Heat Lightning

Tai had bought at a sporting goods store—and clicked it four times.
    Two seconds later, listening, two quick clicks.
    She said the same word three times: break break break.
    Phem looked up when he heard the critical abort code, then down the hill at the country club. “What?”
    “We have a problem,” Mai said. She pointed down the hill and said, “See that long blond hair?”
    “Virgil,” Phem breathed.
    One minute later, Tai slipped into the driver’s seat.
    Mai said, “Go.”

23
    SHRAKE WAS on a date and nobody knew where, and Jenkins said that he never took a cell phone with him because somebody might call him on it. Jenkins had been in a sushi bar, eating octopus and drinking martinis out of a flask, though he said he was totally sober and could be there in ten minutes. Del’s wife was pregnant and going to bed early, so Del had no problem and could be there in fifteen.
    Two extra guys, Virgil thought, should be enough. They agreed to meet at the Pomegranate, a once-trendy salad-and-dessert place seven blocks from the Sinclairs’ condo. Virgil had forgotten to eat, and suddenly realized that he was starving. He got an apple salad and a piece of carrot cake and wolfed them down, saw Jenkins go by in his Crown Vic, looking for a parking place, and then Del in his state Chevy.
    They arrived together. Jenkins got a chocolate mousse and Del said he wasn’t hungry, and Del asked, “What’re we doing?”
    “We need one guy on the back, by the porch. I can point it out from the back side of the house—the condo’s an old house, and it’s got porches on the ground floor. It’s almost like a bunch of town houses. The other two of us go to the front door. The back-door guy is whichever one of you can run fastest.”
    Del looked at Jenkins and said, “You’re pretty quick on your feet.”
    “Yeah, I can do it.”
    Virgil said, “There’s a possibility that these guys are involved in the lemon killings . . . a good possibility. They at least know something about them. So we gotta take care. Know where your weapon is; somebody’s a professional killer. Stay on your toes.”
    “You think . . .” Del’s eyebrows were up. “Maybe some armor?”
    “If you want, but I don’t think it’s necessary,” Virgil said. “It’d be weird if there were any shooting right there. I mean, this guy is semi-famous.”
    “But the daughter is an impostor,” Jenkins said. “Maybe she’s another Clara Rinker.” Clara Rinker had been a professional killer working for a St. Louis mobster, who’d been taken down by Davenport’s team a few years earlier. She was believed to have killed thirty people.
    “Look—do what you’re comfortable with,” Virgil said, gobbling down the last of the carrot cake. “My sense is, we won’t be doing any shooting. But know where your weapon is. If we go in, and there are a couple of Vietnamese guys there . . . then take care. Take care.”
     
 
THEY CIRCLED Sinclair’s block and Virgil pointed out the back of the condo, the porch where Sinclair was working. “There’s somebody in there,” Jenkins said.
    Virgil dug out his binoculars and put them on the lighted porch.
    Sinclair was there, bent over a laptop. “That’s him,” Virgil said. As Virgil watched, Sinclair sat up and stared straight out into the night for three seconds, five seconds, and then went back to the laptop.
    The house that backed onto the condo was also lit. Jenkins said, “I’m gonna knock on the door there, tell them what’s up, so they won’t be yelling at me and calling St. Paul when I sneak through their yard.”
    “All right. Call me when you’re set,” Virgil said.
    Del followed Virgil around the block and they parked, facing in opposite directions in case they had to move quickly, and they met at the walk going up to the condo, waited, and Virgil took the call from Jenkins: “I’m crossing the fence now. I’ll be in position in ten seconds. Sinclair is still in the window.”
    Virgil looked at the names on the mailboxes outside the apartment, picked another one on the first floor, and buzzed. No answer. He waited ten seconds, then buzzed a second one, labeled “Williams.” A moment later, a woman answered: “Yes? Who is it?”
    “Virgil Flowers and Del Capslock. We’re agents of the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Could we speak to you for a minute?”
    “What’s happened?” she asked, a streak of fear in her voice. “Did something happen to Laurie?”
    “We