“I read about them bones found out to that old barn,” he says slowly. “They belong to Leroy?”
The question shouldn’t surprise me; news travels fast in a small town, especially if there’s a dead body involved. But it’s been my experience that when people have something to hide, the last thing they do is raise the subject I’m about to question them about. But then Underwood is smart enough to know how to play the game.
“We’re not sure yet,” I tell him.
“I reckon you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it was him.” He shakes his head. “I’d always hoped he’d made it out of this shithole. Come back richer than God, and maybe share a little with his old buddy.” He wobbles a little as he moves from the doorway, sets his hand against the siding to steady himself. “What do you want with me?”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“Damn. Long time ago.” He scratches his head, loosening a shower of dandruff onto the shoulders of his T-shirt. “A couple of days before he disappeared. I was working at Quality Implement at the time. We used to hang out on the weekends. Cruise around in his souped-up Camaro and drink Little Kings.” His chuckle ends in a phlegmy cough. “He could put it away, that’s for sure.”
“Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask. “Have any disagreements about anything.”
“Nope and nope. Leroy was easygoing. He was fun to hang out with, and we got on just fine.”
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
Underwood shakes his head. “No way. Leroy was as laid back as they come. Funny as hell, too. Everyone liked him.”
“Was he ever in to drugs? Any illegal activity?”
“That was me.” His laugh is dark and unhappy. “We did our share of drinking, but Leroy never got into anything else. Didn’t even smoke weed.”
“Was he seeing anyone? A woman?”
His brows knit. “We’d pick up chicks occasionally. Take them out to that old covered bridge and … you know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Damn, it’s hard to remember. We was so young.”
“You want to keep your hands where we can see them?” Glock says from behind me.
Underwood scowls at him but pulls out his hands, flashes his palms at us. “For fuck sake,” he mutters.
“Clarence, relax,” I say, putting a warning in my voice. “Just a few more questions, okay?”
“Whatever.” He leans against the house, crossing his arms in front of him.
“So, was Leroy seeing a girl?” I ask again.
“I can’t say for sure. He might’ve mentioned having a date once or twice. One thing I do remember is the last couple of months before he disappeared, he stopped going out to the bridge with me. He cut back on his drinking. It was like he found religion or something.”
“Do you think he was seeing a girl?”
“Maybe. And not the kind of girls we took to the bridge, if you know what I mean. Someone he respected.”
“Did he ever talk about her? Mention her by name?”
“Nope.”
I nod. “All right.” I offer a handshake. “Thank you.”
He looks down at my hand as if I’ve just passed him a hundred-dollar bill and his hand isn’t quite clean enough to snatch it up. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Do me a favor, Clarence, and behave yourself, will you?” I ask.
His grin reveals a missing eyetooth and a lower one that’s been capped in gold. “I’ll do my best, but I ain’t making any promises.”
Back on the street, Glock and I are standing between our vehicles, watching the group of boys play Horse. “You think Underwood was involved in Nolt’s disappearance?” he asks.
“I think he was up to no good for a lot of years,” I reply. “But I don’t think he knows what happened to Nolt.”
“Do you have any idea who Nolt was seeing?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’m starting to get curious. Nolt’s parents mentioned some mystery woman, too, but no one seems to know who she is.”
“Married?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I sure would like to find her, though. I bet she could fill in some of the blanks.” I pause. “Thanks for backing me up. You heading to lunch?”
He gives the group of boys a contemplative look. “I think I might shoot some baskets for lunch.”
I want to hug him, but since anything so personal would be the epitome of unprofessional for a chief, I grin. “Have fun,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.
*
After leaving Glock, I drive to the Roselawn Cemetery for the funeral of sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger, the Painters Mill resident who was fatally injured when his car was flipped over by the tornado. He was a retired dentist and had lived his entire life in Painters Mill, leaving behind his wife of thirty-six years and four sons, all of whom still live in the area.