“Not a clue.” Evans brightened. “Stella would know. She’s been here forever. Hold on.” He pushed a button on a landline phone and waited. “She isn’t answering. I can’t leave my desk. I have to make sure everyone who enters goes through procedure.”
“Why don’t you just point us in the direction of Stella’s office?”
“I would except I would incur Stella’s wrath. She hates to be disturbed.”
“We’re seasoned cops, Boyd,” Decker said. “We’re excellent at handling wrath.”
As it turned out, Stella was in a shooting booth, practicing with a Glock 22, a bigger, more versatile version of the 19 that Decker carried, as it could shoot 9 mm as well as S&W .40 ammo. Since there weren’t a lot of calls for drawn weapons in Greenbury—violent crime was virtually nonexistent—he packed the 19. It was easily concealed and made for less intimidation when he was in the field.
The range had six indoor lanes separated by partitions and the usual red lines running down the lane to denote the specific firing area. Stella had on headphones, and her stance was that of a pro. She was tall and had an Olive Oyl frame with stick arms and bony hands that belied a deadly aim. She wore a gray T-shirt over jeans and ankle boots on her feet. When she was finished with target practice—five rounds on or near the bull’s-eye—she holstered the firearm and pressed the button to examine her handiwork.
In her own glass box and looking over the lanes, a manager provided shooters with headphones and a handout with a long list of dos and don’ts while in the range. She was in her mid-forties with a weathered face, and she kept a sharp visual on all six shooters. In front of her was a console with buttons for verbally communicating with the shooters in the booths. While Stella was looking over her target, the manager depressed a button. She said, “Stella, you have visitors.”
“In a minute” was the response.
The manager said, “You can wait for her in the gun-locker room. We don’t allow people to congregate out here. It’s through that door on the left.”
The man in charge of the gun-locker room also sat behind a glass partition.
No one was taking any chances.
He appeared to be in his fifties, with a broad chest and sleeve tattoos on both arms. He had long hair streaked gray, wore a black sleeveless shirt with a red, sequined Harley logo to match the red MAGA cap.
Decker went over to him. “Excuse me.” The man lifted his face. “Boyd told us that we can pick up our guns here.”
“Tickets.” When presented with the stubs, the man said, “Slide them under the glass.”
Decker cooperated. A moment later, a small glass door on the side of the partition opened and out came the metal boxes. “Thank you.”
“Cops?”
“We are.”
“How about arresting those cretins out there?”
“They’re allowed to be there.”
“They’re allowed to protest. Not to hassle me every time I come in and out.”
Decker smiled. “Somehow I think you can take care of yourself.”
The man smiled back. “Plead the Fifth on that one.”
“I like your shirt,” McAdams said. “It sparkles.”
“Represents my feminine side.” When he smiled, he bared teeth—a complete set but yellow. “Got all this shit at Sturgis.”
“My wife and I made it as far as Keystone on our way to see Rushmore,” Decker said. “But it was during Sturgis. There were women who could have whopped my ass, and I’m not a small man.”
“Don’t surprise me. We’re the true outlaws. Not those punk-asses out there—about as tough as a noodle.”
At that moment Stella walked in. “You two wanted to see me? You look like cops.”
“We are cops.”
“Greenbury PD or the colleges?”
“Greenbury.” McAdams pulled out his badge.
“Real police. As much as this place has real police. Mostly just a bunch of young nothing officers and old men for detectives.” She winked at Decker. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Decker said.
“He worked Homicide in L.A. for over four decades,” McAdams said. “Does that qualify as real police?”
Stella turned her steely blue eyes back on Decker’s face. “What division?”
“I wound up a lieutenant running the detective squad. But here I’m just an old man looking for information. With that in mind, we’re wondering if you’ve kept old logbooks of people who came in and out of the range.”
“How old?”
“Ten years back.”
“We have old logbooks. You looking for someone specific?”
“Max Velasquez,” Decker said. “He’s on your computerized list of locker renters.”
“If he rented a locker, he must have come in and out of the range,” Stella said.
“Not necessarily,” Decker said. “He could have rented the locker for someone else.”
Stella wrote down the name. “Anything else?”
“Do you keep records of the contents of lockers?”
“Only if the person who rented it was delinquent in payment. And I take it the information you want is also from ten years ago?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re looking for a gun?”
“Possibly.”
“Okay, Mr. Cagey Lieutenant, let’s deal with the gun first,” Stella said. “If payment is delinquent, we first try to contact the owner. Even after we empty a locker, if it has a firearm, we still try to contact the owner. If there’s no owner, we turn in the firearms to the authorities.”
“Which authorities?” McAdams asked. “Greenbury or the colleges?”
“Greenbury. If the locker you are seeking had a weapon, go search your own backyard.”
“We will do that,” McAdams said. “But if you have any information about what was in the locker, that would help.”
“I’ll see if we have any contents lists. If we did, they’d be in my office. You two have guns?”
Decker said, “We just retrieved them.”
“Give them back to Casey. We don’t allow guns anywhere except on the range and in the gun-locker room.”
“How do we get from the gun-locker room to the parking lot without going through the front door?” McAdams asked.
“It’s called a back door.” She pointed to a door cut in the wall of the gun-locker room. “Pretty ironic that a gun range has to protect itself against crazies with guns.”
The windowless office had four walls of metal file cabinets. The interior was a desk, a desk chair, and two folding chairs. On top of one of the cabinets was a coffeepot, a bag of coffee, and a pile of artificial sweetener packets. Two mugs sat side by side: one was a red emblazoned with the gold MAGA logo; the other said deplorable and proud of it. There was also a water machine sandwiched between two cabinets. Stella started opening and closing drawers.
“Nope.” Slam. “Nope.” Slam. “Nope.” Slam. A pause. “Here we go. Got the year. What month?”
“September and October.”