“That’s not why I’m here,” Will replied.
Tarlton waited, but he rolled his wrist over and glanced at his watch.
“We ran the pistol that Bobby Lee Gant used on those people last night,” Will said. “We didn’t pull any federal hits. No wants, no warrants.”
“You get a clean gun every now and again,” Tarlton said.
“I know. But generally only weapons that have been used in the commission of a murder or a drug deal get logged through channels.”
“Not every weapon hits the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives’ regional crime gun center,” Tarlton agreed.
“But,” Will said, “one of the things I’ve learned while working at the NCIS is that local PDs often have records of their own.”
Tarlton maintained a level gaze. “Some do.”
“I know you by reputation,” Will said. “You do an honest job here.”
“Flattery?” Tarlton smiled a little then.
“I didn’t figure you were susceptible to something like that.”
“I’m not.”
“I’d like to know if the serial number of the pistol Bobby Lee Gant used last night is in your database.”
For a short time, Tarlton just stared at Will. The hesitation, Will knew, wasn’t anything meant personally. But the chief had some departmental pride to salvage.
“You and the FBI,” Tarlton said, “came into my city without so much as a by-your-leave-”
“That’s incorrect, sir,” Remy interrupted. “Shel and I checked in the minute we were inside city limits. The commander insists on that. We let your office know about the pick-up order we had on Bobby Lee Gant. We played by the rules and kept the house respect.”
“The FBI then,” Tarlton said.
“Yes,” Will agreed.
“And between the two of you, one of my citizens was killed.”
“We didn’t have control of that situation,” Will said.
“I’m fully aware of that.”
Will felt a little exasperated. He knew Tarlton was distancing himself from the situation on purpose. Straining relationships with the FBI wasn’t a good thing to do. Maybe Tarlton didn’t depend on them, but they obviously helped him out every now and again.
“You were a Marine,” Remy said, nodding to the picture of Tarlton on the wall behind him.
“Yes, I was. I made my way up to captain; then I pulled the pin and took the position here. I grew up here. It was a good fit, and it came at a good time.”
“Shel,” Remy said, “my friend Shel, is a Marine too.”
Tarlton sat silent.
“Most of the NCIS agents you hear about,” Remy said, “are drafted out of civilian law enforcement agencies. Commander Coburn’s team isn’t. All of us are Navy except Shel. And we take a lot of pride in our Marine.”
Tarlton looked at Remy and grinned. “Leave it to a sailor to lay it on so thick.”
Remy smiled back. “I’m not a sailor. I’m a Navy SEAL.”
“Oh, a poor man’s Marine.”
“But trained to take over when a Marine fails out.”
Both of them laughed at that. Will was still trying to sort out all the posturing that had just gone on.
Tarlton turned to Will. “You said you had a serial number on that weapon. Let’s have a look at it.”
20
›› Otis’s Salvage Yard
›› 5000 Wilkinson Boulevard
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 1507 Hours
“You’ve got to watch yourself while you’re dealing with Gerald,” Tarlton said as he put the police car’s transmission in park. “He’s what you might call a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” Will said.
“That’ll probably make us all a lot happier.” Tarlton got out, then reached back in for his baseball cap and pulled it on.
Will and Remy got out on the passenger side.
The salvage yard was large and gave the sense of a long history. A ten-foot-tall white fence with peeling paint and graffiti lined the yard. A hand-lettered sign made from a four-by-eight-foot slab of plywood hung on the fence and advertised “Otis’s Salvege Yard.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told him he misspelled salvage?” Remy asked.
“Sure.” Tarlton stepped around to the rear of the police car and took out a pump shotgun. “I’ve told him myself. He says he misspelled it on purpose because people remember something that’s wrong a lot longer than they remember something that’s right.” He closed the trunk. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s right. But I don’t think that’s why the sign’s misspelled. Gerald’s just not that bright.”
Will nodded at the shotgun. “Is there anything we should know?”
“Don’t stand in front of me when this thing goes off.” Tarlton grinned. “This is probably a little overkill, but Gerald’s got a couple uncles who ran their wife through a wood chipper almost forty years ago. They got out of prison year before last.”
“‘Their’ wife?” Remy echoed.
“Yep. She married one of them. Then divorced him and married the other. She cheated on both of them. So one night they got drunk and decided they’d had enough. None of the Otises have got enough brightness between them to power a lightbulb, but they know how to scrap cars just fine.”
Will reached under his jacket and released the safety catch on his shoulder holster.
“The shotgun’s not really for Otis or his uncles,” Tarlton said. “It’s for the guard pigs.”
“He has guard pigs?” Remy asked.
“Yeah. Arkansas razorbacks. When the uncles ran the salvage yard, they went hunting in Arkansas and brought back a half-dozen young pigs. Started raising them up to be guard pigs.”
“Meaner than a junkyard pig?” Remy asked.
Tarlton smiled. “Sounds catchy, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds insane is what it sounds. But I knew a guy down in New Orleans who kept a guard alligator in his gris-gris shop. It actually caught a burglar one night.”
“Interesting. But if the Otis junkyard pigs ever caught anybody, there wouldn’t be anything left of him come morning.”
›› 1511 Hours
Sobered by Tarlton’s nonchalant explanation of one of the strangest things he’d ever heard of, Will trailed the police chief to the salvage yard’s main building.
The building had evidently started life as a small home, probably a two- or three-bedroom. Then a few extra rooms had been added on. Somewhere in there, the salvage yard had been tacked onto it, and the fence ran in two directions. The house was covered with the same peeling white paint and graffiti as the fence.
Tall oak trees butted up against the house and the junkyard wall. Although houses were on either side of the salvage yard and a large street ran in front of it, the business looked like it should be located out in the middle of a rural wasteland.
Tarlton had gotten a hit on the gun’s serial number almost immediately. He’d turned to his computer and worked from a short list of known gun dealers in the area. Keeping track of weapons was a problem in smaller towns, he’d pointed out, because people had a tendency to swap them out, sell them, and borrow them for years.
