“Yeah, I saw him. The guy with the Ferrari was there, and Dr. Peck came out of the house with the Ferrari guy and they were talking in the driveway, and then he went in his garage and got in his truck and pulled out. It looked like he was following the Ferrari guy somewhere.”
“Sure it was a Ferrari, and not, you know, a Corvette or something?”
“No, it was a Ferrari. Red. Driver was an Asian guy,” the neighbor said.
“You didn’t happen to see the plates on the Ferrari?”
“I did, but I don’t remember any numbers. I do know that there were too many numbers and letters on it. I think… don’t quote me on this… it might have been from California.”
“Thanks,” Virgil said. “That helps.”
“Is Peck in trouble?”
“We’re just trying to get some information, actually,” Virgil said.
“That’s what you always say when a guy’s in trouble. I’ve got kids at home after school…”
“We’re not going to shoot anybody,” Virgil said. “We want to talk to Dr. Peck about his area of expertise.”
“If you say so,” the neighbor said.
–
That was all the neighbor had. Virgil called Jenkins and Shrake and told them that Peck was gone, and about the Ferrari.
“Probably get on to the communications center and find that Ferrari in fifteen minutes,” Jenkins said. “Can’t be more than a dozen of them in the metro area, and probably only one with California plates.”
“I’ll do that, but what are you guys going to do?”
“We can sit here and watch and read our iPads,” Jenkins said. “If he shows up, we’ll call you. If not, at least we’ve educated ourselves.”
–
With no better ideas, they settled in to watch Peck’s house. Virgil spread the word about the Ferrari; forty minutes later, he took a call from a highway patrolman named Jason Rudd who was running a speed trap near the airport: “I think I got your Ferrari. Red, Asian driver, one passenger, also Asian, California plates. He’s heading west on 494. I think he just came out of the airport.”
“Can you run the plates?”
“Doing that now, but I thought you might want a little subtlety here, so I went on past him and I’m sitting on the overpass at 77. They’re about to go by me.”
“Wait a minute. The highway patrol has gone subtle?”
“We have that capacity, though we seldom need to call upon it,” the patrolman said. “Okay, he’s still on 494, out in front of me again. It’s not like I’m going to lose a red Ferrari.”
“Stay way back, see where he’s going. I’m heading that way,” Virgil said.
–
Virgil called Jenkins and Shrake, told them to stay put, and drove over to I-94 and went west. A minute later, the highway patrolman called again. “Okay, he’s on I-35 going north into Minneapolis. He’s doing about eighty, so I could pull him over anytime. Still want me to stay back?”
“Yes, but when we get to where he’s going, I might want you to block him in, get some ID, give him a ticket. We’ll talk about that when we get there.”
“I already got an ID on the owner. It’s a Zhang Min, sixty-five, of San Marino, California, if that means anything to you,” Rudd said.
“It doesn’t yet, but file that. I’m on 94, going across the river bridge. I’ll be in downtown Minneapolis in a couple of minutes.”
“Then you’re ahead of us. You ought to get off at Eleventh Street and find a place to pull over and wait. He’ll go right past you if he’s going into town, and if not, you can jump back on the highway right behind us and catch up.”
“I’ll do that. Stay with me.”
Five minutes later, Rudd called back. “He’s getting off. He’s coming into town. Where are you?”
“Right by the Hilton.”
“He’ll be coming by in fifteen seconds.”
–
The Ferrari went by a few seconds later and Virgil pulled out behind it. The Ferrari driver apparently knew where he was going, as he threaded through town with Virgil a few cars back. They caught a couple of stoplights together, and the Ferrari eventually turned into the Loews Hotel.
Virgil called the patrolman, who was a few more cars behind him, and asked, “Let’s not ticket him. Not yet. Can you hang around for a while?”
“Sure. I already talked to the boss and he’s okay with it,” Rudd said.
“Then stick your car where they can’t see it from the hotel, I’m going to take a look at these guys.”
A valet met Virgil at the front entrance, as another one spoke to the Ferrari’s driver. “Checking in?” the valet asked.
Virgil held up his ID. “No, I’m checking out, so to speak. Leave the car here. I’m taking my keys. I’ll move it if I’m going to be more than five minutes.”
“Well, you are The Man,” the valet said.
–
Virgil got his travel bag out of the back and hurried to the hotel door, slowed to an amble, and came up behind the two Asian men. The older of the two, who looked to be in his sixties and might therefore be Zhang Min, had produced an American Express black card. The younger man was looking around the lobby; he checked Virgil, then Virgil’s bag, a tan canvas bag from Filson, dismissed him, and his eyes moved on to a better-dressed man with a diamond earring.
Another receptionist asked Virgil if she could help, and Virgil shook his head: “Waiting for a friend. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”
The two Asian men got the penthouse suite and disappeared behind a bellhop pushing a luggage rack.
Virgil called Jenkins, told him where he was. Jenkins said, “Old Asian man, California, Ferrari, penthouse suite. That sounds like a client for some tiger chops.”
“I’m trying to think that without being a bigot,” Virgil said. “He could be here for our Peking duck.”
“I’m thinking not. What are you going to do?”
“Same as you,” Virgil said. “Wait.”
–
He waited for a long crappy hour, parked illegally in a handicapped spot across the street at the Target Center. Halfway through the hour, he called Rudd, the highway patrolman, and told him he could take off. Another half hour, and the valet brought the Ferrari around, and Virgil called Jenkins, who said they hadn’t seen anything of Peck, and Virgil said, “We’re moving here. If they come anywhere close to you, I’m going to want you to drop into the box. Shrake can stay where he’s at.”
“Got it,” Jenkins said.
The two Asian men walked out of the hotel and got into the Ferrari. The driver wheeled out of the parking circle and again threaded his way through town, this time out to I-94, east toward St. Paul. Virgil called Jenkins, who said he’d be waiting at Snelling Avenue, if the Ferrari got that far.
It did. Jenkins pulled onto the highway behind it, let the Ferrari move away. Virgil fell farther back. They tracked the red car all the way through St. Paul and east out of town to Radio Drive, where the Ferrari got off, took a right, and pulled into a Cub supermarket parking lot.
–
Peck seriously stank. Stank to the point where he could barely stand it.
Part of it was tiger poop, part of it was meat that was beginning to go bad, and part of it was his own sweat: with five dryers going at once in the closed-off barn basement, he was probably working in 110-degree heat. The male tiger was almost done. He’d take the night off, kill the female in the morning, and start processing her. With the female, he was thinking that he’d take only the glands, the various important organs, the eyes, and the bones. Fuck this jerky thing: it was killing him.
He’d taken to hosing himself off with cold well water, but nothing really seemed to help. He needed some kind of strong soap, he thought. Then Zhang Xiaomin called, said his father was coming to town, and wanted to see the tigers for himself. Zhang said the old man was bringing along another hundred grand.