Bad Blood

rearview mirror for headlights, but there was nothing there. Paranoia, she thought, and went on across town.
     
     
    VIRGIL HAD BEEN WAITING on the street behind Gordon’s house. When the car’s headlights came on, shining through the side windows of the garage, he watched through an intervening hedge as Gordon backed out of her driveway and headed west. He followed her, no lights, moving slowly, on the parallel streets, until he ran out of street, and then cut over behind her, three blocks back, saw her turn, then hurried on, went across the street where she’d turned, saw her two blocks down. Did a U-turn, and went after her.
    As was the case in Homestead, the trip was limited by the small size of the town. Four or five minutes after she left home, she stopped in front of another house, got out of the truck. Virgil was parked on the side of the road, a block away, watching, as she rang the doorbell, then apparently was invited inside.
    The question he had was simple enough: was this Lucy’s house? Had she simply come home, and lived anonymously? He thought probably not; it would have been too easy for her husband to check up on that.
    Most likely, Gordon had decided that she didn’t want to use her home phone or her cell.
    He sat and watched, and Gordon stayed at the second house for twenty minutes, then emerged, again looked both ways, searching for him, got in her car, did a U-turn, and came back past him.
    She turned back toward her own home, and Virgil started the truck, drove down to the house she’d visited, marked it in his mind, then went after her. He didn’t catch up until she was almost home: he watched her pull into her garage, then, satisfied, went back to the house she’d visited, got the street name and number.
    Rather than go back to Homestead, he drove twenty-five minutes to a Holiday Inn at New Ulm, a place he’d stayed several times, and called Davenport at home.
    “I need somebody to track a phone call for me. It was made between eight-twelve and eight-thirty. . . . I don’t have the name, but I’ve got an address.”
    Davenport took the information down and said, “You want it tonight? That could be a hassle.”
    “Tomorrow morning would be fine,” Virgil said. “I’m gonna bag out in New Ulm for the night.”
    “Running from the law, huh?”
    “Not necessarily the case—”
    “Oh, bullshit, I know all about Lee Coakley,” Davenport said. “I actually spent a little time with her years ago, right after I got on with the BCA.”
    “You can’t be serious,” Virgil said.
    “Of course I’m not serious, you fuckin’ moron. I’ve never seen the woman in my life,” Davenport said. “I’ll call you in the morning with that phone number.”
    “Hey, Lucas . . .”
    “Yeah.”
    “You got me.”
    They both laughed, and Virgil went to bed and thought about God and girl children, and why God would let happen what was happening. And he thought about Lee Coakley a little.

16
    E arly the next morning, Spooner drove over to Einstadt’s house and caught him at breakfast. “They say they’re going to investigate further, but they’re not going to charge me at this time,” she told him. “They came over and searched my house, and took my computer, but I’d cleaned the place out and cleaned the computer out, so there’s nothing to find. We’re okay.”
    Einstadt was gnawing through a six-inch stack of buttermilk pancakes and bacon, soaked in a crimson-colored berry syrup that looked like blood. He chewed with his mouth half-open, while he thought about it, then said, “What’d the state guy tell you? Flowers?”
    “I didn’t see him after the morning. And he didn’t tell me anything,” Spooner said.
    “His truck wasn’t at the Holiday overnight,” Einstadt said.
    “You’re watching him? What for?” she asked.
    “My boys check around every once in a while, just to see where he is, and who he’s talking to. He spent the afternoon talking to Coakley, if that’s what they were doing.”
    “What if they weren’t talking?” Spooner asked. “What if they were in there fucking like bunnies? So what? They’re adults, and they’re allowed. But you’re sneaking around watching them, they’re gonna catch you at it, and that won’t be good. It’s time to lie low, Emmett. That’s all we can do.”
    “Shooting Jim is what you call lying low?” he asked.
    “If I hadn’t shot him, they’d have strung you up by now, and not by your neck,” she said. “You