The Competition - [52]

Standing behind the glass case was the older man in the photographs. He was wiry to the point of skinny, and his upper shoulders curved inward, giving his chest a concave look. The rimless glasses that perched on the end of his nose and his white flyaway hair reminded me of a character in an old TV show, The Wild Wild West. Bailey introduced us, showed her badge, and asked if he was the owner.

He held out his hand. “George Lockmire. Call me Lock.”

I shook his hand. “As in locked and loaded?”

He smiled. “Always glad to do business with law enforcement. You brought your own? Or do you want to rent and try something new? I’ve got a great compact HK forty-five you should try.”

Bailey shook her head. “Thank you, Mr., er, Lock, but we’re not here to shoot. We need to ask you about someone who works here. Shane Dolan.”

He jerked back his head as though we’d slapped him, then peered at us over the top of his glasses. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“No,” I said. “We just need to talk to him. He may have information on a case we’re investigating-”

“He’s a decent sort. Not the most punctual guy. But once he gets here he’s good to have around. Not many folks can do the repairs. Most can barely clean ’em right. Shane can do it all.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “When does Shane work?”

“Well, it’s kind of on an ‘as needed’ basis right now. Business hasn’t been so good around here, in case you didn’t notice.” He made a face and looked out in the direction of the vacant stores we’d passed on our way in.

“When was the last time he came to work?” I asked.

Lockmire squinted. “About a week ago. Yeah. Last Thursday.”

That was four days before the shooting. “Have you seen him since then?”

“No. But there’s no reason I would have. This is the only place I see him. And if you want to know when I expect to have him back, I couldn’t tell you. I might need him this weekend or I might not.”

“He live near here?” Bailey asked.

“Not too far, from what I remember.” Lock flipped through a dog-eared leather day planner. “Here you go.” He pointed to an entry, and Bailey copied down Shane’s address on a business card.

“Did Shane ever bring friends around?” I asked.

Lock wrinkled his nose and squinted, then shook his head. “He was friendly with customers. But I don’t remember him ever bringing anyone in here.”

I pulled out the yearbook photograph of Logan. “Did this person ever come in?”

Lock took the photo and studied it, then handed it back. “He does look familiar. Kinda young, though. We don’t let ’em shoot alone ’less they’re eighteen or older.”

“But if Shane took him into the range…?” I asked.

“Well, yeah. That might’ve happened.” Lock took off his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his shirt. “But if it did, it wasn’t recent. If he’d had that kind of free time, I’d have sent him home. Can’t afford to have him on the clock if there’s no business.”

“So this kid might’ve come in here, and Shane might have taken him into the range,” I said. “You just can’t say exactly when?”

Lock gave me a suspicious look. “You a lawyer? You sound like a lawyer.”

I sighed. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. Is that right? What I just said?” Lock squinted at me as though he were trying to figure out what my angle was.

I folded my arms. “Lock, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Answer the question.”

He finally caved. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

We thanked Lock for his time and left him our cards. When we got back to the car, Bailey’s cell rang. She looked at the number and raised an eyebrow. “It’s the station.” She listened for a few seconds, then quickly wrote on her notepad and ended the call. “They found the tree service. According to the boss man, Shane was scheduled to work on Monday.” Monday, the day of the shooting. “He was a no-show. And they haven’t heard from him since the Friday before.”

I pulled out my cell phone. “What’s Shane’s address? I’ll call local police for backup.”

Bailey peeled out of the parking lot.

Shane lived in a dive in Ventura, a few blocks west of Main Street. His complex, called the Hacienda, was one in a connected row of apartments that faced the street. Time and neglect and the salty sea air had left the wood on the front step cracked and rotted, which made it a perfect match for the frames of the windows.

The Ventura Police Department doesn’t play around. It only took us fifteen minutes to get there, but when we arrived, the backup I had called for was already waiting and ready to go. Their SWAT team was on the way. We jointly decided to check the place out and see if we could spot Shane. If we did, we’d let SWAT take him down.

We’d learned the only phone registered to Shane was a cell phone, so calling him wouldn’t tell us if he was inside the apartment. And given his affinity for guns, he was likely to be heavily armed, so we strategized our approach carefully. As we worked out the choreography with the local officers, I could feel my heart pound heavily in my chest. If he was the second Fairmont shooter and he spotted us, it was more than likely he’d come out with guns a-blazing.