The clerk’s directions led me to a mirrored door in the center of the mirrored rear wall, which was nearly invisible. It was locked. I rapped, and held up my badge. Someone buzzed me through.
Beyond it, a corridor ran through to the rear of the building with offices on either side, all of them mirrored, completely opaque.
A pudgy type, thirtyish, in shirtsleeves and a black sweater vest and khakis met me in the corridor beyond the door. Olive complexion, thick dark hair worn shaggy, and an expression of petty annoyance that you usually see on frat boys.
“Mr. Auerbach?”
“That’s me, sport, but if you’re selling something—?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Dylan LaCrosse, Valhalla P.D. I understand you bought a Predator drone six weeks ago at a federal auction?”
“I... did, yeah. And I filled out all the proper forms and then some, sport. So what about it?”
“We’ve had nuisance complaints, about a drone being flown in the hills, spooking the locals. Would that be yours?”
“Or someone else’s,” he snorted, shaking his head. “The locals are a pack of inbred rednecks. What do you call them? Wood-smoke folks? God, I hate this place.”
“This place?” I said, glancing around. “What’s to hate? Your carpet cost more than my Jeep.”
“My family has three other stores, downstate. I wanted the Detroit location, or Royal Oak. Instead the old man dumps me up here in the boon-docks, says sink or swim. I don’t plan to sink. As for the drone, I’m totally within my rights. We fly well below the FAA’s ceiling—”
“We?”
“I have an — assistant.”
“Arlon Hatfield.”
He hesitated. I had his attention now.
“Why would that be police business?”
“Arlon’s an ex-con with a record for violence. Did you know?”
“No, and I don’t care. I believe in second chances, you know? He works the back country for me, buys folk art from local rubes who have no idea what it’s worth. They sell for cheap.”
“I’ll bet. Ever do business with Arlon’s daughter, Selena?”
“Who?”
“I’ll take that as a no? Why are you flying the drone over state land?”
“Where should I fly? Over the town?”
“Why not over the lake? Forty thousand square miles of open water, five thousand shipwrecks out there. With all that gear, maybe you’ll find a few.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid a layman—”
“Actually, I’m not a layman. I served three tours in the ’Stan, before I signed on here. Sport. Kabul, Helmand, Kandahar. We worked with drone pilots every day. They used heat sensors to spot snipers and ambushes, ground-penetrating radar to spot mines and IEDs—”
“IE—?”
“Improvised explosive devices. The radar doesn’t show the actual weapons, only anomalies, straight lines in amorphous soil. Symmetrical shapes where there shouldn’t be any. I’m very familiar with the tech, Mr. Auerbach. I’m just wondering what you’re doing with it.”
“The drone’s only a toy, Detective,” Auerbach said, trying to stare me down. “I can afford it.”
He was a better liar than most. Probably got lots of practice, peddling reproductions as originals.
He was staring at me.
“LaCrosse,” he said, nodding slowly, “I knew I recognized that name. Your mother owns that crappy little shop in Olde Town, doesn’t she? I heard her son was a cop. Is that what this is? Your wood-smoke mama send you to give me a hard time?”
“I’m here because of the drone complaints. And since I am—” I took the memento photocopies from my shirt pocket. “Do you recognize these?”
“No.” He barely glanced at them. “Why would I?”
“They’re antiques, Mr. Auerbach. You own an antique store.”
“We only stock high-end pieces here. Go peddle your pictures to your mother, sport, this shop is private property. So unless you have a warrant—?”
“No, no warrant.”
“Then we’re done. Get out.”
“No problem,” I said, turning to go.
“You probably felt right at home over there, didn’t you?” he called after me.
“What does that mean?”
“Raghead tribesmen in Afghanistan probably aren’t much different than the hicks in this backwater.”
“If you mean some families have their roots sunk deep in the north shore, you’re right. But for the record? I grew up in the back country, wood-smoke to the bone, which makes me one of the inbred rednecks you mentioned.”
He swallowed, but didn’t back off an inch.
“I’ll give you a pass on that, pal, write it off to ignorance. But if you ever mention my mother’s name in that tone again, I will drag your porky ass out to the alley, tear your arm off, and beat you to death with it. Are we clear?”
He started to crack wise, but read my eyes and thought better of it. Which was probably best, for both of us.
Halfway to the door, I turned back for a parting shot, but didn’t take it. Auerbach had his back to me, talking heatedly on the phone. I didn’t bother to eavesdrop. I had a fair idea who he was calling.
In the parking lot, I scrambled into my Jeep, matted the gas, and burned rubber out to the highway, headed into the Black River hills.
If I’d guessed right about what Auerbach was doing with his drone, they’d try to destroy the evidence now, as quickly as they could. With no hard proof, my only shot was to catch them at it.
I fairly flew off the main drag and the pavement ended soon after. Then I was on dirt roads that snaked through the hills like a rattler with a broken back.
I’d been to the Hatfield place a dozen times, busting Arlon or his brothers, so I knew better than to roll up on him. A half-mile from the final turn, I veered off the trail, plowing into a copse of cedars that folded over my Jeep like a camouflage net, concealing it from the road, and the sky.
Scrambling out of the Jeep, I checked my weapon to be sure I had a live round in the chamber, then I was off, sprinting cross-country through the brush, juking around the trees like a halfback, trying to make time without braining myself.
Ten minutes into my run, the aspens and birches started thinning out and I slowed my pace, not wanting to break into the open.
Suddenly, just ahead of me, I heard an engine roar to life. I dove for cover, rolling up behind a tangle of autumn olive bushes. Parting the branches, I wiped the sweat from my eyes and peered down a long slope to the Hatfields’ double-wide trailer, a rust-streaked, tumble-down junker held together by prayer and duct tape. Two battered pickup trucks were parked in the yard, one up on blocks, the other a daily driver. But Arlon wasn’t using either one.
He was busy strapping a shovel and a hoe onto the back of a four-wheeler, a John Deere Gator. And as soon as I saw the tools, I knew.
Gotcha.
Arlon disappeared into his rickety toolshed after more gear. I rose, and strolled down the slope toward the Gator, in no hurry now. I had him cold. Arlon was a hardcase who hated cops, but he was an ex-con country boy who hated cages even worse. Push came to shove, he’d trade in Auerbach for the chance to get clear of this.
Or so I thought.
Until he came out of that shed holding a rifle. An old Marlin ’95, aimed straight at my face. The gun was older than dirt, but it packed 45–70 government loads that would drop a buffalo. Or take my head off at the shoulders.
I stopped dead in my tracks, holding my hands out, away from my weapon.