Rough Country

definitely didn’t like me leaving—but I think her relationship with Ruth was about done. And I knew that our relationship wouldn’t have lasted, and she was smart enough to know that, too.”
    “Might there have been another relationship after you? Somebody that Ruth didn’t know about?”
    She shook her head: “I don’t know. I’d tell you, but I don’t know.”
    “If she did,” Mark said, “it wasn’t with anyone associated with the agency. Word would have gotten around—there are no secrets in that place.”
     
     
     
    VIRGIL ASKED a few more questions, but basically had written them off as suspects: their alibis would be too easy to check, so he doubted that they’d be lying. He ran out of follow-up questions, asked them for any last thoughts, and stood up.
    As he did, the baby started crying, its voice squeaking out through the intercom.
    “You’re up,” Abby Sexton said to her husband, and he hurried off. “We try to split the baby chores exactly fifty-fifty,” she said.
    She trailed Virgil to the door, and as he went out, he said, “Listen, thank you for your help, and I may get back to you.”
    She stepped a foot too close and put a hand on his triceps and said, “Do you do any clubbing? Here in the Cities? I notice you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”
    “I’m, uh, mostly down south of the Cities,” Virgil said, edging away.
    “Well, give us a call if you’re in town,” she said. “We enjoy creative relationships.”
    He bobbed his head and hastened away. Creative relationships, my ass . He really didn’t like them—and he really didn’t think they were involved in the murder of Erica McDill.
    Ruth Davies? That was a more interesting proposition. . . .
    Virgil glanced back. Abby Sexton was still on her porch, and she waved.
    He waved back, and was gone; and thought to himself, as he turned the corner, Do not imagine Mark Sexton naked in bed.
     
     
     
    NOON. He called Mann from his truck and asked, “How long is that meeting going to last?”
    “I don’t know, but it’ll be a while. People are freaking out. Everybody’ll want to talk for eight minutes, so that’ll be an hour and a half of bullshit before we get to the hard stuff.”
    “Do you have a number and address for a Ronald Owen?” Virgil asked.
    “Sure. What does Ron have to do with this?”
    “Don’t know. I want to ask him,” Virgil said.
    “That fuckin’ Sexton pointed you at him,” Mann said. Not a question. “That little weasel. Listen, I’ll vouch for Ron, if that means anything.”
    “What about John Yao?”
    “Jesus. Pointed you right at the two non-yuppie fucks in the office,” Mann said.
    “Would McDill have fired them?”
    After a minute of silence, Mann said, “Ron, probably. She didn’t like him and he didn’t like her back. John Yao, probably not. He’s got good connections in the Asian community here, and they do a surprising amount of business with us in one way or another.”
    “Mark Sexton said that his accounts didn’t amount to anything,” Virgil said.
    “That’s because Mark’s a dumbass,” Mann said. “None of John’s accounts are huge and they don’t do TV or glamour stuff—it’s all business-to-business work—but taken all together, they bring a nice lump of change.”
    “So Yao was safe, but Owen, probably not,” Virgil said.
    “Yes. And Erica and John get along,” Mann said. “Don’t know why—chemistry or something. They got along.”
    “What’s Owen’s address?” Virgil asked.
    “I feel like a rat giving you all of this,” Mann said.
    “I’d get it anyway,” Virgil said. “If Owen didn’t do it, might as well clear him out.”
     
     
     
    OWEN LIVED TWENTY MILES northeast of Minneapolis, in rural Grant Township. Virgil headed that way, got a buzz on his cell phone, looked at it: Davenport.
    “Yeah?”
    “You still in Grand Rapids?”
    “No. I’m in North St. Paul, headed out toward Mahtomedi, talking to a guy who didn’t like McDill.” Virgil filled him in on what he’d learned, and what he planned to do the rest of the morning, before heading north again.
    “Stacy and her crew started processing McDill’s house last night,” Davenport said. “They should be out there for the rest of the day. Her father’s there, you might want to check in.”
    “That’s in Edina, right?” He’d written McDill’s address in his notebook; either Edina or Eagan.
    “Yes. Her girlfriend got back last night and made a fuss, but