Read Online Dark of the Moon by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Sandford
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will,” Stryker said.
“And if she doesn’t have anything to do with it, hell, maybe she’ll need her body guarded.”
Stryker stood up. “I’m heading out there. You want to look at her, or go see Feur?”
“I’ll go after Feur,” Virgil said. Stryker had been looking for an excuse to go out. “You can tell me what you get from Jesse and maybe I’ll talk to her later in the day.”
“Good enough,” Stryker said. “You take care.”
T HE DAY LOOKED like the day before, sunny, a touch of wind, about as nice a July day that you could hope for; four kids, two boys and two girls, were dancing along the sidewalk ahead of him, boys in dropped-crotch pants, the girls with pierced ears and noses, but there was a small-town innocence about it; testing their chops, and sometimes, forgetting, they’d hold hands. They all looked back at him a couple of times, knowing him for a cop.
Nice a day as it was, there was too much humidity hanging around, and thunderstorms would be popping by late afternoon. If it got hot enough, some of them could be bad. Nothing to do about it.
Virgil walked down to the Record , stopping at the drugstore for a sleeve of popcorn, and at the newspaper, found Williamson putting the last bit of the next day’s newspaper together.
Williamson lit up as soon as Virgil walked through the front door. “I was hoping I’d see you this morning. I called down to the motel and they said you were gone already.”
Virgil nodded. “I was hoping to poke through your library, if you’ve got one. Clippings, and such.”
“We can do that. But it’d be pretty damn ungrateful of you, if you didn’t answer a couple of questions.”
“You can ask,” Virgil said.
“You took a different attitude yesterday…”
“Well, I was in public. I’ll talk to you, but the deal is this: I talk off-the-record, and you write it like it came from God,” he said. “I might not tell you everything, but I won’t lie to you.”
“Deal,” Williamson said. He punched a couple of keys on his computer, switched out of his compositing program into a word processor, and asked, “Do you think the .357 used in the murders was one of the guns issued to the sheriff’s office years ago?”
“I have no idea,” Virgil said. Williamson opened his mouth to object, but Virgil held up a hand. “I’m not avoiding the question. I really don’t have any idea. They’re not a commonly bought weapon anymore. Most people go for automatics, because they’re on TV, and if you’re looking for hunting power in a revolver, you might go for a .44 mag or a .454 Casul. The .357s were a cop’s gun, at one time, and that’s the only reason anybody ever talked about the idea. There were a bunch of them in the sheriff’s office, and they all went away, and maybe…who knows?”
“All right,” Williamson said. “Second question: Do you think the killer is local?”
“Yes,” Virgil said.
“You want to expand on that?” Williamson asked.
“No.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not at the moment.”
Williamson said, “I’m not getting much for my clips.”
Virgil: “What time do you have to finish putting the paper together? It’s out tomorrow morning, right?”
“Can’t push it past three o’clock. I download it to the printing plant—it’s over in Sioux Falls—and pick it up at eleven,” he said. “If I push it one minute past three, they won’t give it to me until midnight or one o’clock, just to fuck with me.”
“All right. At two o’clock, you call me on my cell phone,” Virgil said. “You might have the story by then, but maybe not. But it would be…your lead story.”
Williamson’s eyebrows went up. “The Judd fire is the lead story.”
“Two days old. Everybody knows it,” Virgil said. “This other story is known by damn few, and you’d sure as hell wake up the town tomorrow morning, if you printed it. But if you give me up as the source, you’ll never get a word from me for the rest
“And if she doesn’t have anything to do with it, hell, maybe she’ll need her body guarded.”
Stryker stood up. “I’m heading out there. You want to look at her, or go see Feur?”
“I’ll go after Feur,” Virgil said. Stryker had been looking for an excuse to go out. “You can tell me what you get from Jesse and maybe I’ll talk to her later in the day.”
“Good enough,” Stryker said. “You take care.”
T HE DAY LOOKED like the day before, sunny, a touch of wind, about as nice a July day that you could hope for; four kids, two boys and two girls, were dancing along the sidewalk ahead of him, boys in dropped-crotch pants, the girls with pierced ears and noses, but there was a small-town innocence about it; testing their chops, and sometimes, forgetting, they’d hold hands. They all looked back at him a couple of times, knowing him for a cop.
Nice a day as it was, there was too much humidity hanging around, and thunderstorms would be popping by late afternoon. If it got hot enough, some of them could be bad. Nothing to do about it.
Virgil walked down to the Record , stopping at the drugstore for a sleeve of popcorn, and at the newspaper, found Williamson putting the last bit of the next day’s newspaper together.
Williamson lit up as soon as Virgil walked through the front door. “I was hoping I’d see you this morning. I called down to the motel and they said you were gone already.”
Virgil nodded. “I was hoping to poke through your library, if you’ve got one. Clippings, and such.”
“We can do that. But it’d be pretty damn ungrateful of you, if you didn’t answer a couple of questions.”
“You can ask,” Virgil said.
“You took a different attitude yesterday…”
“Well, I was in public. I’ll talk to you, but the deal is this: I talk off-the-record, and you write it like it came from God,” he said. “I might not tell you everything, but I won’t lie to you.”
“Deal,” Williamson said. He punched a couple of keys on his computer, switched out of his compositing program into a word processor, and asked, “Do you think the .357 used in the murders was one of the guns issued to the sheriff’s office years ago?”
“I have no idea,” Virgil said. Williamson opened his mouth to object, but Virgil held up a hand. “I’m not avoiding the question. I really don’t have any idea. They’re not a commonly bought weapon anymore. Most people go for automatics, because they’re on TV, and if you’re looking for hunting power in a revolver, you might go for a .44 mag or a .454 Casul. The .357s were a cop’s gun, at one time, and that’s the only reason anybody ever talked about the idea. There were a bunch of them in the sheriff’s office, and they all went away, and maybe…who knows?”
“All right,” Williamson said. “Second question: Do you think the killer is local?”
“Yes,” Virgil said.
“You want to expand on that?” Williamson asked.
“No.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not at the moment.”
Williamson said, “I’m not getting much for my clips.”
Virgil: “What time do you have to finish putting the paper together? It’s out tomorrow morning, right?”
“Can’t push it past three o’clock. I download it to the printing plant—it’s over in Sioux Falls—and pick it up at eleven,” he said. “If I push it one minute past three, they won’t give it to me until midnight or one o’clock, just to fuck with me.”
“All right. At two o’clock, you call me on my cell phone,” Virgil said. “You might have the story by then, but maybe not. But it would be…your lead story.”
Williamson’s eyebrows went up. “The Judd fire is the lead story.”
“Two days old. Everybody knows it,” Virgil said. “This other story is known by damn few, and you’d sure as hell wake up the town tomorrow morning, if you printed it. But if you give me up as the source, you’ll never get a word from me for the rest
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