"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.
"Well," Henderson said, "here he is now."
The sheepish man stepped up to his boss. "Mr. Henderson."
"Billy," the owner said. "This's..."
"I'm Kathryn Dance, CBI." Her ID rose.
"Billy Culp," the young man said absently, staring at her ID. Eyes wide, perhaps seeing an opening door to a jail cell.
She ushered him away from the others. The owner sighed, hitched up his belt, gave it a moment more, then vanished inside. His blood kin joined him.
"Could you tell me about parking the truck here last night?"
The young man's eyes shifted to the club. "I came back this morning to help. I was thinking maybe I could help. But there was nothing to do." A faint smile, a hollow smile. "I wanted to, really bad."
"Mr. Culp?"
"Sure, sure. I had a run to Fresno, came in empty about seven. Parked there. Spot ten. You can't see clear. The paint's gone mostly. Wrote down the mileage and diesel level on my log and slipped it through the slot in the door, put the keys in the drop-box, there. Call me 'Billy.' 'Mr. Culp,' I start looking for my father."
Dance smiled. "You parked there and set the brake and put the truck in gear."
"I always do, ma'am. The brake, the gears." Then he swallowed. "But, fact is, I was tired. I admit. Real tired. Bakersfield, Fresno, here." His voice was unsteady. He'd been debating about coming clean. "I'm pretty sure I took care of things. But to swear a hundred percent? I don't know."
"Thanks for being honest, Billy."
He sighed. "I'll lose my job, whatever happens. Will I go to jail?"
"We're just investigating at this point." She noted a wedding band. She guessed children too. He was of that age. "You ever forgotten? Gears and brake?"
"Forgot to lock up once. Lost my CB. My radio, you know. But, no." A shake of his head. "Always set the brake. Never drive my personal car, I've had a single beer. Don't cruise through yellow lights. I'm not really smart and I'm not really talented at a lot of stuff. I'm a good driver, though, Officer Dance. No citations, no accidents were my fault." He shrugged. "But, truth is, yes, I was tired, ma'am. Officer."
"Jesus, look out!" Henderson shouted, calling through the open office door.
Billy and Dance glanced back and ducked as something zipped over their heads. The rock bounded over the asphalt and whacked the tire of another rig.
"You fucking son of a bitch!" the man who'd thrown the projectile shouted.
A group of a dozen people--mostly men--were walking fast up the incline from the direction of the club. Another flung a second rock. Dance and Billy dodged. The throw was wide but if it had hit the projectile would have cracked a skull. She was surprised to note that most of the crowd were well dressed. They seemed middle-class. Not bikers or thugs. But their expressions were chilling; they were out for blood.
"Get him!"
"Fucker!"
"You're the fucking driver, aren't you?"
"Look! Over there! It's the driver!"
"Police," Dance said, holding up her ID, not bothering with specific job titles.
Civ-Div...
"Stop right there."
Nobody paid the least attention to her. She looked for help from Holly or other fire department workers. Their vehicles were still parked outside the club but they weren't visible. Probably inside.