“Then it was somebody else making it look like it was us,” Sexton said. He threw his beer out of the tent and stood up. “This is bullshit! We didn’t do anything.” He marched past Wolf, through the rain to his trailer, and went inside.
Koling and McBeth sat in silence.
Wolf eyed them both, his gaze landing on Koling. “It makes sense, though, right? It had to have been you or him.”
Koling stood up, tipping his chair back again. Wolf remained still.
“It was someone else,” McBeth said in a reasonable voice. He stood up and put a hand on Koling’s chest and stood between the big man and Wolf. “Look, sheriff. I told you before. We’re not going to talk. This right here is exactly why I have a lawyer. To protect our rights against something like this. Now, if you would please leave.”
Wolf nodded, then glanced back at Sexton’s trailer. He saw fingers pull away from a crack in the blinds. “Okay, Mr. McBeth. You’re the boss.”
Chapter 24
It was 7:35 p.m. when Wolf drove down from the mine back into Dredge and parked his SUV in the parking lot of The Picker Bar and Grill. The sun was technically still up somewhere behind the mountains and clouds, but it was almost pitch dark now that the rain had socked in.
His boots crunched on wet, pebbly soil. Raindrops beaded on a herd of parked cars, reflecting the light streaming out of the windows of the establishment. Music rattled the walls, and occasional raucous laughter echoed outside.
Two men stood outside smoking cigarettes near the front entrance, eyeing Wolf as he walked up. They offered no greeting, and Wolf offered none in return.
He walked into a miasma of beer and bar food. A group of hairy, burly-looking men were playing pool while a jukebox behind them pumped out a Journey song.
All eyes went to him in his non-uniform—a buttoned-up flannel tucked into jeans, a Carhartt jacket over it, but with his badge prominently displayed on his belt next to his holster. He might as well have been wearing spurs. Everyone straightened, elbowed each other, whispered, improved their behavior by a notch or two.
He stood eyeing the bar, spotting Casey Lizotte filling a couple of beer steins behind it.
Wolf walked up and stood at an open spot along the counter, watching Lizotte work his trade. If the man had seemed out of place up at the mine last time Wolf had seen him, Lizotte was in his element here. Working like he had four arms, he slapped glasses under taps, wiping the bar top, returning to the liquid and tilting the mug just so before sliding it in front of a waiting patron and starting another order.
Lizotte nodded at Wolf between making drinks and held up a finger.
Wolf nodded back, taking in the scene while he waited. As far as hole in the wall bar and grills went, The Picker was cleaner than most. Standard décor for this half of the state hung on the walls—rusty mining tools and black and white photos of bearded men holding mining implements.
“Sheriff?”
Wolf turned around to find Lizotte leaning toward him. “I need to talk to you.”
“It’s kind of busy.”
“I can see that. It won’t take very long.”
They stared at each other for a moment, until Lizotte blinked first. “Spritz!”
A man materialized from the restaurant, looking like any other patron, until he acknowledged Lizotte.
“Sup?” Spritz put an order down on the counter, eyeing Wolf.
“Can you cover for me?”
“You’re Spritz?” Wolf asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to talk to you, too.”
Spritz looked like it was less than okay, but he nodded, his dreadlocked ponytail bobbing behind him. “Now?”
“Can you get somebody to cover for you two?” Wolf asked. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Both of us?” Lizotte looked skeptical, then relented. “Maybe…Johnny!”
One of the patrons in the lounge area set down his pool stick and came over. “What?”
“Can you cover the bar for a couple minutes?”
“It’s my night off,” Johnny said.
Lizotte rolled his eyes and gestured to Wolf. “Kind of not my choice.”
Johnny pointedly ignored Wolf. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just giving you grief. I’ll cover.” Johnny went behind the bar and started chatting up a patron.
“Okay.” Lizotte put a bleached rag on the counter and pointed toward the front door. “Out there’s probably best. Unless you want to sit at a table.”
A guitar solo was wailing out of the speakers. “Outside sounds good.”
Lizotte led them out the door and lit a cigarette.
“Can I get one of those?” Spritz asked.
Lizotte looked annoyed but handed one over. “You want one?” he asked Wolf.
“No thanks.”
They walked around the side of the building to the edge of the parking lot. Two worn out card-table chairs had been set up next to a side door. A coffee can overflowing with cigarette butts sat on the ground.
"Right here’s good,” Lizotte said.
“Thanks for taking some time away,” Wolf said, zipping his jacket high to his chin.
Lizotte and Spritz both wore short sleeves, looking oblivious to the chill drizzle and plummeting temperature as night set in.
"I'm sure you've heard about what happened to Chris Oakley up at the mine,” Wolf said, pointing his words toward Spritz.
Spritz nodded.
“And Mary Ellen Dimitri,” Wolf said.
“And Rick Hammes," Lizotte said.
“All sorts of shit going on up here," Spritz said.
“What’s your full name, Spritz?” Wolf asked.
“Jake Spizzerelli.” He spelled it for Wolf.
"We found some text messages on Chris Oakley's phone between you and him, Spritz. Were you two good friends?"
“Yeah.” Spritz put some feeling into the response.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Wolf said, watching Spritz’s reaction.
Spritz sucked his cigarette.
"Like I said we found some text messages saying that Rick Hammes and Mary Ellen Dimitri were, quote, 'hooking up behind the bar.'"
"That’s right.”
“Can you tell me about that?”
“I went out here to take out the trash.” Spritz pointed toward the dumpster. “I saw Hammes and Mary getting busy over by his truck, which was parked right there.”
"Are you sure it was Rick Hammes?” Wolf
