The business in question was on the shoulder of Interstate 65, off a seldom used exit, and shared only by a decrepit gas station with 1960s style pumps on one side of the highway, and an overgrown lot on the other. I drove through the open gate of the place unchallenged, and coasted slowly until I reached storage building number eighty-six, which matched the number on the key ring. Old school, I thought to myself. No card keys or punch codes here. I got out and unlocked Grant’s lock, and lifted the heavy metal roll-up door. It groaned open, and light fell upon the contents. Here was the dark little place whose existence I had long expected. Here, all the answers to my questions about this case had been neatly filed away. Well, that’s what I hoped, anyway. As I stood there looking over the contents of the little building, I realized there really wasn’t much there. Water skis and a deep-sea rod and reel leaned against a far corner. There was also a large kerosene heater, some canvas folding chairs, and two large plastic coolers.
