The guard looked up the block, where a half dozen buildings were partially visible in the orange lights, and said, “I’ve got a station, up those steps, right inside the double doors.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “There’s a candy machine and a pop machine and a restroom right inside. If you need something, need to pee, just knock on the door, I’ll come let you in.”

“You sound like an ex-cop,” Virgil said.

“I was that, up north,” the man said. “Turns out the retirement benefits weren’t good enough to keep my head above water, so now I sit and watch TV pictures of empty parking lots. Shit job. Save your money, buddy.”

He tapped the Tahoe’s door panel a couple of times, then faded back toward the building, trailing fumes of disappointment and depression. Virgil went back to the iPad with renewed intensity, made notes for an article on possible ways to control the Canada geese population. He was thinking: weed whips.

* * *

—

Jenkins called a few minutes before two o’clock. “We’ve got movement. Looks like one guy, in a big, black Audi. He backed out of the garage, so I couldn’t see if he was carrying anything.”

“Where are you?”

“On the back side of the block, watching his taillights. Haven’t even started the engine yet.”

“Be cool.”

“I’m cool. His taillights are really distinctive. I’ll sit way back. I’ll call you when I get an idea of where he’s going. Right now, he looks like he’s headed toward Highway 100.”

“Call me.”

* * *

—

Jenkins called again. “He’s headed south on Highway 100. Not much traffic, but I’m way behind him. I gotta tell you, this Audi’s made to be followed: there’s a taillight on each side of the rear, with a bright red line across the whole back of the car that connects the two. You can see it for half a mile.”

“Then you’ve got no excuse for losing him,” Virgil said.

* * *

—

Jenkins called a third time. “East on 494. He’s coming your way, big guy. Hot damn, this is better than sex. Your kind of missionary, son-of-a-preacher sex anyway.”

* * *

—

   And again. “South on Pilot Knob.”

“Okay, he’s coming here,” Virgil said. “Don’t turn down Pilot Knob. I want his rearview mirror to be empty. There’s hardly any traffic right now.”

“I’ll go on through and circle back. I’ll come up behind your location and walk over to your truck.”

* * *

—

Virgil called Jenkins ten minutes later. “He’s not here yet. I wonder what the hell happened?”

“Maybe he is checking his rearview mirror before he comes in. Doing a random check. I better stay away for a few more minutes.”

“Do that.” As the words came out of Virgil’s mouth, a pair of car lights turned onto the street that led down to the Surface Research building. “Wait a minute, I got lights. Hang on.”

The car was moving slow, slowed even further, then made a decisive turn into the Surface Research parking lot and pulled in between the tractor-trailer and the SUV. The taillights were as distinctive as Jenkins had described them. Virgil said, “All right, that’s him. He’s here.”

“I’ll come in behind you. Give me five minutes.”

* * *

—

As Virgil watched, a man got out of the car. He was dressed all in black and was carrying a black bag. He walked around the back of the SUV, climbed the steps to the entrance doors, one of which was pushed open as he approached. He went inside.

Virgil sat and waited until Jenkins walked up, patted the hood, and then climbed in the passenger side. “We going in?”

“Not yet,” Virgil said. “Let him settle down to work.”

He took out his cell phone and called the duty officer at the BCA and asked him to call Stuart Booker, the president of Surface Research. “My phone comes up as ‘Caller Unknown,’” Virgil told the duty officer. “I wanted you to use the official line that identifies you as the BCA. When you get him, tell him to expect a call from me, Caller Unknown. Call me back after you get him . . . And if you don’t get him, call his wife.”

The duty officer called four or five minutes later. “They were sound asleep. They didn’t believe me, so I had them look up the BCA number and call me. They did and now they believe me. They’re waiting for you to call.”

Virgil called Booker, who picked up immediately. Virgil identified himself, and said, “Sir, I’m working on a complicated case that has somewhat touched upon a man who does industrial espionage. He has just gone in the back of your building in Eagan.”

“What!”

“I need your permission to go in there and hold him.”

“I live in Sunfish Lake. I’m eight minutes from there. I can bring keys.” Virgil heard him call to his wife: “Andi, get my pants and a shirt.” He then came back to Virgil. “You have my permission to go in, but I can bring keys.”

“Do you have keys for the back door, by the loading dock?”

“Yes!”

“Then let’s do that,” Virgil said. “You know where the Aerotop warehouse is? A block down from you and—”

“I know it.”

“Come in from the back, park on the other side from your building so you’re out of sight. We’ll wait for you there.”

“I’m coming. I got my pants on. I could bring my Ruger, I’ve got a carry permit—”

“No, no, no . . .”

* * *

—

Virgil sent Jenkins to sneak back around the Aerotop building to meet Booker; while Jenkins did that, Virgil called the duty officer at the Eagan Police Department and explained the situation. “We’ll be going in the back. If you can do it, I’d like you to keep a car a few blocks away, not too close, and then when I say go, have them pull into the front parking lot with their flashers on to discourage runners. There are three doors, grab anybody coming out.”

“We can do that. We got nothing going tonight.”

* * *

—