“Pictures?”
“Yeah. You know, photographs. Get a computer up, start pulling files, taking photos of the screen. If they’re getting close to a viable product, and he moves that stuff over to another paint company, could be a major score.”
“He’s still doing this?”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Hamm said. “Friday, Saturday, Sunday nights, when the place is empty. I thought about calling the cops, but that could lead to some awkward questions.”
“Like, how you know all this?”
“Exactly. Cops never leave well enough alone.”
“How do you know all this?”
“That’s hard to explain . . . to most cops,” Hamm said. “I’m talking to you because you took a beer on duty. I knew about Surface Research from back when I was working with Boyd. Then he screwed me on the real estate deal and I told him to go fuck himself. Still, I’m out there, looking for deals, and I hear shit from all kinds of people. That’s what I do: I hear shit. People know I used to work with Boyd, so his name comes up. He’s got another guy working with him now, and I think that guy might have talked to some people I know and the word starts leaking out.”
“Okay. You think he might be working right now?”
Hamm shook his head. “Too early. This kind of thing, Boyd would be going in after midnight or later. Two in the morning, four—those are the dead times when nobody’s around, except a few cop cars. He can get some serious quiet to work in.”
Hamm finished his beer, and Virgil did, too. Hamm asked, “You want another?”
“No, I’m good,” Virgil said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m investigating a murder, not a paint theft,” Virgil said. “Still, this is interesting. Nash sounds like a possibility. You’re the second person who’s told me that he could kill.”
“Wouldn’t bother him a bit,” Hamm said.
“I’m gonna look at him,” Virgil said, standing up. He put his beer bottle on the kitchen counter, and said, “And you keep your mouth shut.”
“Don’t worry. I want you to do good. Get me some payback,” Hamm said. “When it’s done right, payback’s a bitch, huh?”
* * *
—
Thursday night. If Hamm was right—and he did sound like he knew what he was talking about—Nash wouldn’t be making another run at Surface Research for at least twenty-four hours.
He could wait. If Nash was actually doing industrial espionage, catching him in the act would generate a lot of leverage.
* * *
—
Virgil headed back to the hotel, had dinner, stuck his head in the bar. Harry wasn’t there, but Alice was, and she asked about the case.
“I dunno. It seems to be drifting toward some kind of conclusion,” Virgil said. “Keep your eye on the newspapers.”
“I’m like everybody else,” she said. “I don’t read the papers.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Virgil stayed up late to finish the James Lee Burke novel, slept late on Friday morning, then called Trane, who was immersed in a study of Robin Jones, the attorney representing Ruth McDonald in the malpractice case. “I’ve talked to a few people and I’m having some doubts,” she said. “Turns out Jones is basically known as a chickenshit, both physically and otherwise. He would be unlikely to go after anyone physically, and I’m told he sure as hell wouldn’t be breaking into a library. He wants to be a congressman, and breaking into anything would be the end of that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep looking. I’m not quite done with him yet,” she said. “What about you?”
He told her all about Nash. “He’s at least a solid suspect. I’ve been told that he’s basically a careful criminal and knows about setting up alibis for himself. The medical convention down in Rochester sounds like an alibi to me. Goes around slapping backs, buying drinks—he’s the life of the party. Disappears at ten o’clock, but at eight the next morning there he is again. What happened between ten and eight? Nobody knows.”
“All right,” Trane said. “I’m pulling for you.”
* * *
—
Virgil went for a run around campus, browsed the bookstore in the basement of the student union, went back to the hotel, got on his computer and dug for everything he could find on Nash. Reviewed all the notes he’d taken in the past week and concluded that Nash was the best lead they’d come up with, assuming that Cohen hadn’t killed Quill and was in the process of getting away with it. He went on Google Maps satellite, spotted Nash’s house and the Surface Research factory, and the routes between them.
He talked to Frankie for an hour, about the condition of both the farm and her womb, was told that both seemed to be doing fine. Late in the afternoon, he took a nap because he suspected he’d be up all night. At six o’clock, he called Shrake, who claimed to have an absolutely critical, and possibly life-changing, date. “Jenkins wanted to go shoot some pool. That was an hour ago, so I know he’s not doing anything. I think he’s driving around town.”
“I was hoping for a less visible car,” Virgil said. Jenkins drove an aging Crown Vic. Even though cops no longer drove them because they were no longer made, the used versions still screamed “cop.”
“We’ve got a late-model silver Camry at the office that’s not doing anything but sitting in the parking lot. He could get in that and be practically invisible,” Shrake said.
“Will Jenkins fit?”
“Maybe.”
Virgil made the call, and Jenkins said, “You’re saving my life. I’m so goddamn bored I was thinking about masturbating.”
“How would that end your life?”
Puzzled silence, then, “Ah . . . No, see, the two things aren’t connected: saving my life and masturbating. I was trying to make a point about . . . Oh, fuckin’ forget it. I’ll get the Camry and meet you. Hey, how about if I stop by Jimmy John’s and get us some hoagies?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be starving by the time it gets dark,” Virgil said. “Maybe a couple of Diet Cokes.”
* * *
—
As the sun reluctantly lowered itself below the horizon—it had been a boring day—Virgil drove south to Edina, spotted Nash’s house from the street. The house showed lights all across what must have been a half dozen rooms. As he watched, one of the lights went out, so somebody was inside. He drove around the block, found a spot where he could sit and look through a couple of yards and see Nash’s garage door.