Free Cold Quarry by Andy Straka Page B

exactly, Bo.” Toronto pointed at me as I closed the door of the truck behind me. “This here is Frank Pavlicek. He used to be my partner when I was a detective back in New York.”
    “Oh. Sure.” Bo Higgins stepped forward, extending his hand. We shook. His grip was firm but not too overbearing—more like a politician’s than a soldier’s.
    “Frank works now as a private investigator.”
    “I guess you aren’t after a truck then.”
    “Nope.”
    “Private investigator.” Higgins nodded, Toronto’s words taking a moment to sink in. The car dealer’s grin went dead. “Works for whom?”
    Hardly the backwoods grammar I’d have expected from a crazed militia leader, but I’d read a couple of articles about these people and knew not to necessarily expect a maniacally raving Hitler type. The question was directed at me.
    “That all depends.” I smiled.
    Higgins said nothing.
    “Chester Carew’s wife hired Frank to check into the shooting. You know, see if he might be able to give the police a hand and all. Thought we might ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Toronto said. He was all charm for the moment, I noted, not usually one of my buddy’s strong points.
    “Chester’s shooting?”
    “You heard about what happened to him, didn’t you?”
    The militiaman rubbed at a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “Yeah. Read about it in the paper. That was really a terrible thing, wasn’t it?”
    “Didn’t see you or any of your fellow brigade members at the funeral.”
    “Oh, well, you know about that, Jake. We mourn along with everybody else, but none of us really knew old Chester all that well.”
    Toronto nodded.
    “By the way, you have any ID on you, Mr. Pavlicek? Maybe a PI license?”
    I took out my wallet, pulled out the cards, and handed him both. He looked them over thoroughly, front and back, then handed them back to me.
    “Can’t be too careful these days, you know,” he said. “Cops and federal agents running around checking on everyone like storm troopers. Just because a man may have strong opinions about his country and his liberty don’t make him no terrorist.”
    “You want to talk inside?” Toronto asked.
    “Unless you’re planning to purchase one of my fine vehicles, I don’t see much good in standing around out here.”
    We followed him in through the showroom floor where a green-and-white 1958 Bel Air in apparent mint condition stood parked next to a late-model Chrysler minivan. We didn’t hit warmer air until we’d reached the back of the room, where a wood-and-glass door led to a small suite of offices.
    “It doesn’t pay to heat the showroom at night,” Higgins explained.
    Inside the office door was a small waiting room with a handful of armless polyester-covered chairs.
    “Can I get you boys some coffee?”
    We each declined.
    “All right then.” Higgins pulled out one of the chairs, spun it around so the back was facing us, and sat down with his bony legs straddling it like a horse he’d just mounted. “Have a seat and go ahead and ask me your questions. I’ve got a truckload of used vehicles due in here in about an hour and a truckload of insurance company paperwork to finish before it arrives.”
    I took a chair on the wall opposite. Toronto, who’d remained standing, looked at me. “Why don’t you go first, Frank.”
    Good cop, bad cop—all right, I’d try to be good. I was still dripping sleep from my eyes, but what the heck.
    “Okay,” I said. “Mr. Higgins, it’s my understanding that you are the leader of a certain local militia group—”
    “Hold it right there, my friend,” Higgins said. “Commander is the proper term.”
    “Commander then—”
    “And we’re not a militia. It’s the right of the citizenry within each state to form their own individual militias—check your copy of the Constitution. But since we’re comprised of members from more than one state, we don’t assume the right to call ourselves one. We’re