Bad Blood

they acted like they didn’t even know each other. I mean, Crocker lives all the way out in the west end of the county. He’s closer to Jackson than he is to Homestead, so maybe they didn’t know each other.”
    “So there’s no motive, that you know of.”
    “Maybe a thin one. I’ve heard, but I don’t know, that Crocker and Jacob Flood, the man Tripp killed, were childhood friends. But I know Crocker, and that seems so unlikely—for one thing, he’s way too much of a chicken to do that.”
    “Did they have any contact when Crocker processed him in? I mean, if they did the body cavity search . . . Tripp might have thrashed around some.”
    “No. He was handcuffed during the search, and Ike says his nail was broken at the time of death. He’s sure about that.”
    “Huh.”
    “You see my problem?” Coakley asked. “The guy who ran against me, who I demoted, I’m now going to investigate for murder, in what everybody, including most of the people in the department, think was a suicide,” she said.
    “I do see your problem,” Virgil said. “Let me make a phone call.”
     
     
    SHE MADE HERSELF another cup of coffee, and Virgil got on the phone to his boss, Lucas Davenport. He outlined the situation, and Davenport said, “Go on down there. We bail her out of this, we’ll own her.”
    “Not only that, but we’ll solve a vicious crime,” Virgil said.
    “That, too. I mean, we can’t lose, huh? I’ll clear you out up here,” Davenport said.
     
     
    VIRGIL PUT the phone down. “We’re good to go. If you want to head out, I’ll be a half hour or so behind.”
    “Why do they call you ‘that fuckin’ Flowers’?” she asked, leaning back against his kitchen counter and crossing her ankles. He noticed her cowboy boots had handsome turquoise details of the type called pigeon guts. “You seem reasonably straightforward to me.”
    “Cop alliteration, mostly,” Virgil said. “I didn’t mind at first. Then it started to piss me off. Now I’ve given up, and don’t mind again.”
    She cocked her head. “So it didn’t have anything to do with romantic activity . . . on your part.”
    “Good God no,” Virgil said. He gave her his third-best innocent-cowboy grin. “I’m a lonesome guy. I don’t understand it, but . . .”
    He noticed then that her pale eyes weren’t the same color: one was blue, and one was green. She closed the green one, squinting at him. “I’m a trained investigator. I sense a certain level of bullshit here.”
    “Hey . . .” Virgil said. And, serious again, “If Crocker killed the kid, it’s possible he doesn’t know about the pants. That the pants might have the kid’s blood on them. If they’re wool, he’d probably dry-clean them, so maybe we could still get them—but we gotta move fast. When you get down there, could you pull me a search warrant? I’ll pick it up coming through town. Maybe send a couple of deputies along with me? You personally ought to stay clear.”
    “I will,” she said. She turned to rinse her cup at the kitchen sink. “I’ve got a judge who can keep his mouth shut, too.”
    Virgil said, “That’s always an asset.” He watched as she fumbled the cup, and said, “If you’re seriously sleepy, I mean, the roads aren’t that good. If you want to bag out on my couch for an hour or two, you’re welcome to it.”
    She stretched and yawned and said, “Thanks, but I’ve got to keep going. I’ll see you in Homestead. Quick as you can make it.”

3
    D eep snow, with barely a nose stuck into December.
    Sometimes it happened that way, and then Minnesotans would be running around warning each other that they were about to get payback for all those warm winters. Exactly what warm winters weren’t specified, but it was that one back a couple of years ago when there was a forty-degree reading in January. Or maybe that was five years ago, and actually, they’d been freezing their asses off ever since.
    In any case, it was cold, with snow.
     
     
    VIRGIL BELIEVED THAT he might be in Homestead for a while, so he packed up his winter travel kit, which he kept in a plastic bin, and put it in the back of the truck, along with a duffel bag of winter clothes. The National Weather Service said it wasn’t going to get any warmer, which usually meant it was going to get colder.
    He wore a fleece pullover and jeans, with Thinsulate-lined hiking boots, and threw a parka and downhill-ski gloves on the passenger seat. A shotgun and a box of