Pray for Silence by Linda Castillo

nineteen-year-old woman, beating her so severely she had to be hospitalized. I witnessed some of the assault and happily testified against him. I’ve kept my doors locked and my sidearm handy since he was released last spring.
    I’ve never arrested Drew, but I know him by reputation. I pulled his sheet before leaving the station. He did time at Mansfield for possession of meth with intent to sell. No arrests since, but as far as I know he’s just been lucky. I’m pretty sure both men are in the drug business up to their hairy armpits.
    The curtains at the window move as I climb the steel stairs. Standing to one side—in case whoever’s inside thinks I’m a space alien and decides to shoot me through the door—I knock on the storm door. My right hand rests on the .38 in my holster. I’m aware of Pickles behind me, his breathing slightly elevated. I can feel the adrenaline coming off both of us.
    The door swings open, and I find myself looking at a chest the size of an SUV, DD cups and enough hair to make a fucking coat. I have to look up to meet his gaze.
    “Derek Krause?” I recognize him, but I ask anyway.
    “Who wants to know?”
    His eyes are frighteningly bloodshot. His breath smells like week-old road-kill. The body odor that wafts up from beneath his armpits is strong enough to make my eyes water. “The police.” I show him my badge.
    “Oh, it’s you.” He looks past me at Pickles and smirks. “What’d you do? Raid the fuckin’ old folks home?”
    Pickles offers a harsh laugh. I don’t take my eyes off of Krause. “I need to ask you some questions.”
    He looks down at me as if considering ramming his fist through my skull.
    “Step outside,” I say.
    “You got some kind of warrant?”
    “We just want to ask—”
    “Then I ain’t steppin’ nowhere.”
    My teeth grind. Behind me, Pickles swears. I raise my hand slightly to silence him. “We just want to talk to you.”
    Derek tries to close the door. I ram my boot into the space. “Get out here and talk to us, or I’m going to come back with a warrant and tear this place apart.”
    “I didn’t do nothin’.”
    “Nobody said you did.”
    He shoves open the door. I step back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face with it. “Down there.” I point to the base of the trailer steps.
    Sighing, he shoves past me. I glance at Pickles. He points covertly at his gun and raises his brows.
You want me to shoot him?
That makes me smile.
    “What do you guys want with me?” Krause asks, shuffling down the steps.
    I follow, hoping he’s not in the mood to fight because he’s huge. Two-fifty. Six-four. The last kind of guy I want to get into a scuffle with. “Where were you last night?” I begin.
    “Here.”
    “Can anyone collaborate that?”
    “My dog.”
    “Someone who can talk?” Pickles spits out his toothpick.
    Derek sneers at him. “No.”
    I motion toward his vehicle. “Nice truck. Yours?”
    He turns his attention to me. “It gets me around.”
    “Where do you work?”
    “Farnhall.”
    Farnhall is a manufacturing firm in Millersburg that makes oil filters. “What do you do there?”
    “I work on the line.” Another sigh that reminds me of a bored teenager. “What’s this all about?”
    “Do you know the Plank family?”
    “Never heard of no Planks.”
    “Where was your brother last night?”
    “Dunno.”
    Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Derek, come on. Work with me.”
    “Look, I ain’t his fuckin’ keeper, all right?”
    “Was he home?”
    “Yeah, he was here.”
    “What time?”
    He lifts a big shoulder, lets it drop. “Eight. Nine o’clock.”
    “Which was it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Pickles mutters a word that sounds like
dipshit.
    Krause looks over the top of my head at Pickles and snarls. “At least I’m not half senile like you, old man.”
    “That’s enough,” I snap. “Why aren’t you at work today?”
    “I’m sick, man. Got a stomachache.”
    “You don’t look sick.”
    His massive