The owner said quickly, “We have rules. You can see them there.”

A sign on the wall nearby reminded, with the inexplicable capitalization of corporate culture:

Remember your Passports for International trips!

The sign he was referring to was beneath it:

Set your Brake and leave your Rig in gear!

Interrogators are always alert to subjects answering questions they haven’t been asked. Nothing illustrates what’s been going on in their minds better than that.

She’d get to the matter of brakes and gears in a moment. “Yessir but about the hours?”

“We close at five. We’re open seven to five.”

“But trucks arrive later, right? Sometimes?”

“That rig came in at seven.” He looked at a sheet of paper—which of course he’d found and memorized the minute he’d heard about the tragedy. “Seven ten. Empty from Fresno.”

“And the driver parked in a usual space?”

“Any space that’s free,” the worker piped up. “The top of the hill.” He bore a resemblance to Henderson. Nephew, son, Dance guessed. Noting he’d mentioned the incline. They’d already discussed scapegoating the driver and had planned out his public crucifixion.

“Would the driver have parked the truck there intentionally, beside the club?” Dance asked.

This caught them off guard. “Well, no. That wouldn’t make sense.” The hesitation told her that they wished they’d thought about this scenario themselves. But they’d already decided to sell the driver out for not setting the brake.

The top of the hill…

The third man, brawny, soiled hands, realized his cue. “These rigs’re heavy. But they’ll roll.”

Dance asked, “Where was it parked before it ended up beside the club?”

“One of the spots,” Henderson Lite offered.

“Gathered that. Which one?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” the owner asked.

“I’m just trying to find out what happened. This isn’t a criminal investigation.” And she added, as she knew she should: “At this point.”

“Do I have to talk to you?” Henderson asked the tax- and insurance-certification lady.

She said evenly, as if concerned for him, “It will be a lot better for you if you cooperate.”

Henderson gave a calculated shrug and directed her outside, then pointed to the spot that was, not surprisingly, directly uphill from the club. The truck seemed to have rolled in almost a straight line to where it now rested. A slight bevel of the asphalt would have accounted for the vehicle’s angle with respect to the building; it had veered slightly to the left.

Henderson: “So we don’t know what happened.”

Meaning: Take the driver. Fuck him. It’s his fault, not ours. We posted the rules.

Dance looked around. “How does it work? A driver comes in after hours, he leaves the key somewhere here or he keeps it?”

“Leaves it.” Henderson pointed. A drop-box.

A white pickup pulled into the lot and approached them. From the truck stepped a gaunt man of about thirty-five, jeans and a black, dusty AC/DC T-shirt. He must’ve weighed no more than 130 pounds. His cheekbones, darkened with stubble, were sharp as a ship’s prow. He pulled on a leather jacket, straightened his slicked-back blond hair, fringy in the back. His face was etched with parentheses around his mouth, his brow permanently furrowed. He was white but his skin was leather-tanned.