“She’s out. All of them are. They’ve got too much political clout to stay in. Gore paid cash, the other two put up their houses as bond.”
“You gonna get the PyeMart guy?”
“Don’t know,” Jenkins said. “It looks like the way it worked, PyeMart bought the golf carts from Gore, who spread the profit around . . . keeping most of it for herself. That’s what this Good Thunder told us. She took a quick look at the tax records, and she seems like a pretty smart chick.”
“But there’s no law against buying golf carts,” Shrake said. “If Gore doesn’t crack, and give us exactly the quid pro quo, we might not get him.”
“That’s bullshit,” Virgil said. “You’d need a retarded jury not to convict.”
“What’s your point?” Jenkins asked.
VIRGIL TOLD THEM ABOUT WYATT, about how the paraglider revelation had worked out.
Shrake said, “So I solved two cases in one day.”
“That’d be one interpretation,” Virgil said. “But now, we actually got to work. We’ve got to keep an eye on this guy. I want to pick him up now, put him to bed, get him up tomorrow, take him to work.”
“We can do that, if we can take along the golf magazines,” Shrake said.
WYATT, VIRGIL THOUGHT, should either be home, or arriving home soon. He gave the other two Wyatt’s address, and they agreed to stay in touch by cell phone. Virgil let them cruise the house first: Shrake called back to say there were no lights in the windows. “We found a place we can park a block away, by a ball diamond, not too conspicuous, and still see his place. We’ll sit for a bit. There’s a game about to start.”
Virgil took the break to stop at a McDonald’s and get a cheeseburger and fries. He was still there, reading the paper, when Barlow called: “We got the warrant. The judge thought we were a little weak on details, but he gave us six days. He says if we can’t do better in six days, he won’t give us an extension, and we’ll have to give a copy to Wyatt.”
“That’s good. That should be plenty of time,” Virgil said.
“You watching him?”
“Trying to. He hasn’t shown up at home yet, but I’ve got two guys watching his place.”
“Hope he hasn’t flown the coop. You get a key?”
“No. I got sidetracked on this surveillance thing. Would you have time?”
Barlow agreed to run down the landlord and get a key. Virgil would call him in the morning, as soon as Wyatt was at the college, where he was scheduled to teach back-to-back classes.
JENKINS CALLED FIVE MINUTES LATER and said, “He’s home.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes—take your place,” Virgil said. “Pull out when you see me coming.”
He drove to Wyatt’s—there was a car in the driveway, an older Prius—and then continued up the block, and when Shrake pulled away from the curb at the ball diamond, Virgil took his place. There was a game going on, town ball, fast-pitch, and Virgil was looking down at the diamond from the parking place.
He half-watched the game, half-watched Wyatt’s place, and at the same time, dug his camera out of the bag in the backseat. He used a Nikon D3, with a 70-200 lens and a 2x Nikon teleconverter. When put together, the rig was heavy and long, but also reasonably sharp, and good in low light.
He still had plenty of light, and he settled in to wait.
One of the ball teams, Robert’s Bar and Grill, had a damn good pitcher; he was mowing down the other team, which was surviving less on pitching than on its fielding. In the two innings Virgil watched, Robert’s had runners in both innings, while the other team never did get a man to first.
He was interested enough in the game that he almost missed Wyatt. He came out of the apartment carrying an oversized gym bag. A tall thin man, he was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes, and moved like an athlete. He looked like the figure in the construction-site trailer videos. Virgil propped the barrel of the camera on the edge of the passenger-side window, and ran off a half-dozen shots as he walked around the car, threw the bag inside, then got in.
Following him wasn’t a problem: Wyatt drove out to the highway, turned toward downtown, pulled into a strip mall, got his gym bag, and walked into a tae-kwon-do studio. Virgil called Shrake and made arrangements to switch off.
The lesson had to last at least an hour, Virgil thought, so he took the time to load the photos into his laptop. When Shrake arrived, Virgil climbed into the backseat of Shrake’s Cadillac and passed the laptop across the seat. “Portraits,” he said.
The other two looked at the photos for a minute, then Shrake said, “Got him. Want us to stay with him overnight?”
“Ah . . . yeah.”
“Shoot. Okay, are you in? Make it more tolerable,” Jenkins said.
“I’m in. I’ll take the middle shift.” The middle shift was the bad one—four hours in the middle of the night.
SHRAKE TOOK THE FIRST WATCH, following Wyatt from the tae kwon do studio to a supermarket, and then back to his house. He waited there until midnight, when Virgil took it. Virgil sat for four hours, until four o’clock. Jenkins arrived right at four, and Virgil went back to the Holiday Inn and crashed. Shrake, who’d gotten a full night’s sleep, took it at eight o’clock, and at nine-thirty, called Virgil and said, “It looks like he’s getting ready to move.”
Virgil brushed his teeth and called Barlow: “He’s moving. Heading up to the college, we think.”
“I talked to the landlord,” Barlow said. “Got a key, and scared the shit out of him. He won’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll be at your hotel in five minutes. We can ride over in my truck—we don’t want a caravan.”
VIRGIL PICKED UP BARLOW and one of his techs, whose name was Doug Mason, and they headed over to Wyatt’s. “Doug knows computers,” Barlow said.
“Excellent,” Virgil said. They didn’t have much to say on the way over, and halfway there, Shrake called to say that Wyatt had just walked into the college carrying his briefcase.
Wyatt lived on a working street, mostly younger families, and at ten-fifteen, the street was deserted. They climbed out, three men in jackets and slacks—Virgil was wearing a dress shirt and dark slacks, so he wouldn’t hit a neighbor’s inquiring eye quite so hard. Barlow had the key, and they walked up to the door and in. Just inside was a small square mudroom, with a stairway leading up, and a door to the left, leading into the garage.
They took the stairs, quickly, clearing the place: the second and third floors were probably eight hundred square feet each, and smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. The second floor had a small living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom that Wyatt was using as an office. The third floor had two larger bedrooms, a storage space with a low, slanted ceiling, a good-sized bathroom, and several closets. The place was cluttered with paper—books, magazines, newspapers. Virgil knew and recognized the symptoms: in the downdraft of a divorce, lonely guys often didn’t have much to do, and so hung out in bookstores and newsstands, and acquired paper; and also hung out in bagel joints and movie matinees.
Mason went straight to the office and said, “I’m on the computer.”
Barlow said, “I want to run down and look at the garage.”
“I’ll start upstairs,” Virgil said.
HE WENT THROUGH THE BEDROOM in a hurry, but took care not to mess it up. He checked the closets, and a few boxes inside the closets, and found more symptoms of divorce. Wyatt had moved out of his house, but hadn’t taken any junk with him. Hadn’t taken his stuff. He’d simply packed up some clothes, a couple of spare tae kwon do uniforms—including a spare black belt—and had gotten out.
Virgil cleared the bedroom, bathroom, four closets, and the storage area in fifteen minutes. Back downstairs, he found Barlow in the office with Mason. Mason was sitting in the computer chair, his fingers laced over his stomach, watching a screen full of moving numbers. “Anything?”
“Not right off the top—but there’s a lot of stuff in here, so I hooked up my own drive, and
I’m mirroring his,” Mason said. “I can look at it later.”
“You know what the guy’s got for tools?” Barlow asked. “A bicycle pump and a pair of needle-nose pliers. That’s it.”
“He’s gotta have more than that—any normal guy does,” Mason said.
“But he’s getting a divorce. He might have a garage full of stuff at the other house,” Virgil said. “Every time I got thrown out, my wives kept the tools. Women like to have tools around.”
“Wives?” Mason asked.
“Or maybe there’s something out at the farmhouse,” Virgil said.
“Gotta be something, if he’s our guy. He’s not putting those things together with his bare fingers.”
Barlow had been in the process of going through a file cabinet, and Virgil started working through the rest of the house. Five minutes later, Barlow came out with a file in his hands. “The divorce is stalled out right now, over visiting rights with the children, and some money issues. The next court appointment is in August.”
Five minutes after that, Virgil realized that they weren’t going to find anything in the house: the house had been sterilized. Wyatt was smart: he’d anticipated the chance of a search. An hour later, he was proven right.
“The guy doesn’t even look at porn,” Mason grumbled. He’d been working through Wyatt’s online history. “You hardly ever run into an asshole who doesn’t even look at it.”
THEY LEFT EMPTY-HANDED, as far as they knew—Mason still had to finish going through the computer files. Barlow said, “Doesn’t prove anything. Guy would be an idiot to work in his own house, especially if he thinks he might bring somebody home with him. He’s got a place where he does it, and he keeps it there.”
“The farmhouse,” Virgil said.
“Somewhere,” Barlow said.
IT WAS ANOTHER QUIET DAY out in the cornfield, nothing moving but a couple of crows that flapped overhead as they were arriving. Virgil had told them how the house was laid out, and Barlow had brought along a crowbar. They checked all four sides of the house, picked out the window with the shabbiest-looking plywood covering, and pried the board loose. Virgil backed his truck up next to the wall, took a flashlight with him, and climbed through the window from the trunk’s bumper.
The interior of the house was dim and smelled like dried weeds, or corn leaves. The floors were wood, and creaked underfoot. A stairway led up; two of the stair treads were broken, and there was a patina of dust on the others.
He went through a doorway into the back, getting a face full of spiderweb as he went through the door.
Barlow called, “Anything?”
Virgil was standing in a bathroom, in thin light seeping through the cracks around the doors and window openings. All the faucets and handles were missing from a sink basin and toilet, and there was nothing but a hole in the floor where a tub had once been. He stooped and shone his light into the hole, then up toward the ceiling. He called back, “Come in here a minute.”
He heard Barlow clamber through the window, and called, “Back here.”
Barlow stepped up beside him and looked in the door. “What am I looking at?”
“Nothing,” Virgil said.
“Nothing?”
“Yeah. Look at the holes in the ceiling. Shouldn’t there be some kind of pipe feeding down to the toilet?”
Barlow scratched his head and said, “Yeah. Should be. Probably feeding off a pump at the well, through here, and then to another bathroom upstairs. With a branch off to the tub down here.”
“Nothing feeding the tub. I looked.”
“Huh,” Barlow said. “The mystery of the missing pipe. I’ll tell you, those holes are about the right size.”
“But where’s he working it?” Virgil asked. “There’s nothing here.”
“Been down the basement?”
“Not yet. I’m not sure there is one.”
THEY FOUND A BASEMENT DOOR, but there were no steps going down. “No steps, no power,” Barlow said. “That’s not a workshop, that’s a hole in the ground.”
“What the hell is the guy doing?” Virgil asked. He was lying on the floor, shining the flash down into the basement. He could see nothing but rock wall and dirt and more spiderwebs.
Going back through the rotten old house, Barlow borrowed the flash and carefully climbed a few steps toward the second floor, but stopped short when one of the steps started to give. “Nothing up here but dust and bat shit,” he said.
OUTSIDE AGAIN, THEY POUNDED the plywood window back in place. “I don’t know,” Virgil said. “That pipe was probably the right size . . . but you can get that pipe anywhere, just about. Any old house. They may have taken it out to sell it.”
“Yeah. But it’d be a coincidence.”
“I gotta think about it,” Virgil said, as they bounced back down the hill in the truck. “I can keep my two BCA guys, at least for a couple of days. If I can find a way to push Wyatt into going out to his workshop.”
“Push him?”
“Yeah. Give him a reason to worry about us. Get him out to where he works, to close it down, or bury it or whatever. Gotta think about it.”
23
VIRGIL DID HIS BEST THINKING in two places: in the shower, and in a boat. His boat, unfortunately, had been blown up, and he’d already had a shower. He wound up driving over to the PyeMart site, drove across it to the far side, got out his fly-fishing gear, including a pair of chest waders, and carried it through the brush down to the Butternut.
He spent an hour working down through the river’s shallows, casting down into the deeper pools from the upstream side, teasing the banks with a dry fly. He got a hit in the first two minutes, missed the fish.
And that was about it. The trout weren’t in the mood, but that really didn’t make a difference—it was the activity that counted, feeling his way down the cool, quiet stream. Forty-five minutes out, he came to a conclusion, sat on the bank and dug out his cell phone. He found John Haden’s phone number in his cell phone’s history, and called him.
Haden picked up on the fourth ring: “Virgil?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I need to talk to you about something . . . something I want you to do, that you might not want to do. But, it’s necessary. So, where you at?”
“You don’t need the ‘at’ at the end of that sentence,” Haden said. “If you’d asked, ‘Where are you?’ that would have been fine.”
“I’m colloquial,” Virgil said. “Can we get together? Now?”
“I’ve got a class in . . . forty-eight minutes. I sometimes run down to Starbucks about now, for a shot of caffeine.”
“Have you ever seen Wyatt there?”
“No, I never have,” Haden said.
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” Virgil said.
HE MADE ANOTHER CALL on his way out—he called Shrake and said, “Don’t leave Wyatt. I got something working”—and made it to Starbucks in exactly fifteen minutes. Haden wasn’t there, and Virgil got his hot chocolate, got a table, opened his laptop and signed on. He found a note from Lee Coakley in his in-box; it said: I guess we’re done. I’m really sorry about that. I was thinking about it before I went to bed and all morning. I don’t think I want to talk to you again for a while. I mean, quite a while.—Lee
He thought, Well, shit. He had seen it coming, but hadn’t wanted it . . . although a voice in the back of his head added, Not yet. He needed time, he thought, to revise his entire philosophical approach to women....
Damnit: bummed him out.
“YOU LOOK LIKE SOMEBODY ran over your pet skunk.”
Virgil looked up and saw Deputy O’Hara peering down at him, a cup of coffee in her hand. He said, “What, no doughnut?”
“The doughnuts here suck,” she said. “If you want a good doughnut, you gotta go down to Bernie Anderson’s.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll write that on a piece of paper, when I get one,” he said.
“My, my,” she said, “you really are in an uproar. Well, if there’s
anything I can do for you, hesitate to call.”
“I will,” he said, and she left. He watched her go past the window. Left in something of a huff, he thought. What, she maybe thought he was going to buy her that doughnut? Goddamn women.
HE WAS ALMOST FINISHED with his hot chocolate, wondering if he’d been stood up, when Haden came through the door, in a hurry. “I’m running late,” he said, dropping his briefcase by Virgil’s foot. “Watch this, will you?”
He was back in four minutes with what Virgil thought might be a venti, if that was the extra-large. He pulled out a chair and sat down, asked, “All right: you want me to betray my old pal Bill Wyatt, in some way, is that right?”
“That’s not the word I would have chosen, but yeah,” Virgil said. “I don’t really want you to betray him, I want you to give him a little push so that if he’s the bomber, he’ll betray himself.”
Haden regarded him over the top of his coffee, for just a moment, and then said, “Huh. That sounds like a nice little piece of sophistry, but I’m listening.”
“I’ve found some things that make me think Wyatt is my guy. But: I need to get him to wherever he keeps his bomb-making stuff. I need to lay a hint on him that we’re coming. That we’ve got something.”
“Like what?”
“I’d like you to bump into him, and ask him if he knows about my list. Tell him that you’re on it, and that he’s on it, too. That somebody named both of you. Ask him if he knows who,” Virgil said. “Tell him that I came over and talked to you, but I backed off, and something I said suggested that I was going for a search warrant for somebody. That I knew something. Ask him if I’d talked to him yet.”
“I could bump into him, but I don’t know exactly how I could bring all that up, without sounding . . . phony,” Haden said.