Storm Front

pickup, driving toward town. Ten minutes later, Jenkins reported that she was at a Hardware Hank. Virgil took more calls as Ma headed west, and wound up at what Virgil recognized as Jones’s country place, where she met two young men. They walked around looking at the buildings, prying random boards off and examining them. Then Ellen showed up, and when Virgil checked, he found her back on his tracker tablet.
    “That’s probably a couple of Ma’s kids,” Virgil told Jenkins. “They’re gonna tear those places down for the lumber.”
    He told them to keep watching, and Jenkins said they’d have to keep the watch very loose, because there was no place to hide.
    “I have full confidence in your professionalism,” Virgil said. He went to get cleaned up.
    —
    S OMEWHERE , HE THOUGHT as he smoothed the shaving cream on, Jones was hiding out. He had help, from someone. From Ma? From Ellen? He probably couldn’t walk very far. Was it possible that somebody had checked him into a motel?
    This was the worst kind of police work, aimlessly looking for somebody who didn’t want to be found. Virgil had once spent two weeks looking for a hillbilly that everyone said was so insular, so repressed, that he was probably hiding in a culvert under a road. He was picked up six months later by Los Angeles cops, who busted him for trying to shoplift Maui Jim sunglasses from a Rodeo Drive accessories store.
    His telephone went off. He picked it up and looked at the screen: Awad. He put him on the speaker. “Yo. How they hangin’, big guy?”
    “The Hezbollah gentleman is here—he arrived unexpectedly an hour ago. He has one suitcase, and it is not so good. It is this ultra-suede. I think he has no money.”
    “Is he staying with you? Or in a motel?”
    “With me, unfortunately. I sleep on the couch. He is locked in the bathroom even now, in the shower.”
    “It’s very important for everybody’s future to tell me if he has an appointment,” Virgil said. “You understand?”
    “Clearly,” Awad said. “Would you like his car and license plate number?”
    “That would be nice,” Virgil said. “You’re an excellent spy.”
    —
    A BREAK ? M AYBE .
    The Turks had met Jones, had seen the stone, but hadn’t coughed up any cash. Maybe they didn’t have any. Maybe this guy wouldn’t have any, either, and the whole scam would fall apart.
    He continued shaving, and a moment later the phone rang again. It was Scott, the Mankato investigator who’d been at the park and at the hospital. Virgil put him on the speakerphone. “Yeah? You get him back?”
    “No, but you know those Turks?”
    “Yeah. How they doing?”
    “I imagine they still hurt a little—some of that shot got in pretty deep, and had to be dug out. Anyway, they called me and said they wanted to talk to you, since you’re the state big shot.”
    “Don’t be bitter,” Virgil said. “You know what they want?”
    “No, but they’re waiting at the motel. I said you’d rush right over.”
    “Well, you’re right. I will.”
    Virgil finished shaving, picked out a fine old Wilco shirt, pulled it on, with his jeans, boots, and tan linen sport coat, and headed out the door. Hot. Sun. Went back inside for the straw cowboy hat, got in the truck, put on his aviators, and felt complete. On the way downtown, he stopped at Jones’s house, used his key to open it, took a fast lap around the place, found it empty, checked the garage to make sure the Xterra was still there—it was—and continued on his way to the Holiday Inn.
    —
    W HAT THE T URKS had to say was interesting, in its own, non-problem-solving way. Virgil knocked on the motel room door, and the small Turk answered, looked back into the room and said, “Here is the Virgil.”
    “Send him in.”
    Virgil stepped in, and found the big Turk buttoning his shirt. Their suitcases sat on the two beds. They were open, but fully packed. “You are this fucking Flowers,” he said. “We hear this from Officer Scott. But this is a friendly saying, correct?”
    “I hope so,” Virgil said. “You asked to see me?”
    “This is also correct,” the big Turk said. “We are announcing that we going home. To Istanbul. We do not buy the stone, we do not talk to Jones. Our plane is at four o’clock, so we must hurry.”
    “I think this is a wise decision, although I’m not one hundred percent sure that I believe you,” Virgil said. “Speaking only in a friendly way.”
    “I shall announce to you why we