Jenkins arrived twenty minutes later, parked behind Virgil’s Tahoe. Like his partner, Shrake, he was a large man, dressed in jeans, a black golf shirt, a light cotton sport coat, and black Nike running shoes. He got out of his borrowed car, got into Virgil’s passenger seat, and passed over a bag of hoagies and two Diet Cokes.

“Heard you’d been working with Shrake and Capslock.”

“Yeah . . .”

Virgil explained the situation, as he chewed through his sandwich. Jenkins, looking out at the quiet suburban street, said, “You know, somebody’s going to call the cops on us. We’re gonna have a squad car with a bunch of flashing lights. We’ll probably get shot.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think.” Jenkins got out his phone and called the duty officer at the BCA and asked him to call the Edina cops and tell them about the surveillance. The duty officer called back a moment later and said Edina had already had a call and a patrol car had been dispatched, but now had been recalled. “Told you,” Jenkins said.

“You’re way smarter than you look,” Virgil said.

“Thank you . . . A hoagie? Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

—

They ate for a while, then Virgil said, “I just had a thought.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Jenkins said. “New experiences can be valuable teaching moments.”

“Right. My thought is, if he actually does this and we think we know where he’s going,” Virgil said, “why should both of us follow him? I could run over to this paint place and already be there. That way, you could stay way back of him and wouldn’t have to worry about losing him as long as it looked like he was coming to me.”

“That is a valuable thought,” Jenkins said. “Let me get my shit”—he meant the bag of food—“and get out of here. Stay in touch. If he moves, I’ll call. And you say this guy could be a killer? So don’t . . . Uh, don’t get hurt. Or at least wait until I get there before you get hurt. That way, I can call the meat wagon for you.”

Jenkins gathered up his food, and, as he backed out of the car, said, “Call the duty officer. Tell him you’re moving and where you’ll be at, that you’ll call when you get there. You won’t want those cops coming around, either.”

* * *

—

   The Surface Research headquarters and manufacturing facility was in a flat, rectangular steel-and-concrete-block building in an industrial zone south of Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, not far beneath the wheels of the jets landing there. Virgil crossed the Minnesota River on I-494, took a right on Pilot Knob Road, another left, and was there, in a zone of sodium-vapor lights, other flat buildings, and empty parking lots.

He spotted the Surface Research building, circled it slowly. The biggest parking lot was at the front of the building, outside three separate sets of doors: one, in the middle of the building, behind three silvery flagpoles, looked like it was the formal public entrance; the other two, on opposite sides of the public entrance and about a third of the length of the building away from it, appeared to be for employees. The parking lot was empty, with not a single vehicle in sight.

There was another entrance, up some steps on the back side of the building, along with four loading docks with overhead doors. An eighteen-wheeler was backed up to one of the docks; a dark-colored compact SUV sat one space over from it. If Nash were going into the building, Virgil thought, it’d be through the back. A lone car parked in front would advertise the presence of someone in the building. A car parked between the tractor-trailer and the SUV would be virtually unnoticed.

He called Jenkins. “Anything?”

“No, but his lights are still on. He’s awake.”

“All right. I’m there, looking for a spot.”

He found his spot a block away, at a warehouse where a line of tractor-trailers was backed up to loading docks but there was no activity. He backed between two of the trucks, with nothing more than the nose of the Tahoe poking out. He got his iPad and binoculars from the back, and, after a moment’s thought, his Glock, which he checked and then put on the passenger seat.

He called the duty officer, told him where he was at, asked him to check what city he was in and to call the police there to tell them what he was doing. The duty officer called back two minutes later, and said, “You’re in Eagan. I don’t know what you and Jenkins are up to, but you must look suspicious as hell. The cops there got called by a security guard at the Aerotop warehouse, asking them to check you out.”

“I think I’m in their parking lot,” Virgil said. “But I don’t see a sign.”

“Hiding behind some semis?”

“That’s me.”

“Well, smile, because you’re on camera. I got the cop car turned around.”

“Good. Now, I got one more thing for you,” Virgil said. “I need a current phone number for a Stuart L. Booker, Jr. He’s the president of a company called Surface Research. He lives here in the cities, but I don’t know where.”

“Gimme ten minutes.”

* * *

—

He came back in ten with two cell phone numbers for Booker and one for Booker’s wife, Andi. With that, Virgil settled down to watch the back of Surface Research while he used the iPad to check wildlife magazine websites for article ideas. Two kids coming, eighteen years to save for their college educations. With his luck, they were already thinking Yale in utero.

He was focused enough on the task that he nearly had a heart attack when a man rapped on the driver’s-side window a few inches from his head. He jumped, looked, saw an elderly man in a gray security guard’s uniform peering in at him.

He dropped the window, and said, “Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry. I got a call from the Eagan police saying you were doing surveillance. If there’s any way I could help . . .”

“Not really. I’ve got a partner already in place.”

“Okay. I needed to tell you that there’ll be a lot of trucks showing up here starting about five o’clock.”

“I won’t be here that long,” Virgil said.

“Can I ask you what you’re looking for?”

“Can’t talk about that,” Virgil said.

“But there won’t be any . . . shooting . . . or anything like that.”

“No, no. And it’s not right here anyway. I’m looking up the block.”