Shock Wave

gets utility bills at four-twenty-one Grange Street, apartment A.”
    “Thank you.”
    APARTMENT A was not exactly an apartment—it was the end unit in a town house complex, three stories tall, a two-car garage on the bottom floor, and a door. Hoping that Wyatt was still teaching, he walked up and knocked on the door, and took a long look at the lock. It was solid, a Schlage. They’d need a landlord to open it, if they got the sneak-and-peek.
     
     
    BARLOW CALLED. He’d made an appointment with a federal judge, Thomas Shaver, in Minneapolis, and with an assistant federal attorney, who’d handle the details of the warrant. Virgil gave Barlow all the information he had. “We don’t have a lot of specific information on him, but we have two things: he is one of the few people who could have gotten into the Pinnacle, and he has more than enough motive,” Virgil said. “He’s been living here for years, so he also has the detailed background to plant these other bombs: the bomb on the limo had to be local work. And, if we get it, we need to get warrants for both places—his apartment, and the farmhouse out on his property.”
    Barlow nodded. “I think we’ll get them. What are you going to do?”
    “I want to see him. I’ve got a couple of guys in town, working the city council aspect of this thing. I’m gonna get them, and stake him out. See where he goes. I can provide a stakeout on him, when we go into his place.”
    “I should be back by six o’clock,” Barlow said. “I don’t think we’ll have time to do it today.”
    “I agree. Tomorrow morning would be the first good shot at it,” Virgil said. “When you get the warrant, call me—I’ll track down his landlord, get a key for his place.”
     
     
    HE FOUND JENKINS AND SHRAKE at the Holiday Inn, in separate rooms, reading separate golf magazines, got them together in the lounge. They said they’d been the front men on the three arrests, leading a group of sheriff’s deputies. They’d seized all of the accused city councilmen’s financial records, and their computers, and the same with the mayor.
    “It looks like your pal—whoever it was—who suggested the deal would have something to do with golf carts was on the mark,” Shrake said. “The first thing they found on Gore’s computer was a sale of two hundred golf carts to a Sonocast Corp., which happens to be a supply subsidiary of PyeMart.”
    “Excellent. Is Gore still in jail?” Virgil asked. “Or out?”
    “She’s out. All of them are. They’ve got too much political clout to stay in. Gore paid cash, the other two put up their houses as bond.”
    “You gonna get the PyeMart guy?”
    “Don’t know,” Jenkins said. “It looks like the way it worked, PyeMart bought the golf carts from Gore, who spread the profit around . . . keeping most of it for herself. That’s what this Good Thunder told us. She took a quick look at the tax records, and she seems like a pretty smart chick.”
    “But there’s no law against buying golf carts,” Shrake said. “If Gore doesn’t crack, and give us exactly the quid pro quo, we might not get him.”
    “That’s bullshit,” Virgil said. “You’d need a retarded jury not to convict.”
    “What’s your point?” Jenkins asked.
     
     
    VIRGIL TOLD THEM ABOUT WYATT, about how the paraglider revelation had worked out.
    Shrake said, “So I solved two cases in one day.”
    “That’d be one interpretation,” Virgil said. “But now, we actually got to work. We’ve got to keep an eye on this guy. I want to pick him up now, put him to bed, get him up tomorrow, take him to work.”
    “We can do that, if we can take along the golf magazines,” Shrake said.
     
     
    WYATT, VIRGIL THOUGHT, should either be home, or arriving home soon. He gave the other two Wyatt’s address, and they agreed to stay in touch by cell phone. Virgil let them cruise the house first: Shrake called back to say there were no lights in the windows. “We found a place we can park a block away, by a ball diamond, not too conspicuous, and still see his place. We’ll sit for a bit. There’s a game about to start.”
    Virgil took the break to stop at a McDonald’s and get a cheeseburger and fries. He was still there, reading the paper, when Barlow called: “We got the warrant. The judge thought we were a little weak on details, but he gave us six days. He says if we can’t do better in six days, he won’t give us an extension, and we’ll have to give a