Ten minutes later I find Glock in his office, the phone stuck to his ear. He looks at me when I peek in and raises his finger, telling me to hold on. After a moment, he hangs up and shakes his head. “That was the BCI lab in London.”
“Any luck with the tread or footwear imprints?”
“They got a partial tread that doesn’t match any of the first responders.”
My heart rolls into a staccato. “Can they match it with a manufacturer?”
“Their tire guy is working on it.” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance of IDing the tread.”
The news isn’t great, but I’ll take anything positive at this point. “I’m going to talk to Scott Brower.” Brower was at the Brass Rail the night Amanda Horner disappeared. He’s of particular interest because he’s got an arrest record, one of which involved a knife. “Wanna come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You buying breakfast?”
“As long as it’s fast.”
Ten minutes later we’re in my Explorer heading toward Mr. Lube, where Brower works as a mechanic. Next to me, Glock finishes his breakfast burrito and stuffs the napkin into the bag.
“Any luck with Donny Beck?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I tell him about my conversation with the kid. “I don’t think he did it.”
“He got an alibi?”
“I still need to verify, but I think it’ll pan out.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with Brower.”
Mr. Lube operates out of a ramshackle garage located in the industrial district near the railroad tracks. The parking lot is part asphalt, part gravel and covered with dirty snow, most of which hasn’t been cleared. A blue Nova, circa 1969, sits on concrete blocks. Next to it, a man in brown coveralls has his head stuck beneath the hood of a truck.
I park near the overhead door and we exit the vehicle. Glock huddles more deeply into his uniform jacket. “I hate snow,” he mutters.
A buzzer sounds when we open the door. Behind the counter, a heavyset man with a bad case of rosacea looks up from a box of doughnuts. “Hep ya?”
“I’m looking for Scott Brower.” I show him my badge and try not to notice the goop in the corner of his mouth.
“What’d he do now?”
“I just want to talk to him. Where is he?”
“Garage out back.”
Glock and I turn simultaneously.
“If he did somethin’ I wanna know about it!” the man yells.
I close the door behind us without responding. We follow trampled snow to the rear. The steel building looks as if it survived a tornado—barely. A piece of sheet metal has torn loose and flaps noisily in the wind. I hear the drone of a power tool inside. Hoping Brower is alone, I shove open the door and step inside.
An electric heater blows hot air that stinks of motor oil and diesel fuel. Light filters down from an overhead shop light. Steel shelves line three walls. Pinned above the workbench, a 1999 calendar depicts two nude women engaging in oral sex. Every square inch of space is taken up with either tools or junk. Standing at the table saw in the center of the room, Brower muscles a blade through steel. Sparks fly and scatter.
I wait until he finishes the cut before speaking. “Scott Brower?”
He looks up. To my surprise he’s a nice-looking man. He has a baby face. Puppy-dog eyes. A child’s nose. A bow mouth that’s surprisingly feminine. He’s thirty-two years old but looks younger. His eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “Who’s askin’?”
“The cops.” I show my badge. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“Were you at the Brass Rail Saturday night?”
“So were a couple hundred other people. Last time I checked that wasn’t a crime.”
I grind my molars, but keep my voice level. “Did you talk to a woman by the name of Amanda Horner?”
“I talked to a lot of chicks. Don’t recall no Amanda.”
“Let me refresh your memory.” Never taking my eyes from his, I pull out a photo of a dead Amanda Horner lying on a gurney. “Now do you remember?”
He doesn’t flinch at the sight of the dead woman. “So that’s what this is about. The chick who got herself killed.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You think a trip to the police department would help your memory?”
His gaze darts to the door. “Hey, man—”
“I’m not a man,” I snap. “I’m a police officer, so stop being a dipshit and answer my questions.”
“Okay.” He raises his hands. “Look, I hit on her. We flirted. I swear, that’s all.”
I’m aware of Glock moving around the garage, looking in the trash barrel, opening a toolbox. I’m thankful I have him here to back me up. I don’t like Scott Brower. I don’t trust him. And I’ll bet behind that baby-face façade he’s a nasty son of a bitch.
“You got a temper, Scotty?”
His gaze goes wary. “Sometimes. If someone fucks with me.”
“Did Amanda fuck with you?”
“No.”
“Did your boss at Agri-Flo fuck with you?”
His face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You threatened to cut her throat. Ring a bell?”
“I didn’t do that, man.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
His grimace is more like a snarl. The baby face is breaking down, giving way to the real deal. He’s getting agitated. That’s exactly where I want him. “What do you want with me?” he asks.
“What time did you leave the Brass Rail Saturday night?”
“I don’t know. Midnight. Maybe one A.M.”
“Do you own a knife?”
He looks around, a fox about to be mauled by hounds. “I think so.”
“What do you mean you think so? You don’t know? You don’t remember? How can you not be sure if you own a knife?”
Glock passes close behind him. “You might try some of that gingko shit, buddy. I hear it’s good for the memory.”
Brower sneers. “Look, I just . . . ain’t seen it in a while.”
“Did you lose it? Maybe you disposed of it.”
“Look, it’s probably layin’ around my house somewhere.”
I glance Glock’s way. “Sounds like we might need a warrant.”
“I think so,” he responds.
Brower looks from me to Glock and back to me. “Why are you guys fuckin’ with me like this?”
“Because I can. Because you smell bad. Because I think you’re a lying piece of shit. All of the above.”
He stares at me, his face turning a deep shade of red. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
I glance over my shoulder at Glock. “Did you hear me say anything inappropriate?”
“Maybe he’s sensitive, Chief.”
“Fuck you,” Brower spits in Glock’s direction. “Goddamn nigger cop.”
Glock laughs outright.
My temper ignites. There’s nothing I hate more than a bigot. Even if this man is innocent of murdering Amanda Horner, he’s a rude pig. I’m going to ruin his day. His week. His entire month if I can manage. “You got any weapons on you, Scotty?”
“No.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He doesn’t obey. Instead, he takes a step back, putting space between us. I set my hand on the expandable baton at my belt. I’d like to taze him, but they weren’t part of the Painters Mill budget. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
My heart begins to race when I realize he’s not going to comply. Adrenaline burns my midsection and spreads like an arterial injection to my limbs with enough force to make me shake. I step toward him, and he bolts.
Glock and I tear out after him simultaneously, two sprinters out of their blocks and running. Brower is agile and fast. He jets through the back door, upends a shelf to block our way, and heads toward the alley.
I hurdle debris and blast through the door after him. In my peripheral vision I see Glock trip and go down. My vision tunnels on Brower. Blue coveralls. Arms pumping. Occasional look over his shoulder. The ground is slick with snow. My boots slide, but I recover quickly and keep running. I hear a shout behind me, but I’m too focused to make out the words.
To my surprise, I’m gaining on him. I visualize taking him down, kneeing him in the small of his back, sliding the cuffs onto his wrists. But I’ve been in enough foot chases to know nothing ever goes by the book.
Fifty feet in, the alley tees. Brower veers left. I crash through trash cans and gain ten feet on him. “Stop!” I shout.
He keeps running.
Four more strides and I’ll be close enough to take him down. My heart thunders. Adrenaline is a jet engine in my ears. His left foot slides, slowing him. I dive, wrap my arms around his hips, throw my shoulder into him.
An indistinguishable sound bursts from his mouth. He twists in midair. His hands slam down on my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His fingers squeeze like vise grips. “Get the fuck off me, you Amish bitch!”
We hit the ground hard and slide. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Snow sprays into my eyes, in my mouth. Blind, operating on instinct, I get my knees beneath me. Sliding the baton from its holster, I snap it out. But I’m not fast enough. The blow comes out of nowhere. His fist is like a sledgehammer making nice with the bridge of my nose. The force rattles my brain all the way to my sinuses. My head snaps back, and I lose my grip on Brower.
Air whistles as I bring the baton down on his thigh. He snarls like a beast. “Bitch cop!” He draws back to hit me again. I try to get the baton in position, brace for the blow.
Glock moves in from the side, a Mack truck mowing down a VW. I scramble back. Snow flies. A single unmanly scream rents the air. Glock muscles Brower onto his stomach with the skill of a heavyweight wrestler. Climbing on top of him, Glock grinds his knee into the other man’s back and grapples for his wrists.
“Stop resisting!” Glock shouts.
Blinking back residual tears from the blow, I grab my cuffs and scramble toward the men. I snap the cuffs onto Brower’s wrists, cranking them down tight.
I see blood on the back of his coveralls, realize belatedly it’s coming from me. I wipe my nose with my sleeve and am dismayed to find it leaking like a sieve.
“You okay, Chief?”
I look down. Blood spatters the snow. I use my sleeve again, but I’m only making a mess. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find my eyeballs.”
“I’ve got him if you want to take care of that nosebleed.”
Because my eyes are watering and I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, I trudge toward the garage. Behind me, I hear Glock order Brower to his feet.
Blood drips into my mouth, and I spit before entering the garage. Inside, I glance around for something with which to stanch the flow. Blue workshop paper towels stick out of a dispenser mounted above the workbench. I yank out a handful and pinch my nostrils together.
“Jeez, Chief, you look like you just had a close encounter with Mike Tyson.”
I look up to see T.J. standing in the doorway. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”
“Glock put out a call for assistance on the radio.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, T.J. approaches and hands it to me. “Here you go.”
“Gonna ruin it.”
“I got more. My mom buys them for me every Christmas.”
Tossing the soaked towels into a trash can, I put the handkerchief to my nose. “Thanks.”
Glock and Brower enter through the back door. An abrasion the size of a pear mars Brower’s forehead. His hair is wet with melting snow. He looks like a pit bull that just had its ass kicked by a roving band of Chihuahuas.
Glock muscles him inside. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls?”
The man with the rosacea stands at the door, craning his neck to get a better look. “Damn, that dumb sumbitch hit a cop?”
Gathering my composure, I cross to the two men and look Brower in the eye. “You want to tell us why you ran?”
“I ain’t telling you shit.”
“Either way you’re going to jail.” I look at T.J. “Pat him down and transport him, will you?”
“My pleasure.” T.J. is usually pretty laid back, but he looks pissed as he approaches Brower.
Quickly, T.J. frisks him, then checks his pockets. His hand emerges with a Baggie. “Looks like meth.” T.J. holds up the bag.
I look Brower in the eye. “If you’d just answered our questions instead of acting like an idiot, we probably never would have found this stuff.”
“I wanna call my lawyer,” he says.
“It’s going to take more than a lawyer to get you out of this one.” I look down at the handkerchief, relieved that the bleeding has stopped. I glance at Glock. “Read him his rights. Book him in. Possession. Intent to sell. Assaulting a police officer. Evading arrest. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
“Bitch,” Brower hisses.
Glock smacks the back of his head. “Shut up, loser.”
I smile. “Oh, and let him make his call.”
“Probably wants to call his mommy,” Glock mutters.
T.J. approaches me, his eyes taking in the blood on the front of my jacket. I’m not sure why, but the concern on his face embarrasses me. “I’m fine,” I snap.
“It’s just that your . . . um . . .” His face reddens.
I look down to see my shirt gaping. My bra is showing. The red, lacy job I ordered on a whim. Quickly, I rebutton my uniform shirt and zip my coat up to my chin. “Thanks.”
T.J. looks at the Baggie. “I’ll swing by the station, log this in and send it to BCI.”
“Any luck on the condoms?”
“Got a name on the guy who paid with cash.” Settling back into cop mode, he pulls a spiral notebook from his coat pocket. “Patrick Ewell. Lives out on Parkersburg Road.”
“That’s not far from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
My heart rate picks up, adrenaline of a different nature. “Get back to the station. See if he has a sheet. See if you can find a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner. See if he was at the Brass Rail Saturday night.” That’s a lot for T.J., but I have more pressing things to take care of and time is of the essence.
“You got it, Chief.” He starts toward the door.
That’s when I spot Pickles standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, taking in the scene with the blasé expression of a seasoned cop who’s seen it all. I wonder how more than half of my small department arrived on the scene so quickly.
I start toward him. He makes eye contact with me and waits. He is a short man—not much taller than five feet—with grizzled hair and a day’s growth of whis kers. His eyes are the color of a robin’s egg and bracketed with lines as deep as a man’s finger. Wearing an old-fashioned trench and pointy-toed cowboy boots, he looks like a cross between Columbo and Gus of Lonesome Dove fame.
I extend my hand and we shake. “Welcome back, Pickles.”
He sucks hard on the cigarette and flicks it onto the floor, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes. “Retirement’s for goddamn old people.”
“You up to speed on the murder?”
He nods solemnly. “Hell of a thing to happen to a young girl. Just like before. Hard to believe.”
“You do much work on the case back in the nineties?”
“Some. Seen one of the crime scenes. Gruesome shit, I’ll tell ya. I never puked so hard in my life.”
“What was the general consensus?” Pickles is smart enough to know I’m looking for information that wasn’t necessarily written in any report. Unfounded hunches or suspicions. You never know where something like that might lead.
“McCoy always thought the guy worked at the slaughte
rhouse. You know, right under our noses. Those girls were butchered like a side of beef.”
Pain creeps up my nose, but I resist the urge to touch it. “Call J.R. Purdue over at Honey Cut Meat and get a list of employees. People who work in the slaughterhouse as well as the office. I want you to sit down with Glock and cross-reference with the people who were at the Brass Rail on Saturday night.”
For the first time Pickles looks excited. Like an old dog that had been replaced by a new puppy finally getting to play with his ball again. Opening his coat, he hikes his trousers, exposing his sidearm. “I’ll get right on it.”
I touch his shoulder. “Thanks, Pickles.”
“Where you gonna be, Chief?”
“City hall. Probably getting my ass raked over the coals.”
Pickles gives me a grumpy old man frown. “Give ’em hell.”
As I head toward the Explorer, I suspect I’m going to be on the receiving end of any bureaucratic brimstone and fire.
CHAPTER 13
Ronnie Stedt woke with one thing on his mind: losing his virginity. Today was the day. After seventeen years he would finally know the secret of the universe. His girlfriend, Jess, wasn’t a virgin. She’d confessed to having done it with Mike Sassenhagen last year when she was a sophomore. She claimed they’d only done it once, but Robbie didn’t believe her. Word around Painters Mill High was that Jess and Sassenhagen had been fucking like a couple of rabbits on speed.
Ronnie didn’t care. He didn’t care that his mom didn’t like her or that his dad thought she was a loose woman. He didn’t care about Jess’s reputation. He didn’t even care that he would miss a chemistry test today. He was in love with her, and being with her was all that mattered.
Instead of catching the bus to school, Ronnie had arranged to borrow his brother’s truck so he could pick up Jess at her house. From there they would drive out to the old Huffman place on Thigpen Road. They were going to make love, then go to the mall in Millersburg to hang out and catch the matinee.
Ronnie rushed through his morning chores. Feeding the horses and cows and slopping the hogs. He showered, being generous with his father’s Polo aftershave, and put on his best shirt and jeans. He picked up Jess at eight-fifteen. She was wearing the jeans he liked. The ones that rode low on her hips. He knew if he raised her sweater the gold hoop in her belly button would wink at him.
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