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
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
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