Chat - Archer Mayor [15]
Goth Gurl: cause i dont want to shovel
Jiminy: well don’t
Goth Gurl: u tell my mom that
Jiminy: ok i will
Goth Gurl: u will what tell my mom
Jiminy: i will tell her that u won’t shovel
Goth Gurl: k - u like to shop
Jiminy: yeah why
Goth Gurl: that is like my favorite thing
Jiminy: ok
Goth Gurl: u like shopping for clothes
Jiminy: yes
Goth Gurl: kool - o what u doing now
Jiminy: nothing
Chapter 5
Deputy Sheriff Rob Barrows was a compact man, as if whoever created him had run out of room at the last minute and sat on him before snapping him shut for delivery. He was in no way fat but seemed, from head to foot, as bunched up as a clenched fist. This was in total contrast to his manner, which Joe found almost gentle. Joe’s wild guess was that Barrows would be a good man in a bar fight, and perhaps not just for his musculature.
They met the following morning back at E. T. Griffis’s car yard, where, as they emerged from their separate vehicles, they were greeted by the hirsute Mitch, who didn’t look as though he’d changed a molecule of his appearance since Joe first laid eyes on him.
“Back, huh?” he said as Joe came within earshot.
It was an inarguable comment, which Joe didn’t bother contending.
Barrows, however, didn’t hesitate, shaking hands, introducing himself, and even pulling a Dunkin’ Donuts bag out of his marked cruiser and offering them coffee and doughnuts all around, apologizing for not knowing their particular tastes.
It proved to be no obstacle. Mitch and Joe filled their hands and voiced their appreciation. Rob’s gesture was all the more thoughtful because of the kind of day it had become—crystal clear and bitterly cold, where even breathing in sharply hurt your nostrils.
As their host put it, leading them toward the warmth of the garage, “Colder than a well digger’s pecker.”
Given Mitch’s appearance, the garage was predictably strewn about with cast-off debris. In fact, Joe had rarely seen worse. The whole interior looked as if a metallic glacier had burst through the far wall, with the only efforts at reclamation being a narrow path and a couple of small semiclear oases directly before the two closed overhead doors. Mitch led the way into its midst with the practiced ease of an archaeologist navigating a dig he’d known for decades, which, in fact, he may have.
Barrows explained as they went, “This is one of the few secure places we have for vehicles around here. The sheriff’s got a contract with Griffis.”
Mitch reached a door on the far wall, indistinguishable from its neighbors aside from the large padlock barring its use.
“It’s all yours,” he said, stepping aside. “Let me know when you’re done.” He pointed at Joe. “And like I told him, the sooner we can get this bay back, the happier the boss’ll be.”
“I’ll let him know, Mitch,” Rob tried soothing him. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
Mitch shambled back into the garage’s gloom while Rob pulled a set of keys from his pocket and selected one for the padlock. “We have the only copy,” he said. “Maintains the chain of custody.”
Joe nodded, having figured that out for himself. In addition to the lock, someone had signed, dated, and attached crime scene tape across the doorjamb, which Rob broke through as he twisted the knob and pushed back the door.
“Like maybe I told you on the phone yesterday, we don’t usually do this—secure a car after a ten-fifty—not unless there’s been foul play.” He stepped inside and hit the lights. “And for all the crime tape and lock, this chain of custody wouldn’t hold up in court. I didn’t do this till after you called me. Before then, it was just in the yard where the wrecker dumped it. Sorry.”
Joe brushed that aside. “Doesn’t matter. You said you’d give it a closer inspection. Were you able to do that?”
He was no longer looking at Barrows, being distracted by the familiar car, bent and sagging as if exhausted, standing in what was clearly the garage’s paint room—as pristine and bare as an operating theater, and almost as well lighted by a double bank of color-balanced fluorescent tubes. Having just