Page 17 of An Evil Heart
“The only thing he hunts is pussy,” one of the men mumbles.
More laughter, but I ignore it. “Is your hunting license valid?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you own a crossbow or combination bow?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Burkholder, what does that have to do with the truck?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer the question.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man standing next to the rollaway pick up the bottle of tequila and take a long swig. Making a face, he passes it to one of the men standing beneath the car, who does the same. They’re a tight-knit group. Like-minded. Troublemakers. Agitators looking for fun and games.
“I don’t use a crossbow or combo,” Fisher tells me. “Never have. I prefer a rifle. Like the feel of it. The accuracy.”
The crunch of tires on gravel alerts me to the arrival of someone else. I glance over my shoulder to see Pickles park his cruiser next to my Explorer and get out. A couple of the other men notice, too, and exchange looks, wondering why a second officer has arrived.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Fisher asks. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Sounds like she’s trying to pin something on you.” The man next to the rollaway stares at me; his expression has gone cold and deadpan.
I maintain my focus on Fisher. “Have you ever borrowed a crossbow?”
“No, ma’am.”
Eyeing me with unconcealed disdain, the man beneath the car takes another swig of tequila. He offers it to me, but I ignore him. Smiling, he passes it to the man next to him.
“Fuckin’ cops,” one of the men hisses beneath his breath.
Pickles comes up beside me. He’s in full uniform, his trousers creased, uniform shirt stiff with starch. He’s wearing his trademark Lucchese boots, which are buffed to a high sheen, and he smells of Old Spice aftershave and the cigarette he sneaked on the drive over. I can tell by his expression that he knows exactly what’s going on here—and that he’s not the least bit fazed.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.” He looks around, taking in his surroundings, sizing up the men. “Nice Mustang. Sixty-six?”
“Sixty-eight,” Fisher replies.
“Good year.” Pickles spots the calendar. “Three-oh-two engine?”
“Three-ninety,” Fisher says. “Four-barrel.”
“Damn.” Whistling appreciatively, Pickles strides past the men, so close to Fisher he has to step back. Pickles goes to the workbench, plucks the calendar off the wall, and rips it in half.
“Hey, old man, that ain’t yours to fuck with,” says the man next to the rollaway.
Taking his time, Pickles tosses it into the trash bin, then turns to face the man next to the rollaway. “Just saving you some trouble.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Some ten-year-old kid walks in here to air up his bike tire and sees your classy calendar, and you geniuses are going to find yourselves in hot water.”
“I call bullshit,” one of the men says.
“You can call all the bullshit you want, Einstein,” Pickles drawls. “In the state of Ohio, if you expose a minor child to pornography, even if it’s inadvertent, you’d better have a damn good lawyer.” He smiles, his eyes cutting like ice. “You can thank me later.”
A round of laughter, subdued this time, and then Fisher asks me, “So what’s going on with Karn? Why all the questions?”
“Karn was killed this morning on his way to work,” I tell him.
Fisher blinks, starts to laugh, but thinks better of it. “Holy shit. Seriously?” He gives his head a little shake. “You think I had something to do with it?”
