Page 53 of A Gathering of Secrets

I pluck gloves from my pocket and jam my hands into them. Carefully, I step over a galvanized tub and make my way toward the shelves. Though the door is open and the single window is uncovered, there isn’t much light, so I pull out my mini Maglite, flip it on.

I start with the top shelf, which is at about eye level. There’s an old garden sprayer. A coiled hose. A box filled with oily rags. I work my way from top to bottom, checking each shelf as I go, finding nothing of interest.

Behind me, I hear Skid clanging around, muttering the occasional obscenity. “Anything?” I call out.

“Not finding shit, Chief.”

I work my way over to the car. I’m entertaining the idea of calling it a day when I glance at the door handle—it’s an old chrome thing with a thumb button—and I notice a smudge in the dust.

I look down; there’s a mark on the concrete floor where the dust has been disturbed. A heel print, I realize; someone has been here. I glance through the windshield, but there’s too much grime for me to see the interior. I reach for the handle. The hinges groan when I open it. The red vinyl seat has been torn to shreds by some animal intent on nesting. The steering wheel is missing. There’s a hole in the dash where a radio had once been. Wires dangling. I shine my light on the floor and do a double take when I spot the mason jars. Two of them, shiny and clean and filled with clear amber liquid. They’re lined up side by side like a couple of Mom’s canned goods.

“Skid, I’ve got something.”

I’m bent at the hip, shining the beam onto the backseat, when he rounds the hood and comes up behind me. I motion toward the two jars. “They haven’t been here long.”

“Looks like gas.” He whistles. “Didn’t the fire marshal find a couple of broken mason jars at the scene?”

“Yep.” Squatting, I lean into the car, put my nose an inch from the jar lid, and sniff. “It’s definitely gas.”

“What’s that sticking out from beneath the jar?”

I lean back on my haunches and shift the flashlight. Sure enough, the beam glints off of something metallic. Using my gloved hand, I push the jar aside. “It’s a key.”

“Looks new.”

“The dead bolt on the tack room door over at the Gingerich place was only a couple of months old.” I glance up at Skid. “There were two keys. One was found at the scene.”

“Maybe this is the other one. State boys pick up latents?”

“They did. Haven’t heard back on the ID yet,” I tell him. “Should be any time.”

“Easy enough to figure out if the key fits the lock.”

I hear myself sigh as that uneasy sense of skepticism mushrooms into cold, hard suspicion. “Skid, why would someone who was questioned by the police about an arson hide something like this on his property?”

“That’s a stretch even for Chris Martino.”

I flip off my Maglite and look around, find Skid’s eyes already on mine.

“You think someone planted it?” he asks.

I nod. “The big question is who.”

He jabs a thumb in the general direction of the house. “What do we do with Prince Charming?”

“Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

I glance toward the door to see Chris Martino standing in the doorway, looking in.

I lower my voice. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here. We need those mason jars and that key processed for latents.”

“You got it.”

“Set up a perimeter with tape, too, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

We start toward the door. I hear Skid on the phone behind me as I slip through. Martino is standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a beer. “Told you you weren’t going to find anything.”