Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(52)

“We need to borrow a piece of evidence,” Lon said.

“Borrow? I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t loan out evidence. Not from this room.”

I tapped Lon’s foot under the table. “Well, before we talk about that, maybe we should make sure we’re in the right place first. Could you check to see if a certain piece of evidence is on file here?”

Fluorescent light from the ceiling glinted off the skin that showed through the thinning spots in Danny’s graying hair. He smiled at me again. “Now that I can definitely do. I need some information first. Do you have the case number and the date it entered evidence?”

“Uh, no. It’s kind of a well-known case though. Perhaps you can look it up.”

“Depends. I’ve worked here for ten years, so anything before that I’d have to ask around or research. Got an approximate time frame?”

“Seven years ago. The Duval murder case.”

“Duval?” he said, wrinkling up his forehead. Something changed in his eyes, though. He blinked faster and began rubbing the knuckle of his right thumb.

“The Black Lodge slayings,” I offered.

“Oh! Of course. Yes, I know it.”

“We were hoping to take a look at the murder weapon. It was a glass knife. I’m sure you remember.”

Drops of sweat began beading on his forehead. “Yeah, I know it, but I don’t have access to that case. It’s … protected.”

“Oh, come on now. Surely after ten years, you have access to anything,” I said.

“Not really. I’m sorry.”

Lon leaned back in his seat. “Why are you lying?”

“Lying? I’m not—”

“He’s right, you are. Why won’t you let us see the glass knife?” I asked.

Danny swallowed and quickly wiped his forehead.

“Look, Mr. Wesley,” Lon said, “cut the shit. We’re here for you to sneak that glass knife out of evidence for us and you damn well know it.”

“Uh …”

Lon leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “Don’t pretend to be some upstanding, moral guy. I know you’ve accidently ‘lost’ several thousand dollars in cash and more in guns from that room this year.”

Danny closed his eyes tightly for a second, then leaned down over the table and spoke in a low voice. “Look, I’d really like to help you, but I can’t. The knife isn’t here.”

“But you just said it was,” I argued.

“It was here. It’s not now.”

“Where is it exactly, then?”

He sighed. “We’ve had people asking for that knife for years. True-crime aficionados, weirdos, people offering all kinds of money. I didn’t want to touch it because it was too high profile. But a collector came in about six months ago and offered me twenty grand for it. My wife needed a new car. I’m not a bad person.”

“No one thinks you are,” I assured him. “Who’d you sell it to?”

“I can’t remember the name. It’s probably on the log. Ron Casler? Ron Castor? Ron … Castle, maybe. Anyway, I think it was an alias. Who’d come in here and sign in under their real name?”

He had a point; we certainly hadn’t.

“He was a professional collector. Paid me under the table. The records still say it’s there, so until we’re audited, no one knows it’s missing.”

“Describe him. Tell me where he was from.”

“Demon,” Danny said, looking at my halo suspiciously. “Tall. Light orange hair and eyebrows. Lots of freckles. Like a giant leprechaun.” He gave us a weak smile.

I glanced at Lon. His faced was flushed and his mouth was hanging open.

Danny continued. “He said he was from Detroit, but he sounded like a California boy to me. He obviously had money. His clothes were expensive. One of the officers up front said he drove up in a flashy red convertible.”

Lon got up out of his seat and offered his hand to Danny. “Thanks. We’ll let you get back to work.”

“Wait, what—”

Lon shot me a hard look. I read it perfectly: Keep your mouth shut. Which I did … all the way back to the sign-in window up front, through the parking lot, and until we closed our car doors and sat in the front seat.

“Explain. Now.”

Lon stuck the key in the ignition and paused.

“I know exactly who he sold it to. He lives in La Sirena.”

“Lon!” I said excitedly and slapped his arm. “Who? How? What?”

“That’s the first time you’ve smiled the whole damn day,” he noted.

“And that’s more words than you’ve spoken to me all day.”

He started up the ignition and began putting his seat belt on. “The man who bought the knife is a member of a club I’m in. He’s … slippery.”

“I thought you weren’t a ‘joiner.’ ”

“I’m not anymore. But once you join this club, you’re in it for life.”

I clicked my seat belt and moved my purse to the floor-board as he pulled out of the parking lot, turning on his wind-shield wipers to clear the late-afternoon drizzle. “That sounds spooky and ominous.”