I follow his point and spot Drew Krause. Pickles was right; he’s not as big as his brother. Maybe six feet. One-eighty. He wears faded blue jeans and a navy T-shirt with the phrase
Leaning against the bar as if he owns the place, he watches Pickles and me approach with the amusement of a parent watching a toddler take his first steps.
“Drew Krause?” I ask.
“Chief Burkholder.” He turns his gaze to Pickles. “Officer Shumaker. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I bet.” I show him my badge.
“What’d I do now?”
“We’d like to talk to you.”
Smiling disarmingly, he taps an index finger against the T-shirt. “Can’t you guys read?”
I invade his space, letting him know we’re serious. “We can do this here or I can embarrass you in front of all your buddies by cuffing you and hauling you down to the station.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m not easily embarrassed.”
I pull the cuffs from my belt. “Neither am I.”
“Hey. Come on.” Smiling, he raises his hands. “I’m just kidding around.”
“Here’s a newsflash for you, slick,” Pickles says. “We’re not amused.”
“I’m getting that.” Sobering, he looks from me to Pickles and back to me. “What can I do for you?”
“Where were you last night?” I begin.
He assesses me, a wily teenager poking fun at his clueless, overbearing parents. The bartender moves to within earshot, picking up a glass I know is already dry, and running his dingy towel over it.
“I was here,” Drew replies.
“Can someone substantiate that?”
He looks at the bartender. “Hey, Jimmy. Where was I last night?”
The man behind the bar, rail thin and sporting a goatee that’s going gray, concentrates on his glass. “You were here, running your mouth and your tab, as usual.”
I give Jimmy a hard look, wishing I’d gotten Drew outside where we could be alone with him. Get him out of his element. Away from all his fair-weather friends. If he’s the man with the drugs, there’s no doubt his regulars would lie, cheat or steal to maintain a steady flow.
I glance at Pickles, lower my voice. “Go talk to the skinny shit behind the bar. I’ll take Mr. I-didn’t-do-it.”
Reaching over a row of shot glasses lined up on the counter, Pickles snags the barkeep’s shirt. “C’mere, slick.”
I turn my attention back to Krause. “What time were you here?”
“Till closing.”
“Were you alone?”
“Just me and about fifty of my closest friends.” He makes a sweeping motion that encompasses everyone in the bar.
“Can anyone else vouch for you?” I pull out my notebook. “I want names.”
His eyes narrow. “Usually I know why you guys are fuckin’ with me. This time, I don’t have a clue.” He grins. “Whatever you’re pissed about, I really
Grinding my teeth, I try not to think about the Plank family, their bodies slowly decomposing atop the stainless-steel gurneys at the morgue. “Names. Now.”
He rattles off six names. Some I’m familiar with. Some I’ve never heard before. I plan to contact all of them. Drew had better hope they have good memories. “What time did you arrive?”
“Six or so.”
“Did you leave at any time?”
“No, ma’am. I drank. Played some pool. Danced with a couple of chicks. That’s it. I swear.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I have a lot of girlfriends.”
“Do you know Mary Plank?”
He stares at me, realization dawning. “I know I ain’t got the greatest reputation in this town, but I ain’t no killer. I didn’t have nothing to do with those murders.”
“How do you know about the murders?”
“Everyone’s talking about it.” He grimaces, but it looks rehearsed and insincere. “Look, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I don’t even know those people. Are you guys fuckin’ desperate, or what?”
I get in his face. “That’s right. We’re desperate. We can make things desperate for you, too, since you’re on parole. So if I were you, I’d get real serious about cooperating.”
“Okay, okay.” For the first time, he appears uncertain. “Look, I got off work around four. Went home to shower and change—”
“Where’s home?”
“I live with my brother. On the farm.”
“Then what?”
“I came here. Had a few drinks. Stayed until closing.”
“Do you know any members of the Plank family?”
“I’m not trying to be a smart-ass or anything, but the Amish and I don’t run in the same circles.”
“Are any of your drug-dealing buddies whacked out enough to kill an entire family?”
He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to chop off his little toe. I know the one thing he won’t talk about are his druggie friends. Even among thieves, there is a code of honor. If that’s what you want to call it, anyway.
“Look it, I got a job now. I’m legit.”
I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows you and your brother are cooking meth at the farm.”
“That’s bullshit. A bunch of damn rumors from people who don’t like us.”
“Do yourself a favor and answer the question, Drew. Have you heard anything? Are any of your freaky friends desperate enough to do something like that?”
“I don’t have any freaky friends. I’m outta the drug business. I learned my lesson.” For the first time he looks rattled. Joe Cool losing his cool.
“You’re full of shit.” I jab my finger in his shoulder hard enough to send him back a step.
“Hey.” He knows I’m daring him to make a move, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s too smart to hit a cop.
“What about your brother?” I ask.
“He don’t run with the dealers no more, either. I swear.”
“Give me a name.” I jab his shoulder with my finger again, harder this time. Vaguely, I’m aware people are staring at us. Happy hour revelers giving us a wide berth. “Give me one name.”
“I don’t know anyone.” He takes another step back. “Not even the hardcore guys would do something like that. Seven people? And for what? Fifty bucks? No way.”
He’s right, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I have a particularly strong dislike for drug dealers. “Don’t leave town, Drew.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sooner or later, you will.” I step closer and whisper. “When you do, I’ll be waiting.”
His face darkens. A tick quivers beneath his right cheekbone. In that instant, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the I’m-just-a-farm-boy facade, and I know that if I didn’t have a badge and a gun he’d wrap his fingers around my neck and kill me with his bare hands.
I smile at him. “See you around.”
His cheek quivers; he doesn’t smile back.
As I walk away, I hear him mutter something nasty about Amish cops behind my back. Pickles starts toward him, but I snag his jacket and keep him with me. “Let it go.”
“I don’t like that son of a bitch’s mouth,” he grumbles.
“Don’t worry, Pickles. If either of the Krause boys had anything to do with this, they’ll get what’s coming to them even if I have to dish it out myself.”
