“Is there a second level?” I ask.
“Loft.”
“Paint or stain?”
“This one will be painted.” He pries off the lid of the can. “Any luck finding out who killed Aden?”
“Still working on it,” I say. “I wanted to get your impression of his relationship with Emily Byler. I know they were planning to be married. Did they get along?”
“Sure. They were tight.” He pours paint into the tray. “He was crazy about her and I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual.”
“That’s what I’m hearing,” I say. “Did Aden see anyone else before Emily?”
“He talked to a few girls. Nothing serious.”
“What about while he was courting Emily?” I ask. “I mean, casually?”
“Aden was good-looking, of age, and unmarried.” He stops what he’s doing and looks at me as if he’s just figured out where I’m going with this line of questioning. “I don’t really know what you want me to say, Chief Burkholder. I mean, he was my best friend. It doesn’t seem right to speak badly of him when he’s not here to defend himself.”
“Wayne, this isn’t about Aden’s private life,” I say. “This is about finding the person responsible for his death.”
He picks up the roller and rolls it into the paint. As he works, I see his mind churning. Trying to figure out how to answer. The best angle to take. After a moment, he sighs. “You want me to tell you that my best friend was two-timing his fiancée. Is that what you want?”
“All I want is the truth.” I wait a beat. “Was he?”
He frowns at me. “Emily was young. She wouldn’t … you know.” He fumbles the word, breaks off the sentence. “They weren’t screwing around, okay? I mean, she’s Amish and they’re all about waiting until marriage.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
“So Aden liked sex. He liked women. A lot. So he went out on occasion. That’s all I got to say about that because I don’t know what he did behind closed doors.”
“Do any of these women have names?”
“No idea. I mean, I didn’t know them. He usually met them at some bar. A place where the Amish wouldn’t see him. I mean, he didn’t want Emily to know, right?” He laughs. “And it wouldn’t exactly go over if the bishop found out he was two-timing his fiancée.”
“How many women?”
He emits a good-natured groan. “Aden’s dead and you’re going to make me stab the guy in the back?”
“I’m asking you a question that needs to be asked,” I say. “There’s no pleasure in it. I don’t have an agenda. All I want is the truth.”
He shakes his head. “Too many. Okay?”
“Where did he meet them?” I ask.
“The Brass Rail,” he snaps. “That’s all I know.”
I pull the photo of Paige Rossberger from my pocket, unfold it, and show it to him. “Was he ever with her?”
Curious about the photo, he cranes his neck, takes a long look. “I never saw her at the house. Never saw her at the Rail.” He raises his eyes to mine. “She’s the one that got killed, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
His gaze intensifies, as if realizing I mean business. “Why are you asking me about her? What does she have to do with Aden?”
Ignoring the question, I hand him my card, but he doesn’t take it. He looks away, concentrates on rolling the paint.
“If you knew something that might help me find the killer,” I say, “you’d tell me, right?”
“You know I would.”
Turning, I start across the courtyard. I’m midway to the workshop when he calls out my name.
I turn back, raise my brows, wait.
“Those loose girls didn’t mean anything to him,” he says. “It was all about the sex. He loved Em. It would break her heart if she found out he was fooling around on her. I don’t want people remembering him that way.”
“Thanks for your time,” I tell him.
And I walk away.
* * *
When a case stalls, a good investigator knows it’s time to start thinking outside the box. Sometimes, you find the most useful information in the most unlikely of places. In the course of any investigation, that’s a gift to an investigator. I’ve known Jimmie Baines, the bartender at the Brass Rail, for twenty years, give or take. Not well, of course; not on a personal level. But I know his reputation. He sees a lot and knows how to keep his mouth shut, so people talk to him. He’s tended bar there since before I was old enough to legally buy a drink. In fact, he served me my first official gin and tonic when I was seventeen years old. He has his finger on the pulse of the small population of Painters Mill’s underbelly, and he’s wily enough to know how to use his talents to stay on the good side of the local cops.
It’s ten A.M. when I walk into the station. It’s usually quiet this time of day, a good time to catch up on paperwork or phone calls. But with two homicides spooling into high gear, the station is a madhouse. Lois stands at the reception desk, headset clamped over her head, eyes wild. She points at me when I enter, but she can’t get away from her call and I have no idea what she wants so I keep moving. In the hall, I pour coffee and then go to the two common cubicles and find Mona, staring at her phone.
“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.