“Holy cow, that’s her right there!” He pointed at the hellcat in the cell. “That’s the gal what was talking to Luke right before he got himself shot.”
“Wayne, I need you to keep a lid on this.”
His face wrinkled up all bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we don’t need any vigilante stuff.”
“Oh, I get you. Sure, mum’s the word.” He thought about it a moment. “Say, listen, I hope I didn’t cause any trouble talking to the Jordans.”
“It’s okay. Wayne, you seen Chief Krueger?”
“Not since we were all together at closing time. Why?”
“No reason. Just need to check with him on something.”
“Well, I best get over to the restaurant,” Wayne said. “I got the early shift of truckers and dirt farmers going to want the usual, and if any more of my help craps out on me I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”
“Okay, then. I’ll let the chief know about the vagrants.”
He flipped me a two-finger salute and was gone.
Maybe when they fired me from being a deputy, I could work for Wayne. He seemed to have trouble keeping help. I guessed the pay probably wasn’t so good, but how hard could it be scrambling eggs and flipping pancakes? Or maybe I could work nights and pour beers and such.
Breakfast. The idea of scrambled eggs and a fat slab of ham and a hot cup of coffee made me want to weep. Hash-browns.
I forgot about breakfast and thought about Luke. The idea that notorious jerkweed and lowlife Luke Jordan just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time was just too far out to believe. He was tangled up in this illegal alien smuggling or I was a monkey’s uncle.
“Hellcat. Hey, hellcat. You awake?”
“Why do you call me that?” asked the Mexican woman.
“You won’t tell me your name.”
“No.”
“Okay, then. What was Luke Jordan to you?”
“Nothing.”
“How was he involved? He had the keys to that truck.”
“Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m tired.”
“Fuck tired. Was he your partner? The Jordans are in on it, ain’t they?”
“Go tug on yourself, cowboy.”
Shit.
I sighed, stood up and pushed away from the desk. I stuck Karl’s Glock in my waistband at the small of my back, shoved the little automatic in the front pocket of my jeans. I walked toward the front door.
“Where do you go?” asked the hellcat. “Out.”
I locked the door behind me and scanned Main Street. Quiet as a grave.
I climbed into Roy’s big-rig, tried to crank it up, but it wouldn’t start. I guess you could only pound these things so much before they gave out. I popped open the last energy drink and gulped it warm. It almost came right back up. It was just that bad.
The big-rig was shot, and the Nova was belly up. But I still had one set of keys in my pocket, and I couldn’t see how it would matter now if I borrowed one more vehicle. I walked down to Luke Jordan’s pickup truck. It was still parked where his body should have been.
The inside of Luke’s truck smelled like stale beer and armpit. I started it up, and the V-8 rumbled under the hood. The radio wheezed some old country song at me. I let it play. The music seemed to go with the truck.
I’d thought my part of this was all done. I’d been more than satisfied to hold down the fort at the stationhouse and let Amanda run for the cavalry. But I didn’t like the idea of the remaining Jordan brothers cruising the streets looking for somebody to fill full of lead, and I had the idea they might stop by the stationhouse sooner or later. Even more than my concern about the Jordan brothers was one last question that kept nagging at me.
I put the truck into gear and headed for Chief Krueger’s house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Luke Jordan’s Chevy pickup rattled north up the six, past residential streets, the space between houses getting farther and farther apart until I was back into the black of the Okie night.
North of town was not as deserted as the Six south to the Texaco station and the Interstate. Pinpoints of light glittered from ranches and farmhouses here and there. Double-wides on fifty-acre spreads. The soil was better in this direction, some scattered crops, good grass for cattle. My folks’ place was about ten miles north of town. Sometimes when I drove by, a pang of loss hit me in the chest, but I didn’t drive by that often.
Krueger’s place was a few miles out. A nice two-story stone house, garage, empty barn. He didn’t want animals. The chief was a solitary man, never married, no kids. I’d been to his house exactly one time, when he had the department and families out for a Fourth of July barbecue. Ribs and potato salad and Coors Light. Chief Krueger was friendly and welcoming off duty. On duty he was all business and hard as a railroad spike.
My first week on duty, the chief took me around on night patrol, showed me the ropes. We passed a couple of rowdies spilling out of Skeeter’s near closing time, some college guys on a road tip, Arkansas caps and sweatshirts. Maybe they thought it would be a cool experience for their blog to tie one on in some Podunk whistle-stop. Anyway, the chief give them a warning, friendly but stern, like maybe they should have a few cups of coffee before they got behind the wheel.
The drunkest one got lippy, said he didn’t need no fat Okie flatfoot telling him when he’d had enough and started making fat lawman jokes like the chief had come out of
Imagine a volcano about to erupt, the ground vibrating under your feet right before the big explosion.
You wouldn’t think a man that big could move so fast. The chief had his nightstick out and slapped across the one punk’s knee in one smooth motion. His friend’s mouth fell open, not believing, and Krueger poked him a hard one in the gut. The guy bent over, sucking for air. We piled them in back of the squad car, and they spent the night in jail. The next morning, the chief escorted them to the edge of town, and he told them not to come back.
Chief Krueger solved a lot of problems without troubling a judge or the court system. It worked. Coyote Crossing was a peaceful town.
Tonight things had gone wrong.
And if the chief wasn’t around to be on top of it, then something bad must have happened. I aimed to find out what I could. I owed him that much.
I turned down the dirt drive, passed the chief’s mailbox. About two hundred yards to the house. It was dark, no cars in front, but maybe in the garage. The porch light was dark. I climbed out of Luke’s pickup, approached the house slowly. After the night I’d had, it was all too easy to imagine dark figures lurking in the shadows. I didn’t want any surprises, squinted all around before climbing the porch steps and knocking on the front door. When nobody answered, I knocked slightly louder. I thought about taking off, but I hadn’t come all this way just to knock on the front door.
I tried the knob, but it was locked. I cupped my hands against a front window and looked inside. Not a single light on in the house. I walked around the other side, past a screened side porch to the back. There was a wide patio, table and chairs with a sun umbrella, expensive propane grill set up. This is where we’d had the barbecue. The memory of the ribs made my stomach growl. Potato salad.
The back door was locked too.
I stood there thirty seconds wondering if I was doing the right thing then put my elbow through a pane of glass in the back door, the crash tinkle of shards was way too loud. I reached inside, careful not to cut myself, unlocked the door and let myself into the kitchen. I flipped on the light.
