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 that's straightened out now," Davenport said. "What's the story on the girlfriend?"
"Still thinking about her," Virgil said.
"Okay. Stay in touch."
OWEN' S HOUSE SAT at the crest of a hill. A fifties-era ranch-style, the house had a later wing stuck on one end, with a garage and a shop building in back, on what Virgil thought might be ten acres. At the top of the gravel driveway, Virgil saw a man in jeans and a T-shirt watching him from the edge of a stand of sweet corn in a sprawling hillside garden. Owen, he thought.
He parked beside a Chevy pickup, got out, looked around-the whole country smelled like fresh-cut hay and dry gravel-then walked up to the front door. The inner door was open, and he knocked on the screen door. He could hear music playing inside, but couldn't identify it. A fiftyish brown-haired woman came to the door, wiping her hands on a towel, and peered through the screen. She smiled and asked, "Can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension," Virgil said. "Is Mr. Owen around?"
"Oh, boy," she said, the smile sliding away. "Is this about Erica?"
"Yup. I'm interviewing people from the agency," Virgil said.
"All of them, or some of them?"
"Several of them, anyway," Virgil said. "I just came from talking to Mark Sexton."
"That little shit," she said. "He probably told you that Ron did it."
"No, he didn't-but…" Virgil scratched at the screen. "I really need to talk to Mr. Owen. You're welcome to listen in, if you want. I'll tell you that Barney Mann says that Mr. Owen had nothing to do with Miss McDill's death."
"He's right-well, I do want to listen in." She pushed through the door and said, "C'mon. He's out in the garden."
OWEN WAS SHUCKING the last of the summer's sweet corn. He was wearing Oshkosh overalls and a T-shirt, a self-conscious hobby farmer. He nodded when Virgil and the woman walked up, and asked, "Police?"
Virgil identified himself, and the woman said, "The Sextons."
"That figures," Owen said. He asked Virgil, "You want some sweet corn? We've got too much for the two of us, and not enough to freeze."
"I'd take a few," Virgil said. The corn smelled sweet and hot in the light breeze playing through the plot; but it was a shade too yellow, and might be a little tough. Good, though. He said, "You know what I'm doing. Were you here in the Cities night before last?"
Owen nodded. "Yeah. I worked until six at the agency, then came home." He named a few people who'd seen him working late. "I wouldn't have killed her anyway. I wouldn't kill anybody, for any reason."
Virgil nodded. "The Sextons said you hunt. Whoever killed Miss McDill was good with a rifle."
"How did it happen, exactly?" Owen asked. Virgil told him, and Owen said, "Sounds local, to me. You can look at all the Google Earth you want, and it won't tell you about wandering around in the North Woods. And one shot, right between the eyes?"
"Yeah."
"The thing about that is, it was either an accident, or maybe there was another shot that you don't know about, and she looked at it, and caught the second one… or the guy's crazy," Owen said, shucking the green leaves off another ear of corn. He exposed a corn worm, cutting down through the kernels, snapped off the worm-eaten end, dropped it, and crushed it with a boot. "Why would you take a high-risk shot like that, when her whole heart-lung area was right there?"
"Don't know," Virgil said. The question hadn't occurred to him. "Maybe she was an amateur, and thought the head was the natural place to aim."
"She?"
"We think the shooter might have been a woman," Virgil said.
"So you really didn't think it was me?" Owen asked.
"Nope. But everybody said you didn't like her, that she might be planning to fire you, so I had to check," he said. He glanced at the woman and said, "I mean, maybe your wife shot her."
The woman said, "I don't even kill mice. I take them outside and let them go."
"And you were here the night before last?"
"I was at work until five, at Highland Junior High," she said. "I'm a teacher. I had after-school volleyball."
Virgil smiled: "I thought it was local, myself…"
To Owen: "If you had to pick out one woman, that you know of, who was most likely to shoot McDill, who'd you say?"
Owen thought for a couple of seconds, scanning Virgil's face, and then said, "Jean."
"Who's Jean?"
"That's me," the woman said. "I really didn't like that bitch."
They talked for a few more minutes: Owen didn't know anybody at the agency, he said, who'd kill McDill.
"It's some backwoods redneck antigay thing," he said. "I'll bet you a hundred bucks that some backwoods guy did it. I was watching a football game once, at Palachek's up in Milaca, and somebody said something about one of the quarterbacks being gay, and this redneck guy said, 'I'd kill a queer,' and he meant it."
"Wonder if he'd think the same about a lesbian?" Virgil asked.
"Why would a lesbian be different?"
"Lesbian's not a threat to a straight guy," Virgil said. "Some straight guys have fantasies about lesbians."
Jean checked him: "Sounds like you have personal experience in that area."