Shaking my head, I tell him about my conversation with the kid. “I don’t think he did it.”

“He got an alibi?”

“I still need to verify, but I think it’ll pan out.”

“Maybe we’ll have better luck with Brower.”

Mr. Lube operates out of a ramshackle garage located in the industrial district near the railroad tracks. The parking lot is part asphalt, part gravel and covered with dirty snow, most of which hasn’t been cleared. A blue Nova, circa 1969, sits on concrete blocks. Next to it, a man in brown coveralls has his head stuck beneath the hood of a truck.

I park near the overhead door and we exit the vehicle. Glock huddles more deeply into his uniform jacket. “I hate snow,” he mutters.

A buzzer sounds when we open the door. Behind the counter, a heavyset man with a bad case of rosacea looks up from a box of doughnuts. “Hep ya?”

“I’m looking for Scott Brower.” I show him my badge and try not to notice the goop in the corner of his mouth.

“What’d he do now?”

“I just want to talk to him. Where is he?”

“Garage out back.”

Glock and I turn simultaneously.

“If he did somethin’ I wanna know about it!” the man yells.

I close the door behind us without responding. We follow trampled snow to the rear. The steel building looks as if it survived a tornado—barely. A piece of sheet metal has torn loose and flaps noisily in the wind. I hear the drone of a power tool inside. Hoping Brower is alone, I shove open the door and step inside.

An electric heater blows hot air that stinks of motor oil and diesel fuel. Light filters down from an overhead shop light. Steel shelves line three walls. Pinned above the workbench, a 1999 calendar depicts two nude women engaging in oral sex. Every square inch of space is taken up with either tools or junk. Standing at the table saw in the center of the room, Brower muscles a blade through steel. Sparks fly and scatter.

I wait until he finishes the cut before speaking. “Scott Brower?”

He looks up. To my surprise he’s a nice-looking man. He has a baby face. Puppy-dog eyes. A child’s nose. A bow mouth that’s surprisingly feminine. He’s thirty-two years old but looks younger. His eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “Who’s askin’?”

“The cops.” I show my badge. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“Were you at the Brass Rail Saturday night?”

“So were a couple hundred other people. Last time I checked that wasn’t a crime.”

I grind my molars, but keep my voice level. “Did you talk to a woman by the name of Amanda Horner?”

“I talked to a lot of chicks. Don’t recall no Amanda.”

“Let me refresh your memory.” Never taking my eyes from his, I pull out a photo of a dead Amanda Horner lying on a gurney. “Now do you remember?”