lucky. I’m pretty sure both men are in the drug business up to their hairy armpits.
The curtains at the window move as I climb the steel stairs. Standing to one side—in case whoever’s inside thinks I’m a space alien and decides to shoot me through the door—I knock on the storm door. My right hand rests on the .38 in my holster. I’m aware of Pickles behind me, his breathing slightly elevated. I can feel the adrenaline coming off both of us.
The door swings open, and I find myself looking at a chest the size of an SUV, DD cups and enough hair to make a fucking coat. I have to look up to meet his gaze.
“Derek Krause?” I recognize him, but I ask anyway.
“Who wants to know?”
His eyes are frighteningly bloodshot. His breath smells like week-old road-kill. The body odor that wafts up from beneath his armpits is strong enough to make my eyes water. “The police.” I show him my badge.
“Oh, it’s you.” He looks past me at Pickles and smirks. “What’d you do? Raid the fuckin’ old folks home?”
Pickles offers a harsh laugh. I don’t take my eyes off of Krause. “I need to ask you some questions.”
He looks down at me as if considering ramming his fist through my skull.
“Step outside,” I say.
“You got some kind of warrant?”
“We just want to ask—”
“Then I ain’t steppin’ nowhere.”
My teeth grind. Behind me, Pickles swears. I raise my hand slightly to silence him. “We just want to talk to you.”
Derek tries to close the door. I ram my boot into the space. “Get out here and talk to us, or I’m going to come back with a warrant and tear this place apart.”
“I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Nobody said you did.”
He shoves open the door. I step back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face with it. “Down there.” I point to the base of the trailer steps.
Sighing, he shoves past me. I glance at Pickles. He points covertly at his gun and raises his brows.
“What do you guys want with me?” Krause asks, shuffling down the steps.
I follow, hoping he’s not in the mood to fight because he’s huge. Two-fifty. Six-four. The last kind of guy I want to get into a scuffle with. “Where were you last night?” I begin.
“Here.”
“Can anyone collaborate that?”
“My dog.”
“Someone who can talk?” Pickles spits out his toothpick.
Derek sneers at him. “No.”
I motion toward his vehicle. “Nice truck. Yours?”
He turns his attention to me. “It gets me around.”
“Where do you work?”
“Farnhall.”
Farnhall is a manufacturing firm in Millersburg that makes oil filters. “What do you do there?”
“I work on the line.” Another sigh that reminds me of a bored teenager. “What’s this all about?”
“Do you know the Plank family?”
“Never heard of no Planks.”
“Where was your brother last night?”
“Dunno.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Derek, come on. Work with me.”
“Look, I ain’t his fuckin’ keeper, all right?”
“Was he home?”
“Yeah, he was here.”
“What time?”
He lifts a big shoulder, lets it drop. “Eight. Nine o’clock.”
“Which was it?”
“I don’t know.”
Pickles mutters a word that sounds like
Krause looks over the top of my head at Pickles and snarls. “At least I’m not half senile like you, old man.”
“That’s enough,” I snap. “Why aren’t you at work today?”
“I’m sick, man. Got a stomachache.”
“You don’t look sick.”
His massive shoulders lift, then drop. “Well, I am. Had the squirts all morning.”
I raise my hands to shut him up. “Where’s your brother now?”
Derek looks away. “Dunno.”
“He’s on probation, isn’t he?” I know he is, but I pose the question, anyway.
His gaze goes wary. “I guess.”
“Look, I can make this easy. Or we can do it hard. It’s going to be a lot better for both of you if you cooperate. Now where is he?”
“He’s at the bar, man. He’s not s’posed to be, so cut him some slack, will you?”
“If he didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t have a beef with him.”
“You cops always got a beef with us.” Shaking his head, he puts his hands on his hips. “Can I go now?”
“Don’t leave town.”
“Fuckin’ cops.” Turning away, he slogs up the steps and disappears into the trailer.
I look at Pickles. “Nice young man.”
Pickles grins. “You think he’s scary, you should see his mama.”
“Big lady, huh?”
“No, just hairier.”
There is an underground society that runs beneath the Norman Rockwell–facade of most small towns, and Painters Mill is no exception. While regular folks are working at their jobs, paying their bills and raising their families, others are selling drugs, getting high and generally leading lives of crime.
In Painters Mill, the Brass Rail Saloon is the heart of that underground, and it’s the first stop on my list after Pickles and I leave the Krause place. I’m surprised to see the parking lot half full. Then it strikes me that the Farnhall plant’s first shift lets out at four o’clock. It’s a quarter past, so the booze is just beginning to flow. Tongues will be loosened. Inhibitions will wane. Drugs will be snorted, swallowed, injected, bought and sold. We’re right on time.
I park next to a vintage VW with a bumper sticker that reads:
“So is Drew as big as his brother?” I ask Pickles as we get out of the Explorer.
“No, but he’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“Terrific.”
“Smells better, though.”
“Something to look forward to.”
Ten yards from the entrance, I feel the bass rumble of rock music vibrating beneath my feet. I push open the door and we step inside. The place is as dark and dank as an underground cave. I look up, half expecting to see bats hanging from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog. On a lighted dance floor a dozen or so bodies undulate to some chainsaw rock music I don’t recognize.
My eyes have barely adjusted when Pickles jabs a finger toward the bar. “Speak of the devil,” he says.
