“Never liked that guy,” Jim Waller said, flipping down the footrest of the recliner and getting to his feet. He eyed his oldest daughter and shook a finger at her, “If I ever see that kid around here . . .” He let the sentence trail off, but by the looks of it, Katy got the message just about the time Johnson showed up.
What Jim and Ann Waller wanted Virgil and Johnson to do was to go up the road and confront Bart Weeks, the father of Phillip.
Virgil said, “I’m not a cop here in Montana, I’m just a guy. A guy who’s up here to fish.”
“But you’re a police officer,” Ann Waller said, glancing nervously at her husband. “Wouldn’t someone with authority scare him? Make him tell the truth?”
“It’s not like it looks like on TV. People just don’t open up to cops because they flash a badge.”
“Jim and I, we’re not good at confrontation.”
“We aren’t?” her husband asked, perplexed. Scratching at his beard stubble, he glared at his wife, and Virgil noticed their younger daughter, Liz, shrink farther into the shadows.
Hiding?
“We have a business to run,” Ann reminded him. “Neighbors to get along with.”
“Hell, we’re great at confrontation,” Johnson said with a wide grin. “We’ll be glad to do it.”
“We will?” Virgil asked.
“Absolutely. C’mon, it’s raining, we got nothing to do. Don’t be a pussy.” Johnson glanced at Ann and Katy and said, “Sorry about the language there.”
VIRGIL DIDN’T WANT TO DO it. “That’s why I go fishing, so I don’t have to do this shit,” he told Johnson as they trudged back to the cabin to get their rain suits. The drizzle had increased, puddles widening in the sparse gravel yard, the big Montana sky opening up. “I don’t appreciate you signing me up for this shit.”
“But we’re helping out a hardworking girl,” Johnson said. “I don’t understand how you could even think of saying no.”
“Fine.” But Virgil was still burned.
When they got out to Johnson’s Escalade, Katy, now in a rain jacket herself, was leaning against the rear passenger-side door.
“I’m going,” she said.
There was some talk about that, but she went, because she said if they didn’t take her, she’d walk, and making her walk in the rain would be mean.
The Drake place consisted of a two-story log cabin that sat on a high rocky bank over the trout stream. A hundred-yard-long pool backed up into a natural stone dam. There were two outbuildings. A machine shed, in which they could see the back of a BMW truck and an older Jeep, and another square log building that might be a guesthouse. A huge silvery RV was parked on a gravel spur off the house and a wrist-thick black electric cable snaked from the house to the RV.
“Nice place,” Johnson said, nodding his approval.
“Yeah, he’s rich, Drake is,” Katy said. “The Weekses live right at the end of the road, a little farther.”
They drove on and found the Weeks place, a broken-down single-wide mobile home set up on concrete blocks, well back in a notch in the woods. A stream of smoke seeped out of a can-size chimney on top. Virgil pulled in, and they all got out. He led the way up to the front door, climbing the graying stoop while Johnson and Katy waited below, and rapped on the door.
He heard feet cross the floor inside, and then a man yanked the door open, peered out, saw Johnson and Katy behind him, looked back at Virgil and asked, “Who are you?”
Weeks was a tall, thin man, with ropy muscles in his arms and neck, big battered hands, and small suspicious blue eyes.
“I’m with the MBCA,” Virgil said.
“What the hell is that?”
“The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Minnesota?”
And Virgil gave him a look at his badge.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Y’re a long way from home.”
He ignored that and said, “Katy Waller here lives and works down at the Wallers’ ranch.” He turned and motioned at Katy. “Somebody stole more than six hundred dollars from her chest of drawers, probably last night. We’re hoping that Phillip Weeks could help us figure out who took it.”
“Can’t help you,” Weeks said. “Little asshole ran off last night, said he ain’t coming back, took his clothes and he’s outta here. And he ain’t coming back. He shows up here again, I’ll kick his ass and throw him right back out. Time he was workin’ on his own anyway.”
At sixteen. Sure.
Weeks started to close the door, but Virgil said, “Do you know if he took the money?”
“Shit. I don’t know about any money,” Weeks said. “I didn’t take it, and I told you, he’s gone. Now get off my fuckin’ porch.”
“Do you know where he might be headed?”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a shit.”
A Montana cop might have had more to say about that, but Virgil didn’t, because he wasn’t one. Weeks slammed the door and Virgil backed down the steps and said to Katy, “I think I believe him. I don’t have any resources here to try to track the kid. If he really took off with that money, he could be on a Greyhound halfway to California or Seattle by now.”
“Goddarnit,” she groaned. “I was gonna buy clothes.”
“On the way out,” Virgil told Johnson, “let’s stop at the Drake place. I’ll ask if anybody talked to Phillip before he left.”
Back down the short road Johnson pulled in behind the RV, gave a low whistle, and said, “A Rosestone recreational vehicle. Never seen one in the flesh, but I thought about buying one of ’em. Those are the Cadillacs of RVs.”
“But you’ve got the Cadillac of Cadillacs, why would you want the Cadillac of something else?”
“Think of where you could go with that thing,” Johnson said, eyeing the big rig, practically salivating.
“No place too far from an interstate highway or a gas station,” Virgil said. “Almost as close to nature as Grand Central Station.”
Virgil and Katy walked up to the door of the cabin, while Johnson made his way slowly around the RV, giving it a closer look, running his fingers over the smooth finish. Virgil knocked, and a minute later, a youngish, soft-faced man opened the door, looked out, and asked politely, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Drake.”
“I’m Michael Drake.”
He was an inch or so over average height, slender, and older than he looked at first impression. Somewhere around forty-five, he was wearing black slacks with pleats, a black dress shirt, and tasseled black loafers. An expensive-looking watch circled one wrist, a turquoise bracelet on the other.
Virgil told him about the missing money and looking for Phillip Weeks, and halfway through the explanation, Drake started shaking his head. “I haven’t seen Phillip at all this trip. Don’t see him much anyway.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Have you asked his father about him? He lives with Bart.”
Drake hitched his chin in the direction of the mobile home.
“Yeah, not a lot of help. He thinks Phillip might be off looking for a job.”
There was a fuss out at the RV. A small, round woman in jeans and a sweater had come to the back door. Her short, dishwater hair was spiked and she wore half glasses. Her eyes, over the lenses, were focused like icy lasers on Johnson. “You get away from there. You hear me? Move. Who the hell are you?”