does it?
* * *
The Cutting Edge knife shop is located in downtown Painters Mill, a block from the police station. I’m waiting for the owner when he opens the doors at 10:00 A.M. It doesn’t take long to ascertain he sold the knife.
“It’s a Smith & Wesson first-response drop-point plain-blade pocketknife.” He takes the bag containing the knife and turns it over in his hands. “Very popular, especially around Christmas.”
“Do you recall who bought this one?” I ask.
“No, but I can look.” He disappears into a back room behind the counter and returns with a sleek iPad tablet. He slides his index finger over the screen. “Here we go. Christine McDowell. Lives right here in Painters Mill. She bought five of them.”
“That’s a lot of knives.” I think about that a moment. “Were all of them inscribed?”
He taps the screen. “I engraved all five knives for her.”
“How were the other four engraved?”
“That’s why I remember the sale. I thought it was odd that all five knives had the same engraving: Savage.”
* * *
Christine McDowell is eighteen years old and lives in a small apartment on Ivester Court two blocks off the traffic circle. She graduated from Painters Mill High in the spring and works as a cashier at Fox’s Pharmacy.
It’s nearly 11:00 A.M. when I park in the driveway behind an older Camry, take the steps up to Apartment 2, and knock.
A muffled “shit” sounds from the other side of the door. The deadbolt snicks and I find myself looking at a petite redhead with large blue eyes, fifteen pounds of extra weight stuffed into faded bell bottom jeans, and an expression that has bad attitude written all over it.
She sighs. “Look, if this is about the parking tickets—”
“This isn’t about tickets,” I cut in. “Can I come in?”
“Um.” Her eyes flick sideways as if she’s trying to remember if she left anything unseemly in plain view. “Sure.”
I enter a slightly messy apartment that smells of fast food and the barely there redolence of cigarettes. I cut to the chase. “I understand you bought some knives from The Cutting Edge a few months ago.”
“Knives?” She blinks, tries to assume an innocent countenance, but she doesn’t quite manage. “Hmmm.”
I pull out my cell and show her an enlarged photo of the knife. “You purchased five of them. Including this one.”
“Oh, that.” Her laugh is as phony as the innocent expression. “They were on sale for twenty-five bucks each. I sold them online for forty. Made a nice little profit.”
“Who did you sell them to?” I pull out my notebook and pen. “I need names.”
“I don’t remember.” A wiliness flickers in her eyes followed by a flash of amusement. She’s playing with me, enjoying this. “It was months ago. I sell a lot of stuff.”
“Did you keep any paperwork?”
“I’m not a paperwork kind of girl.” One side of her mouth curves. “Sorry.”
“If you bought them to sell, why did you have them engraved?”
“I dunno.” She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Makes them more valuable.”
“All five knives were engraved with the name Savage. I don’t see how that could make them more valuable.”
“People like stuff like that. You know, badass.”
I stare hard at her. “You realize I don’t believe a word that’s come out of your mouth.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Her lips twitch.
“You know it’s illegal to lie to the police, don’t you?” I slide the notebook back into my pocket.
She shrugs. “I’m not worried.”
“Do you know Noah Kline?”
“Never heard of him.”
I nod, take a moment to look around the apartment on the outside chance I’ll spot something illegal—a joint or some drug paraphernalia—but there’s nothing there.
I turn my attention back to the girl. “If I were you, I’d take care of those parking tickets.”
* * *
I arrive at the police station to news that Noah Kline is still in critical condition and shows no sign of emerging from his coma. I hope this case doesn’t turn into a homicide investigation.
In the last hour, I’ve run Christine McDowell through LEADS to check for warrants and any criminal history, but her record is clean. I even braved her social media accounts in the hope she posted something that might be helpful to the case, but there was nothing there.
Who the hell runs down an eighteen-year-old Amish kid, leaves him for dead, and attacks his girlfriend?
I pick up my cell and look at the photo of the knife. Savage. What does it mean?
“Chief?”
I look up to find my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe,