“Give me until seven o’clock, and I’m not going to Ma and Pa’s.”
“We’re going to Tony’s Chicago Style. I’m looking at the radar, and this piece of snow will be out of here in forty-five minutes. The back end is already through Caledonia, but there’sanother big chunk coming after that. We got maybe an hour or two break between them.”
“All right. I’ll see you at seven. By the way, tell Clarice she was wrong.”
“About what?”
“That’s private. Just tell her.”
—
Bernie’s Books, Candles ’n More was at the south end of Main Street. A sand-and-salt truck was making its way down the street, yellow lights flashing in the night. Virgil had to follow for two blocks before he could get around it and spent the time thinking about how much additional corrosion it’d put on his aging 4Runner.
Bernie’s was a corner store, with big windows both on Main and the side street, the windows crowded with useless crap. Beeswax candles, leftover Christmas decorations at fifty percent off, a notice for a book signing by Trippton’s favorite author, which had happened three days earlier, and a sun-browned sign that said, “Explore Your Home Scent Design...As seen on TV.”
Inside, it was candles and knickknacks for the first twenty feet, smelling of cinnamon and jasmine, then a candy rack and a glass-fronted refrigerator case full of soda, three rows of paperback book racks, and finally a magazine rack.
There were three other people in the place, one of whom was talking to a tall, thin gray-faced man behind the counter who was wearing a University of Minnesota hoodie; he glanced at Virgil as he went by and made Virgil think of a vulture sitting on a branch. Virgil walked all the way to the back rack, where he picked up an outdoor magazine, glanced at a feature entitled“Swamp Gobblers in Your Sights,” and checked out the store. In the back, the scent of cinnamon had faded, giving way to the pleasant odor of newsprint.
—
There wasn’t much to see—nothing unexpected—but therewasa door leading farther into the back, as Birkmann said, right next to the magazine rack. He’d read the first three badly written paragraphs of the “Swamp Gobbler” story and was exchanging it for a tattered copy ofAutomobilewhen a man dressed in a red-checked hunting parka walked through the store to the back, looked suspiciously at Virgil, reached up above the door and pushed what must have been a hidden doorbell button—Virgil heard a buzzer bleep at the front of the store.
An electronic lock snapped on the door, and the man in the red-checked coat pushed through. Virgil stuck out a foot to block the door from closing and followed the man into the back.
Through the door, he found himself in a narrow room with a magazine rack on the wall filled with pornographic magazines and DVDs. There was a third man in the room, in a tan canvas coat, deeply engrossed in a copy ofBig ’Uns. Nobody looked at nobody else.
Virgil spotted a “Novelties” sign at the end of the magazine rack, went that way, and turned a corner. The store didn’t have much, but what they had was low quality: the usual sex toys, including some for men; edible underwear; and, best of all, a box containing a whip that appeared to be exactly like the one he’d found in Hemming’s dressing table.
He took down the box, found another box behind that: two whips, so maybe a regular item. On the bottom shelf was a rowof bondage magazines, fresh enough that there must actually be a regular clientele.
He put the box under his arm, poked around to see if he could turn up a modified Barbie, but didn’t. On the way out of the back room, he said to the man still studyingBig ’Uns, “That’s not something you see every day, huh?” and went on out.
—
James Barker was alone at the front of the shop. He peered out from his hood, taking in Virgil and his box, and said, “I don’t know you. What were you doing back there?”
“Gathering evidence,” Virgil said.
“Say what?”
Virgil held up his ID case. “Virgil Flowers, Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’m trying to trace down purchasers of this model of whip. I need to know who, exactly, bought one.”
“Hey, that ain’t right. You can’t come rockin’ in here and poke around. First Amendment, dude,” Barker said.
“The First Amendment guarantees your freedom of religion, speech, and press, that you can assemble with other people and petition the government for redress of grievances,” Virgil said. “It doesn’t mention whips, bondage and discipline, or withholding information from the police. Of course, you could take the Fifth, but that would imply that you have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?”
“Of course not,” Barker sputtered. “But... I’m not the only one selling stuff outa here. I might not know who bought what.”
Virgil looked around the store. “You’re telling me you have staff?”
“I have a woman who works the mornings...”
“Somebody bought a B and D whip from a woman in the morning?”
“It could happen,” Barker said.
“Yeah, but it didn’t, did it, Jimmy? You sold a whip to a guy, maybe more than one. I can see it in your face. And this happens to be a murder investigation.”
