“You don’t know that.”
“I wish I didn’t. But I do, Kate. I’ve seen it happen too many times.” He scrubs a hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Maybe I’ve been doing this too goddamn long.”
“You know that’s cynical.”
He leans against the desk, picks up the tumbler of whiskey and sips, gives me the whiskey grimace. “That’s the thing about baggage and age, especially when you’re a cop. You see too much too many times. You see the family suffering. You see their hope. Their desperation. And you lie to them because you know bad things happen to good people far more often than we’d like.” He offers me a grim smile. “More about my mindset than you ever wanted to know, but there you go.”
I discern the pain in the depths of his eyes, and my love for him fills my heart. “Is there anything I can do?”
He looks down at me and I see him come back to himself. To that place I know. “Just … keep coming home.”
Saying his name, I turn to him, take the tumbler from his hand, sip, and set it down. “If it’s any consolation, to you or the family or anyone who needs to hear it, you are the best man for the job. If anyone can bring them home, it’s you. It’s going to hurt, but you’re going to do it anyway. That’s got to count for something.”
“I hope so,” he says quietly.
“That’s the thing about pouring your life into a case like that. Even if there’s a bad outcome, life goes on. With or without us. Hard as it is, we pick ourselves up. We focus on the good. And we put one foot in front of the other.”
A smile whispers across his features. Small, but genuine. “Well, I’m glad I’ve got you here to point that out.”
Smiling back, I reach up and set my hand against his cheek. “What do you say we focus on the good for a little while?”
“Does that include wine and dinner?”
I take his hand and lead him from the room.
CHAPTER 9
When an individual lies to me in the course of an investigation—even if the lie is by omission—it automatically puts him on my “person of interest” roll. When more than one individual fails to mention the same detail, I know there’s something there. According to Kevin Waddell, Vernon Fisher and Aden Karn were friends. And yet neither Graber nor Fisher mentioned it. Coincidental omission? Or are they hiding something?
As I pull out of the lane and head south toward Painters Mill, I call Glock. “I want you to pick up Vernon Fisher.”
“My pleasure, Chief. Charge?”
I tell him about my conversation with Waddell. “He failed to mention his friendship with Karn, so I think we need to get his attention. Let him know we’re serious.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“I think he knows more than he claims.” I think about that a moment. “Let’s pick him up for questioning. Take him to the police station. Put him in an interview room and let him stew until I get there.”
“My morning just keeps getting better,” he tells me.
Not for the first time, I’m reminded why I like Glock so much. “I’m going to talk to Wayne Graber,” I tell him. “I’ll be at the station as soon as I can.”
* * *
Mast Tiny Homes is located south of Millersburg on a busy highway across from a farm store. A dozen or so wood structures, everything from modern chic to farmhouse to chicken coop, welcome shoppers to the notion of a simpler life and a little piece of heaven in the country. A large metal building with twin overhead doors, both of which are closed, is set back from the road and nestled among the trees. There’s a smaller man door with an OFFICE sign at the side, so I head that way.
The whine of saws and the punch-punch-punch of a nail gun sound from the interior. I enter to the smells of fresh-cut wood and the oily tang of stain. A man wearing blue coveralls works the blade of a miter saw through a massive chunk of oak. A red-bearded older man with a bandanna tied around his head makes use of a nail gun to put the finishing touches on a structure not much bigger than an outhouse. Two more men wheel a good-size tiny house toward a rear overhead door.
“Help you?”
I turn to see a middle-aged man approach. Amish-type beard. Work shirt, dark trousers, and suspenders. “I’m looking for the manager or owner,” I tell him.
“I’m the owner.” He gives me a curious once-over. “Someone do something wrong?”
“No, I just need to have a quick chat with Wayne Graber.”
His eyes narrow. “This about that crossbow murder happened down to Painters Mill? I know he was friendly with the guy got shot.” He whistles. “Heck of a thing.”
I nod noncommittally. “I won’t keep him long.”
“You guys figure out who did it?”
“We’re working on it.”
More questions show in his eyes. I’m thankful he’s too busy to voice them. He jabs a thumb at a man door at the rear of the shop. “Wayne’s staining in the back. You take your time, Chief Burkholder. Hope you get the bad guy.”
Giving him a nod, I head that way.
I make my exit and spot Graber on the front porch of a gorgeous log cabin, brushing stain onto a door, a five-gallon bucket on the deck floor next to him.
I start toward him. “That’s a nice color,” I say when I reach the steps.
He looks at me over his shoulder and does a double take. “Usually, we paint the doors. You know, to break up all that wood. Guy that bought this one wants it stained. I prefer paint myself.”
“What kind of wood is that?”
“Knotty pine. I like the movement of the knots. And it takes stain real nice.”
I ascend the steps and cross to where he’s working. “Why didn’t you tell me Aden and Vernon Fisher were friends?”
He stops brushing and turns to me. “Well, I’m not sure I’d classify them as friends exactly.”
“How exactly would you classify their relationship?”
“They’re more like … acquaintances.”
“Who just happen to have the occasional beer together.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
I let the silence work a moment, then start back in. “How long have they known each other?”
“Since they were kids, but—”
“Since they were kids? And yet they’re nothing more than acquaintances?”
“Look, Chief Burkholder, maybe ‘acquaintance’ isn’t quite the right word. Sure, they hung out sometimes, but they didn’t exactly get along.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He shrugs. “I guess I didn’t realize it was important.”
“Wayne.” I add some steel to my voice. “I have a twenty-one-year-old dead man who had an ongoing dispute with another man days before he was murdered, and you somehow didn’t think it was important to tell me those two men were friends?”
“I figured you knew. I mean, come on. Painters Mill is a small town. They were Amish.”
“Which is it?” I ask. “That you didn’t think it was important? Or that I should have already known?”
“Both.”