Read Online Deadline by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page A

at his trailer,” Virgil said. “You know where it might be?”
    “He carried it around in a black nylon backpack. He did half his writing down at Stone’s Coffee Shop. Should have been at his house, or in his car, anyway.”
    “Wasn’t there,” Virgil said. “A Macintosh, right?”
    “Yeah, one of those white ones. Older. You think that means something?”
    “Yes, I do,” Virgil said. “He was out jogging when he was killed. Could have been some crazy guy, looking for somebody to kill—but not if Conley’s laptop is missing. They would have had to stop at his house, and risk breaking in to get it. Though, there was no sign of a break-in. Might want to look for somebody with a key . . .”
    “Well . . . I don’t know,” Laughton said.
    —
    L AUGHTON HAD ONLY ONE suggestion for the direction of the investigation: “Like I said, I paid him shit, and when he wasn’t working, I didn’t pay him anything. Still, he managed to hang on, buy gas, pay the rent, and drink. I don’t know exactly how he did that. I don’t think he got enough money from me. I’m wondering if he might have been your dope dealer? He knew everybody in town, so he’d know who the local buyers would be.”
    “I’ll check into that,” Virgil said. “Thank you. That’s a possibility.”
    —
    V IRGIL DIDN’T LIKE two things about the interview. The first was his sense that Laughton had processed Conley’s murder too thoroughly, in too short a time—didn’t ask enough questions about it, didn’t ask about the investigation, didn’t speculate about alternate explanations of what might have happened. At the same time, he seemed exactly like the kind of McDonald’s-coffee-drinking hangout guy who’d do all of that.
    The second thing was, Laughton had spent a good part of the interview poor-mouthing, and judging from the paper itself, and Laughton’s shabby office, he might have had reason to do that. Which didn’t explain why there was a very new Nissan Pathfinder parked outside his office.
    Virgil had been shopping for a replacement for his five-year-old 4Runner, and knew that the Pathfinder—which looked pretty optioned-out, including a navigation system—cost something north of $40,000.
    But who knew? Maybe Laughton had inherited money or something. And the possession of money, or the ability to get a truck loan, didn’t seem to have much to do with a guy getting shot in the back.
    —
    V IRGIL HAD INTENDED to drop in on the other people on his list, but before he could get started, Johnson called and said, “We got a mutiny going on. We need to meet with some of our guys.”
    “What do you mean, exactly?”
    “They know about the dogs on the south hill. They’re getting their guns together, they’re going in.”
    “Aw, Jesus, where are they?”
    “At Tom Jones’s place.”
    Virgil got the location and drove over in a hurry. At Jones’s house, he found Johnson arguing with four men in camo, including Winky Butterfield.
    All of them turned to look when Virgil drove in, and when he got out of his truck, Butterfield said to Johnson, “Goddamnit, you weren’t supposed to tell him.”
    “I got no choice. Virgil’s my guy and I can’t turn my back on him,” Johnson said. “He’s got his reasons for working the way he is.”
    “What reasons?” one of the men asked. Virgil found out later he was Jones.
    Instead of answering, Virgil asked Johnson, “Can you trust these guys? They got any relations up Orly’s Creek?”
    The men all looked at each other, then Butterfield said, “No, none of us do,” and Johnson said, “Yeah, you could trust them. Are you going to tell them?”
    Virgil said, “Listen, men. This is supposed to be top secret, but I’m telling you anyway. You tell anybody else, you could go to prison for a long time. Anybody not want to hear what I’m going to say, you better walk away. If you listen, and you tell anyone, including your wives, and the word gets out, we will track it down,