John Sandford - Escape Clause

“A couple people have mentioned Toby Strait,” Virgil said. “You think…?”

“No. Not Toby himself. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Toby looks at animals the way most people would look at a turnip or a cabbage. Killing doesn’t bother him. But he’s not a reckless businessman. If somebody offered him a couple of tigers, he’d do the calculation, and then he’d step back. He wouldn’t have any moral problem with killing a couple of rare tigers, but he’d see the practical problems. He’d know that if he got caught, he’d get no mercy from anyone.”

“All right. Give me those addresses and phone numbers, if you could.”

Ho produced them, and Virgil said, “Thank you,” as he wrote them down, then Ho asked, “Say, where’d you get my name?”

“Internet,” Virgil said.

“Of course. Why’d I even ask?”

–

The noon meeting at the zoo was crowded with employees, many of them in blue employee uniform shirts, with a necktie here and there. A rumbling conversation continued even after Landseer rapped on a microphone with a steel ballpoint, and finally a guy stood up and shouted, “Everybody shut up.”

Landseer said, “Thank you, Ed,” to the man, who sat down again as the talk died, and Landseer said simply, “I called this meeting so that the state agent can talk to you about the theft of the tigers. His name is Virgil Flowers and he has an exceptional record of solving major crimes, so we have high hopes he’ll get our tigers back. Agent Flowers…”

–

Virgil got up and gave his talk, and said in part, “I’m sure you’ve all heard some of the details of the way the tigers were taken out of here, probably on a dolly of some sort, maybe like the flat ones that furniture movers use. You’ve probably heard that the catnappers cut holes in the fence to get into the holding areas, or whatever you call them. You may not have heard that they didn’t cut through the lock on the gate. The lock is a good one, and we don’t believe it was picked. The thieves had a key, and the key had to come from inside the zoo. They either stole it, or somebody gave the key to the thieves. We’re hoping somebody here in the room will know of a way the key could have been stolen, might have seen some unauthorized person in the gear closet where the keys are kept, or might have heard of some unauthorized use of the keys by somebody here in the zoo. We’re not asking you to rat out a friend-we’re asking you to help us trace the key to whoever has the tigers. We need to do this quickly. Some people think the tigers may have been stolen for use in traditional Chinese medicine, which would mean killing them.”

A man asked, “Why do you think it’s Chinese medicine? Seems to me more likely that it might be anti-zoo activists.”

Virgil said, “We’re looking at those people, but there’re not many of them, and whatever they say in their literature, they don’t have a record of doing things like this. They’re more likely to chain themselves to the entry gate. We think somebody did this purely for the payday. The only way there’ll be a big payday is if the animals are processed for medicine.”

There were a few more questions and some grumbling and Virgil finished by asking for tips at the BCA website: “There’s a click-on link at the top of the page that says, ‘Select a popular function.’ If you click on that, you’ll find a link called ‘Provide a tip.’ You can do it anonymously. Mention my name or the tigers. At this point, we’d appreciate any help we can get.”

Landseer took the microphone back and said, “We need to get this done in a hurry, people. If you know anything at all, or even suspect something, please, please call Agent Flowers or leave a tip.”

–

When everybody had shuffled out of the meeting room, Landseer asked, “What do you think?”

“Hard to tell. Not a lot of enthusiasm, but all I need is one guy who saw something,” Virgil said.

Virgil didn’t expect any immediate response to the tip line, so he got out the list of contacts that he’d gotten from Ho in Seattle.

One of them, Carolyn C. Monty-McCall, PhD, lived nearby, and he decided to go with her first.

He wasn’t very familiar with Apple Valley, other than having slid off a highway into a ditch the winter before, on his way to St. Paul after a snowstorm. The town turned out to be a pleasant and fairly standard middle-class suburb, quiet streets lined with trees, basketball nets beside the driveways, three-car garages everywhere.

Monty-McCall lived on Fossil Lane in an area where all the street names began with F , which Virgil found annoying, for reasons he couldn’t quite nail down. His nav system took him off 145th Street-perfectly good name for a street, in his opinion-onto Flora Way, then onto Freeport Trail, past Fridley Way, onto Flagstone Trail, down Footbridge Way, and then onto Fossil Lane. It all seemed unnecessary and maybe stupidly precious.

Monty-McCall had a two-story cocoa-colored house with yellow trim and a stand of paper birch trees in the small front yard. A discreet sign under a front window said, “Monty-McCall, PhD,” hinting that she might take clients-patients?-at the house.

She was home.

–

Virgil rang the doorbell, heard a thump, and a moment later, Monty-McCall, wearing a quilted and belted hip-length housecoat and turquoise-colored capri pants, came to the door and peered out at him. He held up his ID and she opened the interior door and through the screen said, “Yes?”

Virgil identified himself, told her that he was looking for the stolen tigers. “I’m told you have some expertise in traditional Chinese medicine, and we’re looking for contacts in that… er, community,” Virgil said.

“Well, I didn’t take them,” she said. She was a woman of average height, perhaps forty, with heavy dark hair and a single thick eyebrow that extended across both eyes.

“I didn’t think you did,” Virgil said. “I have a list of prominent experts on traditional Chinese medicine and your name was on that list. We have some questions about that, uh, community, and we’re looking for help.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said, “but I’ll answer questions. Come in.”

Inside, she pointed Virgil at a couch and asked, “You want a glass of white wine?”

“Can’t, thank you,” Virgil said. “I’m on duty.”

“Well, I haven’t had lunch, so I’m going to have one, if you don’t mind,” Monty-McCall said.

“That’s fine,” Virgil said. She went away to the kitchen, and Virgil took a furtive look around. Not much to see: a couple of commercial semi-abstract landscape paintings, one above the couch and the other on the wall near the entry, plus the couch he was sitting on, an easy chair, a coffee table, and wall-to-wall carpeting in pale green. The room was opaque, without real personality, and maybe, Virgil thought, by design, if she dealt with clients in her home.

–

Monty-McCall came back with a frosted beer mug and a bottle of white wine. “What can I do for you?” she asked, as she unscrewed the top on the bottle.

“All I got was your name… What kind of work do you actually do?” Virgil asked.

“I’m a psychotherapist with a subspecialty in traditional medicines,” she said. “These are not prescription medicines, but rather nutritive distillations, supportive potions that help clear the body of unnatural poisons. Not drugs.”

“Are any of them derived from animals?”

“Some, but nothing that would ever come from tigers, or rhinoceros horns, or anything like that.” She poured the beer mug full of wine. “Most of the animal-based tonics come from standard meat-processing plants, as I understand it. Some kinds come from suppliers of game meats and fur processors. The few that I use I buy premade, standard, brand-name things. I don’t actually get involved in any animal processing myself.” She took a long swallow of wine, as though she were drinking a Pepsi.