Mad River

repetitive, so that cameramen could get a shot of them asking and Virgil answering.
    That done, Virgil said, “We’re finished,” and walked back to his truck, where Jenkins had been waiting. Halfway back, Ignace cut him off and said, “I’ve got an exceptionally reliable source at Stillwater who said you did a focus group there, about where Sharp and Welsh might have gone from the robbery. Lo and behold, you and three other guys found this place, while two hundred people were looking elsewhere, and didn’t come up with jack shit. That’s a pretty interesting story, Virgil.”
    “I really can’t talk about that right now,” Virgil said.
    “Well, I’ve got all the information I need, and I’m going to write about it tomorrow morning, unless you say you’ll talk to me later,” Ignace said. “If you talk to me later, I’ll hold off until then.”
    “You write what you want,” Virgil said, “but if you write that tomorrow morning, and it pisses off the people I’ve got to work with, then I will talk about it later . . . but not to you. I’ll talk to Channel Three and the
Pioneer Press
.”
    “It’s a shame you’re taking that attitude, because that means that I’ve got to leave the decision in the hands of the production-crazed morons on the city desk,” Ignace said. “If it were just you and me making a deal . . .”
    Virgil said, “Tell you what—you hold off, and I’ll talk to you later if I can clear it with my bosses. If I can’t, then you write what you’ve got, without me. But I’ll try to talk.”
    Ignace thought about that for a moment, and then said, “Deal,” and walked away.
    •   •   •
    BACK IN THE TRUCK, Jenkins said, “Sweaty work,” and Virgil said, “Yeah,” and dug a Diet Coke out of the cooler in the back.
    Jenkins said, “Davenport called and asked what you were up to. I told him to turn on the TV. Anyway, he wants a call back, when you can.”
    Virgil called, and Davenport said, “Pretty good job on the press conference. Sincere yet uninformative.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I told Shrake he was in for a commendation, for the way he spotted that body at the Gates place.”
    “Okay. And listen, it’s been nice talking to you. I’ll get in touch again later.”
    “Virgil: that guy who beat you up, Duane McGuire. He’s hiding in his mother’s junk shop in Sleepy Eye.”
    “Sleepy Eye? I’m twenty minutes away. Give me the address.”
    Davenport said the information about McGuire came from one of his network of informants who saw McGuire leaving a Sleepy Eye convenience store with a bag of beer, heading back to his mother’s place.
    •   •   •
    THEY LEFT BOYKIN with his patrol car, and Shrake jammed himself in the backseat of Virgil’s 4Runner. Shrake said, “We’ve still got nothing to work with.”
    “I know,” Virgil said. “If Duane’s home, we’ll have to put on a little skit.”
    •   •   •
    THEY WORKED ON THE SKIT on the way over; came into town from the north, cut Highway 14 and took it down Main Street, spotted Martha’s Flea Market Creations, a small shabby shop with some lamps in the front window. They drove around the block, turned into a half-ass dirt alley that threaded behind the stores, and spotted the back entrance.
    “Probably come running out of there,” Virgil said.
    Jenkins said, “I’ll take it.”
    “Don’t get hurt,” Virgil said.
    Sleepy Eye was a fairly prosperous place, a railroad town, three or four thousand people, Virgil thought. Not much moving on a cold April day. Shrake and Virgil went around to the front of Martha’s, and parked and got out.
    Always nervous going through a door . . . but they went through, a bell ringing overhead as Virgil pushed the door open. Martha was sitting there, leaning on a glass-topped counter, reading a tabloid newspaper of some sort. McGuire was just coming into the room from the back, carrying a plate that held a piece of what looked like corn bread. His eyes met Virgil’s, and he dropped the plate and ran. Virgil shouted, “Stop,” and Martha shrieked, “Oh my God. Police, call the police,” and Virgil went through the inside door, with Shrake three steps behind him.
    Virgil could see light coming through an open back screen door and, when he got through it, found McGuire sitting in the dirt, holding his hands to his face, Jenkins standing over him. Jenkins said, “He resisted.”
    McGuire said, “Mmmpph.”
    Virgil squatted next