“Glock and Tomasetti are going to meet us there,” I tell him. “To make sure everyone behaves themselves.”
I make the turn into the gas station to find four vehicles parked nose-in against the building, telling me the regulars are already there. The overhead door stands open. Glock’s cruiser is parked next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe, a generous distance away from the other vehicles. Tomasetti is standing against the door of the Tahoe, talking on his cell, watching me. I pull up behind them and kill the engine. My window is down a few inches and I hear the blare of chain-saw rock emanating from the garage.
“Keep your eyes open,” I say to T.J. as I open the door.
“Roger that.”
Glock exits his vehicle as I start toward the overhead door. He’s already wearing his duty gloves, his eyes scanning.
Tomasetti drops his cell into his pocket and strides toward me. “Looks like the whole gang is here,” he says.
“Lucky us,” Glock puts in as he falls in beside us.
There’s no time for Tomasetti or Glock to read the warrant, so I give them the same instructions I gave T.J. as we walk toward the structure. “This is a limited search. Anything crossbow or hunting related. We have access to the main structure, including the office, back room, restroom, and garage. Also, that outbuilding.” I motion right and then glance at Glock. “I think it would be best if we got everyone out of the main building before we begin. Visitors are free to leave if they wish. Detain Fisher. If he prefers to be inside with us while we execute the warrant, he can.”
“You got it, Chief.”
One of the young men I recall seeing during an earlier visit comes through the overhead door and squints at us as if we’re Martians having just landed our spaceship. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other.
“Someone invite the cops?” he says over his shoulder.
Giving him a nod, I move past him, go through the overhead door, spot Vernon Fisher standing inside, a bottle of beer in his hand. He makes eye contact with me and starts toward me. “Three times in one week,” he drawls. “I must be doing something right.”
I cross to him, hand him the warrant. “This is a search warrant. My officers and I have permission to search these premises. I suggest you read it carefully.”
He takes the warrant, looks down at it as if it’s covered with biohazard. “If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Burkholder, what the hell are you looking for?”
“It’s all in the warrant.” I flick the document with my index finger. “You can remain inside with us if you prefer, but I’d like everyone who does not reside here to get out.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a little busy.” He adds a note of amusement to his voice, but he can’t hide the irritation or contempt in his eyes.
“She be shaking you down, dude!” one of the men calls out.
“Break out the tequila!”
“Body-cavity search!” comes another voice.
A round of raucous laughter ensues.
Fisher looks down at the warrant, eyes darting, as if he thinks he’s smart enough to find some error that will send us packing. “This is a bunch of crap.” He looks from me to Glock and back at me and frowns. “We’re out here minding our own business and you dumbasses want to go through all my shit? That ain’t right.”
“Read the warrant.” I look at T.J., motion toward the door that will take him inside. “Start in the office area.”
“Hands off Leandra!” a man holding the bottle of tequila shouts, gesturing with the bottle toward the sex doll.
I make eye contact with Fisher. “Tell your friends to leave or they will be escorted out.”
Hissing a curse, Fisher shakes his head. “She wants you guys out.”
There are four other men inside as far as I can tell. Two of them start toward the door. Another stands next to the door that leads to the office. The fourth is beneath a car that’s up on a lift.
I divide my attention between the two men remaining inside. “That includes you. Leave or I will arrest you,” I say. “Do you understand?”
A nasty jeer flies at me, but I ignore it. Slowly, the two men, beers in hand, shuffle toward the parking lot. When they’re through the door, Glock trails them, and stops midway between the building and our vehicles where he can keep an eye on everyone present.
Fisher stands just inside the overhead door, arms crossed at his chest, glaring at me. Tomasetti is standing at the door, staring at him in kind.
I look around the garage. An industrial fan mounted on the wall blows a steady stream of oily-smelling air through the shop. There’s a big workbench against the wall opposite the overhead door. Above it, a pegboard is covered with a mosaic of tools. A couple of rollaway toolboxes are against the wall to my left. Good-size air compressor with a coil of hose hisses on the floor.
Tomasetti looks at Fisher, then motions to the car that’s up on the lift. “Anything we need to know about in that vehicle?”
“I don’t have shit to say to you,” Fisher tells him.
Tomasetti smiles. “In that case, lower the vehicle,” he says. “Now.”
Snarling a profanity beneath his breath, Fisher goes to a small control box mounted to the wall and flips a switch. A mechanism clicks and then the jack begins to descend.
I’m a linear thinker, so I slip on my duty gloves and start with the steel shelving unit next to the overhead door with plans to work my way around the room. For several minutes, I methodically work my way from top shelf to bottom, moving aside quarts of oil, various types of filters, gallon jugs of coolant, transmission fluid, and windshield-washer fluid. I check behind and beneath the shelves as I go, and replace everything before moving on to the next unit. It’s tedious, dirty work. I keep an eye on T.J. as he works inside the office, going through the desk. Tomasetti is digging through the vehicle that was lowered, working his way through the front glove compartment, center console, beneath the seats, and to the rear.
Fisher opens a beer and chain-smokes as he paces beneath the overhead door. He’s irritated with us, but knows there’s nothing he can do about it.
When I finish with the shelves, I sidle to the nearest rollaway toolbox. It’s bright red, expensive-looking and likely new. One by one, I open the drawers. They’re shallow. Filled with an array of wrenches, hammers, compressor hose fittings, and pliers. The lower drawers are deeper and contain a grinder and drill, a case of drill bits, grinder disks. I feel beneath each drawer, check the sides. I’m about to move on to the second, older-looking rollaway, when I realize I didn’t check the back. I’m looking over my shoulder, watching a terse exchange between Tomasetti and Fisher, when I reach around. Almost absently, I run my fingers against the smooth steel, surprised when my fingers bump something.
The toolbox is extremely heavy, but it’s on casters so I push one side of it around so I can see the back. The floor tilts beneath my feet when I spot the broadhead tips of the crossbow bolts. Two of them, taped to the back of the rollaway with silver duct tape.
I stare at them for a beat, not quite believing my eyes. To say I hadn’t expected to find anything this earth-shattering would be an understatement.