John Sandford - Escape Clause

Landseer thought it over for a few seconds, then said, “I want the tigers back.”

Virgil nearly bit his tongue off as he was about to blurt, “Atta girl,” but managed to abort the reaction and said instead, piously, “I think we all do. Our ethical positions have to take into consideration the impact our decisions will have on the tigers, with whose care we are entrusted.”

“You’re a very capable bullshitter,” Landseer said.

“Thank you.”

“When do you want to do it?” she asked.

“Soon as possible,” Virgil said.

“Lunchtime. Twelve noon.”

–

Virgil continued on to BCA headquarters in St. Paul, where he spent some time with the crime-scene crew, looking at what they’d gotten. The blood spot on the floor turned out to be human blood, and fresh.

“There wasn’t much. It was a superficial layer on the concrete, not soaked in,” Bea Sawyer told him. “It looked like somebody might have cut himself and a drop of blood hit the concrete. I’m thinking it could have happened when they were handling the tigers, all those teeth and claws.”

“Think they’d need treatment?”

She shrugged. “We’re only seeing one drop. He might’ve bled all over a tiger or wrapped the cut with a hanky or something, so there might be a lot of blood that we’re not seeing. Or it could be one drop. Not enough information to tell. We’ve got it in line for DNA processing, but you know what the line’s like.”

“Yeah.” The DNA-processing line was short enough that they’d have evidence for a trial, but long enough that it wouldn’t do much for solving the case, even if they eventually got a hit from the DNA database. “Why would you think anyone would wrap a cut with a hanky?”

“Well… to stop the bleeding.”

“But why with a hanky? Who do you know carries a hanky?” Virgil asked.

“It’s just an expression, Virgil,” Sawyer said.

“You know who wraps wounds with a hanky?” Virgil asked. “People on TV. Somebody gets cut on TV, they’ve got a hanky. In real life, no hanky. You need a different expression: wrapping the wound with toilet paper. Or Dunkin’ Donuts napkins. Something more intelligent than a hanky.”

“Right, I’ll put it on top of my lists of things to do,” Sawyer said. “ Get new expression .”

“It’s like people getting hit with lead pipes,” Virgil continued. “Who gets hit with lead pipes? They haven’t made them for a hundred years. There aren’t any lead pipes around, except maybe in water mains, and water mains are way too big to hit anyone with. Copper pipes, steel pipes, iron pipes, plastic pipes-no lead pipes. Nobody gets hit with lead pipes.”

“I’ll write that in my book of Virgil Flowers tips,” Sawyer said, exasperated. “Now get out of my hair.”

–

Sandy, the researcher, saw him in the hallway, said she’d called several van-rental places, and there’d been a lot of vans out during the period that covered the thefts. Not all had been returned, but of those that had, nobody noticed any blood, tiger hair, or anything else unusual, and some of the vans had already been re-rented. She was compiling a list of names of the renters.

“The problem is, if they drove here from California or Washington, they might have rented the vans out there,” she told Virgil.

“Why would they be from California or Washington?”

“Because of where you find the traditional medicine shippers dealing with China. Those tigers could be in Salt Lake by now, if they’re on the back of a tractor-trailer.”

“Could you get me the names of these shippers?” Virgil asked.

–

Davenport called. He had a phone number for Toby Strait, his contact in the animal parts underworld. “His girlfriend said he’s hiding out from an animal rights activist who shot him last year.”

“I heard something about that… didn’t remember his name, though. The girlfriend didn’t have a phone number for him?”

“She says not, though she’s probably lying,” Davenport said. “She also told me that he’s moving away from black bear gallbladders and is focusing more on reticulated python skins. She says he can generate more volume with snakeskins with less personnel trouble.”

“Pythons? Where does he get them?”

“Mostly from former dairy farmers who’ve got heated barns,” Davenport said. “They feed them, grow them, kill them, and skin them. He deals the hides to Italy.”

“Minnesota dairy farmers are raising snakes? Sounds nasty,” Virgil said.

“It is nasty. Strait’s not a nice guy. And he’s a little fucked up right now. That animal rights woman shot him through both legs and he’s hobbling around. They let her out on bond and he thinks she’s looking to solve both her problems. If she shoots him through the heart next time, she gets rid of an animal abuser and the primary witness for the first shooting.”

“You think she’s really doing that? Hunting him down?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Davenport said. “Her name’s Maxine Knowles and she lives somewhere up by Monticello. You better find him quick. You know, before she does.”

–

Sandy came back: “Got a name for you. Biggest shipper out of the U.S. Name is Ho, and he works out of Seattle.”

Virgil found an empty conference room that was quiet and private and called Ho. The call was answered by a woman with a soft, high-pitched voice that sounded like a child’s. She had a musical Asian accent. “Can I tell Mr. Ho who’s calling?”

Virgil identified himself, and she said, “One moment, please. I will see if Mr. Ho is in his office.”

Ho was in his office, all right, Virgil thought, as he sat listening to an orchestra version of the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby,” but was trying to concoct a reasonable lie about being somewhere else, out of touch.

To Virgil’s mild surprise, Ho came up. His voice carried no trace of any accent except maybe UCLA computer science. “This is Ho. We know nothing about it. I wouldn’t touch a tiger with a ten-foot pole. Or even a ten-foot Ukrainian.”

“Who would?”

“I don’t know. What kind of numb-nuts would kidnap a couple of endangered-list tigers? You gotta know that the cops’ll be hunting you down like you were a rabid skunk. I’d suggest you go look for lunatics and don’t call Ho.”

“Mr. Ho, uh… what’s your first name?”

“Dick.”

“Dick… really? Okay, I understand that tiger parts are used in traditional Chinese medicine.”

“That’s correct-but they don’t get the tiger parts from me. Or from anywhere in the States. Most of what’s sold in the States as tiger product comes from something else-God only knows what. Maybe alley cats. Anyway, it’s all fake. If the feds catch you shipping tiger parts into the States, you’re looking at three to five in Victorville. If you were shipping them out , and they were stolen from a zoo, you’d probably get the needle.”

“Which would maybe be one reason to kidnap a tiger in the States and keep it here?”

“Might be a reason, but it’s not a sane one. It’s crazy,” Ho said.

“But that’s what happened here. Since you deal in traditional medicine… are there people in Minnesota that would be knowledgeable in the area of traditional medicine? That you know and work with? That I could talk to?”

“Yes.” Long pause. “You didn’t hear this from me.”

“Okay.”

“Let me get my list up.” Virgil heard the rattle of a keyboard, then Ho came back: “Talk to four people. Dr. Winston Peck, MD, in St. Paul; India Healer Sandra S. A. Gupti-Mack in Minneapolis; Carolyn C. Monty-McCall, PhD, in Apple Valley; and Toby Strait of Owatonna. I can get you those addresses and phone numbers…”