John Sandford - Escape Clause

“I already got an ID on the owner. It’s a Zhang Min, sixty-five, of San Marino, California, if that means anything to you,” Rudd said.

“It doesn’t yet, but file that. I’m on 94, going across the river bridge. I’ll be in downtown Minneapolis in a couple of minutes.”

“Then you’re ahead of us. You ought to get off at Eleventh Street and find a place to pull over and wait. He’ll go right past you if he’s going into town, and if not, you can jump back on the highway right behind us and catch up.”

“I’ll do that. Stay with me.”

Five minutes later, Rudd called back. “He’s getting off. He’s coming into town. Where are you?”

“Right by the Hilton.”

“He’ll be coming by in fifteen seconds.”

–

The Ferrari went by a few seconds later and Virgil pulled out behind it. The Ferrari driver apparently knew where he was going, as he threaded through town with Virgil a few cars back. They caught a couple of stoplights together, and the Ferrari eventually turned into the Loews Hotel.

Virgil called the patrolman, who was a few more cars behind him, and asked, “Let’s not ticket him. Not yet. Can you hang around for a while?”

“Sure. I already talked to the boss and he’s okay with it,” Rudd said.

“Then stick your car where they can’t see it from the hotel, I’m going to take a look at these guys.”

A valet met Virgil at the front entrance, as another one spoke to the Ferrari’s driver. “Checking in?” the valet asked.

Virgil held up his ID. “No, I’m checking out, so to speak. Leave the car here. I’m taking my keys. I’ll move it if I’m going to be more than five minutes.”

“Well, you are The Man,” the valet said.

–

Virgil got his travel bag out of the back and hurried to the hotel door, slowed to an amble, and came up behind the two Asian men. The older of the two, who looked to be in his sixties and might therefore be Zhang Min, had produced an American Express black card. The younger man was looking around the lobby; he checked Virgil, then Virgil’s bag, a tan canvas bag from Filson, dismissed him, and his eyes moved on to a better-dressed man with a diamond earring.

Another receptionist asked Virgil if she could help, and Virgil shook his head: “Waiting for a friend. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

The two Asian men got the penthouse suite and disappeared behind a bellhop pushing a luggage rack.

Virgil called Jenkins, told him where he was. Jenkins said, “Old Asian man, California, Ferrari, penthouse suite. That sounds like a client for some tiger chops.”

“I’m trying to think that without being a bigot,” Virgil said. “He could be here for our Peking duck.”

“I’m thinking not. What are you going to do?”

“Same as you,” Virgil said. “Wait.”

–

He waited for a long crappy hour, parked illegally in a handicapped spot across the street at the Target Center. Halfway through the hour, he called Rudd, the highway patrolman, and told him he could take off. Another half hour, and the valet brought the Ferrari around, and Virgil called Jenkins, who said they hadn’t seen anything of Peck, and Virgil said, “We’re moving here. If they come anywhere close to you, I’m going to want you to drop into the box. Shrake can stay where he’s at.”

“Got it,” Jenkins said.

The two Asian men walked out of the hotel and got into the Ferrari. The driver wheeled out of the parking circle and again threaded his way through town, this time out to I-94, east toward St. Paul. Virgil called Jenkins, who said he’d be waiting at Snelling Avenue, if the Ferrari got that far.

It did. Jenkins pulled onto the highway behind it, let the Ferrari move away. Virgil fell farther back. They tracked the red car all the way through St. Paul and east out of town to Radio Drive, where the Ferrari got off, took a right, and pulled into a Cub supermarket parking lot.

–

Peck seriously stank. Stank to the point where he could barely stand it.

Part of it was tiger poop, part of it was meat that was beginning to go bad, and part of it was his own sweat: with five dryers going at once in the closed-off barn basement, he was probably working in 110-degree heat. The male tiger was almost done. He’d take the night off, kill the female in the morning, and start processing her. With the female, he was thinking that he’d take only the glands, the various important organs, the eyes, and the bones. Fuck this jerky thing: it was killing him.

He’d taken to hosing himself off with cold well water, but nothing really seemed to help. He needed some kind of strong soap, he thought. Then Zhang Xiaomin called, said his father was coming to town, and wanted to see the tigers for himself. Zhang said the old man was bringing along another hundred grand.

What was he supposed to say to that? No thanks? He popped a Xanax and said, “Sure. Meet you at the same place, that Cub grocery store. If we don’t arrive at exactly the same time, I’ll see you by the battery rack. Ask a clerk for the battery rack.”

Peck was sitting toward the back of the lot staring at the “24-Hour Savings” sign on the front of the Cub store when he saw the Ferrari rolling through the lot to park in a slot near the front. Peck had wanted to be sure that Zhang Xiaomin got out of the car with an elderly Asian man, and not some marble-faced West Coast killer, as described by the late Barry King.

But an elderly Asian man got out of the Ferrari, his legs wobbling as he did so; Peck knew him from a half-dozen earlier meetings. Old man Zhang, all right. Zhang stopped to kick a tire and wave a hand at his son. He seemed to be saying a Rolls would be better than a low-slung sports job. The younger Zhang said nothing, but with his head down, led his father into the store.

Peck started the engine on the Tahoe and eased over toward the Ferrari, which had drawn a couple of Minnesotans in golf shirts, who were looking in the windows at the dashboard. “Fuckin’ dumbass and his fuckin’ Ferrari,” Peck muttered.

He parked a few slots away… and saw Virgil Flowers hop out of a 4Runner on the far side of the lot, put on a cowboy hat and some aviators, and walk toward the entrance of the Cub grocery store.

Flowers. Again. Peck slid down in his seat.

Flowers was obviously either following the Ferrari or conspiring with them. If he was conspiring with them, why would they meet here? Not so they could put the finger on Peck-Flowers already knew what he looked like.

Flowers had gotten onto Zhang Xiaomin. Somehow, some way. And that little Chinese prick would sell Peck out in a minute, if he could keep himself out of jail by doing it.

He started his truck again, swung out of the parking lot, and called Zhang Xiaomin. Zhang answered on the second ring, and Peck said, “You miserable piece of shit. Are you working with Flowers?”

“What? Flowers? What flowers?”

He was confused, and to Peck’s ear, not faking it. “Listen, a cop followed you into the store. He’s the guy who’s investigating the tiger theft. He’s tall, long blond hair, wearing a white straw cowboy hat and dark sunglasses. He’s onto you-I don’t know how. You need to buy some groceries, go back out to your car, drive back to the hotel, and wait. I will call you. We need to figure this out.”

“How could this happen?” Zhang sounded totally sincere.

“I don’t know, but we need to stay away from this guy. Go back to your hotel. Wait. Maybe… I don’t know. I will call when I think of something.”

“Oh! I saw him. He’s down the aisle, he’s looking at beer. We’re going. We’ll go back to the hotel.”

“Go.”

–

The Ferrari led Virgil and Jenkins back to Minneapolis, all the way to the Loews. Halfway back, Virgil called Jenkins and said, “Notice how fast he’s driving?”