, we worked together a few months. Kid was Amish, you know. Didn’t drive. I told him I practically drove by his place every day and offered to give him a ride.”
“Were you friends?”
“Well, we didn’t run in the same circles or anything. But I drank a beer or two with him. You know, after work. Right here at the Brass Rail.” As if remembering, he laughs. “Good-looking kid. Let me tell you, he was a chick magnet.”
I touch on the same questions I covered with Wayne Graber and the others, but he doesn’t give me anything I haven’t already heard.
“Everyone seemed to like Aden,” he tells me. “He was always on time. You could tell this kid was Amish. I mean, he had a good work ethic, you know? Believe me, a lot of them young ones don’t these days.”
“Was Aden having any problems with anyone?”
Waddell scratches his head. “Come to think of it, he wasn’t too happy with that buddy of his.”