Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [96]
I closed down the office and made the trek to Bear Butte County. My damn truck was almost out of gas again. With the increased fuel prices, I’d begun to question why I lived so far away from work. As a county employee, I’d had to live in Bear Butte County. But it’d been damn near a year since I’d quit. Why was I still living there? Wasn’t like I had a great house. Or fantastic neighbors. True, my place was only twenty-five minutes out of Rapid. Tony never complained about the drive, but I wondered if that was part of the reason we’d been spending fewer nights together and he’d been afraid to bring it up.
Right. Martinez had such a difficult time speaking his mind. BD Hoffman owned a trucking business on the
outskirts of the county seat. The building was a standard metal prefab set in the middle of an immense gravel parking lot. I parked between empty livestock trailers and ventured inside.
No receptionist. I guessed ninety-nine percent of the work was handled over the phone. I loitered politely, my midwestern manners intact, at least until the point I tired of listening to plop plop as the snow melted and dripped off my boots.
Although Bear Butte County is small, I’d never met BD, as he hadn’t cooled his boot heels in the 341
sheriff ’s office during my tenure. I’d caused enough problems locally that he might recognize me, so I disguised myself with a floppy knit cap, which hid my hair, and donned smart girl glasses with clear lenses. I called out, “Hello?”
“Hang on,” boomed from the belly of the cavernous building. The guy growled like an angry grizzly. Probably looked like a lumbering bear, too. So I was surprised when a skinny runt rounded the corner.
I gave him a quick perusal. He was midforties, bowlegged, probably bald beneath his Peterbilt ball cap, short, wiry, with the typical cowboy goatee and mustache. He wore zip-up denim striped coveralls and stained suede hiking boots. His nose and mouth were swollen like he’d been punched in the face. I couldn’t be sure if this was BD; cowboys liked to fight. Someone other than my father could’ve punched the guy. He wiped his greasy hands on an even greasier rag.
“Help ya?”
“I’m looking for BD.”
“You found him.”
Whoa. This guy had seduced the church secretary?
I didn’t offer my hand. “Hi, BD. I’m working in conjunction with the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s Office regarding the Melvin Canter case. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Immediately he became suspicious. “Why din’t Deputy John ask ’em when I was there a few days ago?”
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“Because he’s busy with county business while Sheriff Richards is out of town and he outsourced the investigation.”
More squinty-eyed distrust.
Maybe I’d laid it on too thick.
“Don’t know how much I can help ya, but come on back. I jus’ made a fresh potta coffee.”
“That’d be great.” I followed him into a big open room, which was the garage/maintenance area. Concrete floors, gigantic garage doors, tires stacked in the corner, and belts hanging on the wall.
Six gleaming semitrucks with jewel-toned metallic cabs were parked in a straight line. Worth at least a million bucks each. Bright red rolling chests ringed the room, holding hundreds of thousands of dollars of ratchets, wrenches, and other tools. One truck was on a hydraulic lift. Heavy chains draped the steel rafters like industrial tinsel. The place smelled like oil and gas and for a second the distinctive scent brought me back to my childhood when my dad’d been a shortterm truck driver. My visits to his place of employment had been rare, therefore memorable.
BD ducked through a doorway. I followed and entered a room filled with computer equipment and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Built-in cabinets and shelves took up one wall. A big glass window looked out into the shop; underneath it were two padded folding chairs. The office area was spotless and no smoking signs were slapped up everywhere. 343
There went that idea.
He wiggled a Styrofoam cup from a stack