John Sandford - Escape Clause

Virgil’s eyebrows went up: “Really? We could use the number for his phone. It’s possible the killer took it from him.”

The spokesman said, “We will give you that number. When can we see the supposed dead Hamlet?”

“Right now, if you want.”

The six exchanged a long series of glances and nods, and the spokesman said, “Take us to him.”

–

They were five minutes from the medical examiner’s office, more or less, and when they got there, Virgil didn’t bother to go in with the Simonians. Instead, he stood in the parking lot and briefed Jenkins and Shrake on the Frogtown address where the meat dryers had been delivered.

When he was done, Jenkins asked, “We don’t know who lives there, or even if they’re involved?”

“That’s right. Don’t start shooting until we’re sure,” Virgil said.

“Okay. But…”

“What?”

“What if we kick in the door and find out we’re in a roomful of tigers?” Shrake asked.

“I’ll tell you what-you shoot a tiger, you’ll have to move to Texas,” Virgil said. “Don’t wait for a moving truck or anything. Get out of the state.”

They all thought about a house full of loose tigers for a minute, then Shrake asked, “How’s Frankie?”

He told them and about Catrin Mattsson taking the case.

Shrake nodded and said, “Catrin. That’s good. The main thing is, you won’t be around to kill whoever did it.”

“If either of those guys gets killed by a BCA agent and anybody finds out that Frankie’s the girlfriend of a BCA agent… there’ll still be a shitstorm,” Jenkins said.

“Maybe a little less with Catrin,” Shrake suggested. Because of her history.

–

One of the Simonians who’d gone inside came reeling back through the door of the ME’s office into the parking lot, making gasping, crying sounds, his hands pressed to the sides of his head.

“Guess it was Hamlet,” Jenkins said.

All six of them were out in a minute and one said to Virgil, “They cut off his arms. They cut off his arms.”

Virgil said, “I should have warned you.”

The man said, “They cut off his arms.”

Another one agreed. “His arms, they cut them off.”

The first one asked, “What do I tell his mother? They cut off his arms?”

Shrake said, “There can be some… adjustments… in a good funeral home.”

“They cut off his arms…”

Virgil tried to empathize, talking quietly to the Simonians about how he’d run down the killers, devote his life to it, if necessary, but in his heart, he worried a lot more about his injured girlfriend than a dead Simonian.

The Simonian, in his view, was another asshole who’d volunteered for a Bad Thing and paid for it. Given a choice, he wouldn’t have chosen for that to happen, but neither did he really agonize over it. The other Simonians may have sensed that, turning away from him and back to each other. Their head guy gathered the others around him and said, “This cannot stand. We will avenge our brother, I promise you.”

Jenkins said, “Hey, chill out, there,” but they ignored him.

–

The Simonians never did calm down. Virgil took out his ID case, pulled out several business cards, shuffled through them, found the one he wanted, handed one to the lead Simonian, and told him to call with questions. They said they would check into a motel and the original spokesman said, “We will call you and you can call us if you find anything.” He gave Virgil what had been a blank business card, with the name Levon Simonian and a phone number written in pencil.

As they drove away from the medical examiner’s office, Jenkins said to Virgil, “Better you than me.”

“What?”

“Giving those guys your business card. They got nothing to contribute, but they’re gonna call you every fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t think so,” Virgil said.

“You saw them, how freaked out they are,” Jenkins said. “I got a hundred dollars that says they call you fifteen times a day. At least fifteen times a day.”

“You’re on,” Virgil said.

Jenkins examined him for a moment, then said, “You’re too confident.”

“Because I gave them one of Shrake’s business cards,” Virgil said.

Shrake, in the backseat, said, “What? What?”

Jenkins snorted and said to Virgil, “You’re my new role model.”

“You really couldn’t do much better,” Virgil said.

Shrake’s phone rang and Jenkins started laughing.

–

Frogtown was a low-income neighborhood in St. Paul, mostly built in the later nineteenth century for working-class families. Although a few old Victorians still spotted the neighborhood, the streets were dark and close and many of the houses were failing.

Virgil turned down one of the narrower streets, and Jenkins said, “What the fuck?”

Up ahead, not far from what Virgil supposed was the address of the target house, two white trucks were parked on the side of the street. Television trucks.

“How did they know?” Shrake asked.

“You know goddamn well how it happened,” Virgil said. “Somebody at the office tipped them off. Sandy must have mentioned it to somebody, and the word got around. I don’t think she’d have done it on purpose. Never has in the past.”

“That ain’t right,” Jenkins said. “If they were there, they’re gone-unless they’re inside waiting for us.”

“Doubt that they’d hang around,” Virgil said.

–

The address where the meat dryers had been delivered was worse than most of the houses around, a crumbling two-story with a narrow porch. Virgil stopped the truck a few houses away, and they all looked at the unlit windows of the target house until Shrake said, “Well, shit. Let’s go knock.”

“You guys got your guns?” Virgil asked.

“Does a fat dog fart?” Jenkins asked. “Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get yours.”

“You’re right,” Virgil said. “Shrake-pull up the other seat and hand me the safe.”

Shrake pulled up the backseat that he wasn’t sitting on, dug out the gun safe, and handed it to Virgil. Virgil punched in the safe’s combination and took out the pistol and the belt-clip holster.

Jenkins, watching, said, “You know, chicks don’t go for guys who carry Glocks.”

Virgil said, “Yeah, but they go for guys who carry what I’m carrying.”

“Hope you got a safety on it, whatever it is; unlike a Glock.”

“Let’s shut up now, and stop being all nervous, smile for the cameras, and go knock on the fuckin’ door,” Virgil said. “Shrake, there’s a flashlight in the door pocket. Bring it.”

They got out of the truck and Shrake muttered, “I hope a Glock can stop a tiger.”

As they walked down the street toward the target house, ignoring the TV trucks, a girl came out on the porch of a house they were passing and said, “Hi, policemen.”

Shrake said, “Hi, honey. Listen, who lives in the house two doors up? Not the next one, but the one after that? Who lives there?”

“That’s a rent.”

“So you don’t know who lives there?”

“Nobody, now,” she said.

An older woman came to the door, carrying a dish towel, and asked, “Janey, who’re you talking to?”

“Some policemen.”

The woman looked past the girl and said, “Oh. Oh, are you the policemen? We’ve been waiting for you. The television reporters said you were on the way, but that was a long time ago.”

Shrake: “Ah, boy.”

Virgil said, “We’re going to the house on the other side of your neighbor, here. Your daughter says it’s a rental?”

“Always has been,” the woman said. “Nobody there now. They moved out a couple of weeks ago.”

“How long were they there?”