The second blond, Bill Houston, was a fifty-five-year-old bachelor and had no specific alibi for nine o’clock on Thursday.“Thursday is church night for me. I never miss, but I’m there only from four to eight. We run a food bank from four to seven, then we have the service, and we get out around eight. After that, I walk back to my apartment and watch TV and go to bed.”
“So you’re religious?”
“Somewhat religious. The pastor runs a program for alcoholics, and they got me to stop drinking twelve years ago. I’m grateful for that: they gave me my life back. So, church every Sunday and Wednesday, plus the food bank and the short service on Thursdays.”
Virgil thanked him and left, scratching his head. He’d check, but he was sure that neither Cambden nor Houston had killed Hemming.
—
After thinking it over for a moment, he took his phone out and called the number that Jesse McGovern had used to call him—and got nothing. She’d pulled the batteries on her phone. He called Jenkins and asked, “Where are you guys?”
“We’re out west of Trippton, setting up to go into this farm. You want to join in?”
“I’m thinking I might. When are you gonna hit it?”
“We’re sitting here in our truck, talking to Margaret. We’re only about a half mile away... probably two or three minutes.”
“Give me the location, I’ll meet you there. See what you get.”
—
The farm was seven miles west of Trippton, up beyond the river bluffs and back in the hills of the Driftless Area. The farmhouse was a shabby ranch style, with yellow siding overdue forpaint. The barn behind it was as shabby as the house, but dirty white instead of yellow. The snow outside the barn’s main doors was covered with tire tracks, but none of the tracks went into the barn. A small access door to the right of the main doors appeared to have a lot of foot traffic.
The farm’s fields were actually cut into the hillside behind the house; a small apple orchard stretched along the road.
When Virgil arrived, Jenkins, Shrake, and Griffin were standing outside the barn, and a woman in a heavy sweater, arms crossed over her chest, was walking away from them. When she saw Virgil getting out of his truck, she stopped, glared at him, and went into the house; one of the women who beat him up, Virgil guessed. Virgil bumped gloved knuckles with Jenkins and Shrake, said hi to Griffin, and asked, “What’d you get?”
“To use official law enforcement terminology, ‘jack shit,’” Shrake said.
“There’s a big bare spot in the middle of the barn, and a dozen chairs, but not a single doll in sight.”
Jenkins said, “We talked to Miz Homer there, but all she said was she wants a lawyer. End of story.”
Griffin was fuming. “You can tell something was going on in the barn. All those chairs?”
“There’s a propane heater in there, but the heater’s cold and the barn’s cold, so if that’s where they were working, they weren’t working for a while,” Jenkins said. “The farm lady said they had a barn dance, is why they have the chairs.”
“She’s lying, it’s obvious,” Griffin said. “Who’s going to a barn dance here in the middle of winter? That’s crazy.”
“Probably. What are you guys going to do?” Virgil asked.Relieved in a couple of ways: nobody got hurt, and he was going to get away with it.
Jenkins shrugged. “We’re here overnight. It’s a bad trip down, the highways are a mess. We’re still good for dinner if you are.”
“I am. I’ll get Johnson Johnson, and we’ll make a deal out of it,” Virgil said. To Griffin: “How the heck did you find this place anyway?”
“Got a tip,” she lied. “I’ve been spreading some money around.”
Virgil played along. “Get back to your source. I agree that this was probably one of their assembly sites, if this farm lady is already talking about a lawyer. If your guy knew about this one, maybe he’ll know about another. The boys will be here overnight, if you can find the next spot...”
She nodded. “I’ll try. Christ, it’s cold. It’s like Siberia. Why the fuck would anybody live here?”
“We like it, that’s why,” Jenkins said. “Every March, me’n Shrake fly into LAX and drive over to Palm Springs to play golf. No offense, but L.A. is a shithole. Minnesota isn’t.”
—
On that note, they broke up, with Griffin still fuming, Jenkins and Shrake unfulfilled—they liked nothing better than a screaming raid—and Virgil satisfied that he’d worked things through. On his way back to town, Jesse McGovern called. All he saw on his phone was “Unknown,” but he’d wondered if she might call.
“We got raided this afternoon,” she said.
