Dark of the Moon

went to that specific house, at that specific time, to do the killing. Somebody that they let into the house. No sign of struggle by the entrance. There was a glass of water by Anna’s hand, on an end table, like she’d been sitting there awhile.”
    “Was it dark?”
    “Probably. We can’t nail it down exactly, but they were wearing the clothes that they wore Friday. Russell was still in his golf slacks with a fresh grass stain on the cuff. So, sometime after they got gas at nine-twelve—take them five minutes to get out to the house after paying—and before they’d changed clothes to go to bed.”
    “Nobody saw any cars?”
    “No. I think the killer—I feel like it’s one guy—came up the Stark River on foot, and then around to the front of the house. If he stayed down in the river cut, in the rain, hell, nobody would see him. A guy who knows his way around could walk downtown, almost, without being seen, on a dark night.”
    “So tell me what you think,” Virgil said. “Who did it? Who might’ve done it?”
    Stryker was shaking his head. “I don’t know. This is too cold, for around here. There might be guys here who could do it, but it’d be hot. Lots of anger. Then they’d probably turn themselves in, or shoot themselves, or run for it. Or something . So, I don’t know. You’ll hear that all over town—that I don’t know. But nobody else does, either.”
    “All right,” Virgil said. “Give me the rest of the day to look at the paper, and I’ll talk to you tonight. I’ll be down at the Holiday, you got my cell number if you need me.”
    “Get you that key on the way out,” Stryker said. “When you’re done with the house, I’ll probably let the Gleason kids have it. They want to get it cleaned out and set up for a sale.”
    “Nobody’s touched it?”
    “We’ve been through it, but we haven’t taken anything out. Everything’s like it was, but maybe a little ruffled.”
     
    T HE EVIDENCE ROOM was a closet with a fire door and steel sides. Stryker unlocked it, pulled out a basket, sorted through a dozen Ziploc bags, got the key, and handed it to Virgil. They walked along together to the courthouse door, past a guy painting woodwork.
    When they were out of earshot, Stryker said, “Listen, you know how it is in a sheriff’s office. Half the guys working for me would like a shot at my job. If they smell a weakness…I’ll be in trouble. So. You do what it takes. You need anything from me— anything —you let me know. Any of my people drag their feet, anybody in the courthouse gives you trouble, I want to hear about it.”
    “I’ll talk to you,” Virgil said.
     
    T HEY STEPPED OUTSIDE, into the sunshine. A woman was going by on the sidewalk, fifty feet away, slender, pretty, small features, white-blond hair on her shoulders. Maybe early thirties? He was too far away to be sure, but Virgil thought her eyes might be green. She lifted a hand to Stryker and he lifted one back, and her eyes caught Virgil’s for a beat—an extra beat—and then she went along toward the corner.
    “Another thing,” Stryker said. “We’ve got this newspaper here and the editor thinks he’s the New York Times . His name is Williamson. He’s investigating my investigation, and he says I’m screwing it up. Just a heads-up in case he calls you—and he will.”
    Virgil nodded, then said, quietly, “Not to step on your train of thought, there, Jimmy, but look at the ass on that woman. My God, where do the genes come from? I mean, that’s an artwork. That’s the Venus de Milo , and you’re a bunch of goddamned Germans.”
    “Yeah,” Stryker said, a noncommittal note in his voice.
    Virgil looked at him: “What? She’s married to the mayor? You don’t even look at her ass?”
    “No, I don’t, really,” Stryker said. “And she’s not married. She’s been divorced since February. Folks figure she’s about ripe for the pluckin’.”
    “Have you asked her out?”
    “Nope,” Stryker said.
    They both looked after her as she crossed the street and went on down the sidewalk toward Main. Virgil said, “You’re divorced, Jimmy. I know you’re not hung up on your ex, because she’s in Chicago and you hate her. I mean, I hate her, and I only met her once. So here’s the woman with the fourth-best ass in the state of Minnesota, right in your hometown, and not a bad set of cupcakes, either, from what I could see…I mean, pardon me for asking, and not that it matters at all, but