“Got it,” he said, then hesitated before asking, “You doing OK?”
She bit her lip. “Tough times,” she said. “But I’ll get through it.”
“Of course, you will,” Mac said. “But sometimes a bit of help from your friends makes it easier.”
She slid out of the booth and patted his shoulder. “Thank you. And if I need something blown up, you’ll be the first person I call,” she promised with a laugh and went to pay the bill. Her turn. Mac followed her, taking his Mountain Dew with him.
Chapter 3
Mac decided some things were done best in person and talking to gun shop owners was probably one of them. He made printouts of the photos from the morning and went to visit a gun shop where he bought some of his weapons.
Hank Owens was in his 60s, wiry, thin, energetic. He was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair that he kept trimmed close. The owner of Shoreline West Guns, north of Seattle, Hank had been a Green Beret back in the day. A lot of vets like Mac found him comfortable to deal with.
Mac showed him the photographs. Hank squinted at them and scowled. He turned to his desk and found a loupe; something Mac hadn’t used since his college photojournalism class. Hank looked at the photos again.
“Like a team photo, but with AR-15s?” Hank mused out loud. “Vets? They don’t look like vets.”
“The one I know isn’t,” Mac said. “How’s business been? The guy’s house I saw this morning probably had 100 guns stashed away in it.”
“It’s been good,” Hank agreed. “But not unusually so. And nothing that felt like a run on something or anything weird. But then really? Those pictures feel weird, and stockpilers can be very strange dudes. But they’re usually harmless. They just like guns.”
“A banker, an accountant and a desk jockey at the Port Authority,” Mac said, quoting Rodriguez.
“I am seeing more of that kind of clientele,” Hank said, still looking at the photos. “Which is good news for me; they have money.”
He took the loupe back to the photograph again. “Huh, thought I recognized him. That big dude in the back row? That’s the owner of Marysville Tactical Guns. He might know something. But that’s an even weirder place for a bunch of white desk dudes to be hanging out, I’d think.”
“Surprised they could even find it,” Mac agreed. He thanked Hank and bought some ammunition to encourage further good will. Besides, he always needed more ammo. He got out to the truck and added his purchase to the locked box under the spare tire. He was cautious about his weapons; he thought everyone should be. Having been set up by an old Marine friend who stole one of his weapons had only enhanced his paranoia. There were people out to get you; no sense making it easy for them.
He looked at his watch. Not even noon yet. Marysville was even further north of Seattle, but at this time of day it would probably only take him 30 minutes. Getting back home again was another matter. Rush hour in Seattle started at 3 p.m.
He shrugged. He wanted to know how a gun dealer in Marysville got to be in a “team photo” with a bunch of desk jockeys from Seattle. He liked that term of Rodriguez’s. Made him laugh.
The shop was closed for lunch when he got there. He frowned and walked the neighborhood. It was just what he’d expected. Run-down, a couple of car repair shops. A carwash. Two pawn shops that also sold guns. Marysville wasn’t quite as dangerous as it used to be, Mac had heard, but it was still poor. And he knew first hand that poor and crime went hand-in-hand. At least the kind of crime that made it into the police blotter.
Twenty minutes later the “big dude in the back row” came back to his shop and opened it up. Mac pushed up his sleeves so his Marine tats were visible on his forearms. He usually preferred to keep them covered. But here? He shrugged.
He went inside. The shop was better kept than the outside might have suggested. Mac looked around with interest. He wasn’t in the market for a new weapon right now, but you never knew.
“Help you?” the man asked.
“Mac Davis. I’m a reporter for the Seattle Examiner. Hope you might help me out.”
“Oh Lord, another liberal journalist who doesn’t know an AK-47 from an AR-15 and wants to know why I’m against gun registration,” he said.
Mac laughed. “Do I look like some bleeding-heart liberal?” he asked, genuinely amused. “I spent four years as a Marine in Afghanistan. And those were the years I carried legally.”
“Sorry,” the man said. “Craig Anderson, Army, Desert Storm. I don’t have much patience for the clueless ones.”
“I hear you,” Mac agreed. “And I have to put up with a lot more of them for longer periods of time than you do.” And that was no lie, he thought.
“OK, so how can I help you?” Anderson said. “You buying? Or what?”
This could get expensive if he bought ammo at every stop. “Looking for some information,” he said. “But I might stock up a bit on some ammo for a 9mm.”
“I can help you with the second, but information?” He shrugged. “Ask.”
Mac brought out the photograph and pointed at him in it. “So, got a strange call out this morning,” he began and told him about the murder. Craig Anderson winced at the death of the children.
“Not the gun’s fault,” he said.
“No,” Mac agreed. “He’d have grabbed the butcher knife if a gun wasn’t there. But what was weird is he must have had 100 weapons. In his garage, in his house. And he’s like some desk jockey downtown. Strange. And on his wall were several of these pictures. Like they’re some sports league team photos. A friend recognized you. So, I thought I’d come out and ask if this was some new craze among the middle-class,
