“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.
“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”
“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.
“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”
“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.
Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”
Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl,” Goddard tells us. “He’s got a hot head and a big mouth.”
“Bad combination,” I say.
“They armed?” Tomasetti asks.
“We searched the place once a few months back and didn’t find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch.” Goddard divides his attention between the two of us. “So are you guys packing, or what?”
“Never leave home without it,” Tomasetti replies.
I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini-Magnum.
“Well, lock and load, people.” He motions toward the house. “Let’s go see what Romeo has to say.”
We take a sidewalk that’s buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that’s littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.
“Light on in the garage,” I say.
“Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-shit music loud enough to bust your fuckin’ eardrums.”
“Do the parents work?” Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.
Goddard nods. “Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He’s good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights.”
“What about Justin?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He’s got a rep. Most people steer clear.”
We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete. Goddard knocks and then steps aside, as if expecting someone to shoot through the door.
The door creaks open. I find myself looking at a huge round woman with brown eyes and a tangle of black hair that reaches midway down her back. She’s got the kind of face that makes it difficult to guess her age, but I’d put her around forty. It’s obvious we wakened her, but she must have been sleeping on the sofa, because it didn’t take long for her to answer the door, and she doesn’t look like the type to move with any kind of speed.
She’s wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn’t cover as much of her as I’d like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.
She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amusement. “Sheriff.” Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. “I heard you died.”
“Well, no one’s told me about it yet.” Goddard shows her his identification. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”
“Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops fuckin’ with us all the damn time.”
“Is Justin here?”
Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She’s got cold, empty eyes and an “I don’t give a shit” air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone—including herself—and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.
“Who wants to know?” she asks.
“Me and these state agents.”
“State agents, huh?” She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. “What’d he do now?”
“We just want to ask him some questions.”
“This about that girl gone missing?”
The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. “Trina, we just want to talk to Justin,” Goddard tells her.