“Anything in your pockets?” the woman snapped. “Knife? Needles? Am I going to get a fucking STD if I put my hand in?”
“No, ma’am,” Grade said.
The search didn’t bother him in the same way that dead bodies didn’t bother him. It should, but his brain didn’t think he had time for that, so it just flicked that bit off. The counselor the school had made him go to said that was a maladaptive reaction, but he’d been paid barely above minimum wage to do shit-all about bullying, so what did he know. It seemed adaptive enough to Grade.
The contents of his pockets—a couple of dollar bills, the keys to his van, a condom—were thrown onto the ground. Once she was satisfied, she stepped back and told Grade to turn around. She had his wallet in her hand, flipped open, and his license between her fingers.
“Thomas Pulaski,” she read out. “That you? What’s that face for?”
Grade rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin. “I was named after my dad,” he said. And no one had called him that since he was at school. It didn’t even feel like his name anymore. Tommy Pulaski was a skeleton in a trashed muscle car somewhere, not him. “It’s a sore subject.”
She grunted and pulled him to the side so she could try the door of the camper. When it didn’t open, she gave it a yank, one foot braced against the fender, but the lock held.
“Open it,” she said.
Another deputy came around the side of the building, Clay in cuffs ambling along behind him.
“Fowler,” he said. “What’s this?”
“One of Traynor’s employees,” she said. “I caught him out here at this camper, sir.”
“He doesn’t do it for money,” Clay interjected.
“Shut up,” the senior deputy told him. He nodded to Grade. “Open it.”
“Do you have a warrant?” Grade asked.
The deputy looked annoyed.
“We do,” he said and pulled the warrant out of his jacket. He handed it to Grade. “Now, open the van.”
Grade unfolded the warrant and looked it over. “This is for Mr. Traynor’s property,” he said, “not mine.”
“Don’t split hairs with us,” Fowler snapped. She grabbed his shoulder and yanked him over to the van. “Open it.”
“He has a point, Paul,” Clay said.
The senior deputy—Paul—made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Shut up, Clay,” he said. Then to Fowler, “He’s right. We don’t want any fuckups on this once we get to court. Everything by the book, Fowler.”
“What?” Fowler protested. “Sir, he was obviously out here to hide something.”
“Get Reyes around here with his dog. If there’s anything in there, that’ll give us probable cause for a search,” Paul told her. “I’m afraid your friend is not making things any better for you, Clay.”
Clay grinned, loose and easy. “He doesn’t usually try,” he said, “so that’s nothing new.”
Paul looked annoyed and shook his head. “If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it,” he said. “Maybe you won’t find this situation so funny then.”
Grade sat on the hood of one of the patrol cars, cuffed after all, and watched with interest as the deputies went through Clay’s house with a fine-tooth comb. He’d not seen a search warrant enacted since his dad died, not in person. He did keep up on procedure. It was interesting to watch. He could see a few places that he could take advantage of in his, ah, usual capacity.
Every now and then, one of the deputies would swing by with a question.
Clay crouched on the ground, hands cuffed behind him, and fielded the questions as they came his way.
The drugs were his, and they were prescription.
The decision to redo the bedroom floor had been impulsive.
He did not own a camper van.
