“No prints,” he said when he finished the work.

“Shit.”

I handed the two pieces to Patrolman Yantsy to rush over to Stock and Barrel, the gun shop that Chester Gardner owned east of town, between Falls West and Burna.

Remy and I headed back inside the hotel room then, wanting to go through the place one more time.

We reversed roles, with me taking the bathroom and bedroom this time, and Remy the common areas. After an hour of finding nothing new, we left Alvin there, and headed out to the gun shop ourselves.

30

By the middle of the afternoon, Remy and I had taken SR-906 east and gotten off at the exit for Ferris.

In the corners of the afternoon sky, a pinkish-red color was dancing. In the distance beyond it, thunderheads were rising, the second day in a row with wind and the threat of rain but no payoff.

We parked in a gravel lot that served a plumbing supply store and housed a line of orange-and-blue trucks. Pickups mostly, F250s and Tundras with camper shells covered in vinyl wraps advertising parts from Moen or Delta. To the left of the storefront that read L&M Plumbing was a western-themed sign that read Stock and Barrel: The Finest in Weapons and Ammunition.

We crossed the lot, with dust and gravel trailing behind us. As we entered the gun store, a small bell hooked to the door dinged. Bing bong.

Inside were three waist-high glass display cases that ran the length of each of the walls. The first contained Glocks and Berettas, since Stock and Barrel was a dealer for those manufacturers. The second held ammo, shotguns, and AKs, while the third was a clearance and surplus section, with everything from knives and scopes to cleaning kits and Mace. The far back wall bore an American flag with the words “In God we trust. All others pay cash.”

I spotted Chester Gardner from the door and headed over.

Chester is a big man—white, six-four, and two hundred eighty pounds—with an unkempt brown beard and a wide chest. He wore a pea-green army jacket over a Black Flag T-shirt.

“There’s my dog,” he said, pulling me into a bear hug that I couldn’t prevent if I wanted to. We’d grown up together and had gotten into trouble since we were kids.

“Chess,” I said. “This is my partner, Remy Morgan.”

“The one with the good shot,” Chester said. “Appreciate you keeping this guy around.”

Remy nodded. She had saved my life by putting a bullet in someone’s forehead earlier this year, and I had told that story to friends a half-dozen times.

“You get my package?” I asked.

He nodded. “I keep thinking you’re gonna send me something I can keep. You know—five-finger discount from the evidence room, like on TV.”

“You think the evidence guys trust him?” Remy asked.

Chester grinned. “I like her,” he said to me. He surveyed his store, which had one customer talking to a clerk in the handgun section.