Shock Wave by John Sandford Page A

the meantime, he had people to interview.
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    ERNIE STANTON WAS WORKING in his office behind Ernie’s Oil #1—the office was one of the modest, prefab brick-and-corrugated-metal buildings that could be thrown up in a couple of weeks, and that dotted the back streets of small working towns. His secretary, with a plaque that said “Office Manager,” sat next to the door, a delicate, slightly fleshy prairie flower with honey-blond hair and pink cheeks. Stanton, a squarish man with deep lines cutting his wind-burned face on either side of his prominent nose, sat at a desk in the back. Virgil introduced himself and Stanton said, “I wondered when you’d be around, me being the town radical and all.”
    He smiled, but there was nothing funny or happy about his face, which was getting redder by the second.
    Virgil said, “Well, you said it. I mean, everybody I talk to says, ‘Ernie Stanton.’ They say that not only do you want to stop PyeMart, any way you can, but you’ve got the brains and the background to do it.”
    â€œYou mean I’m a shitkicker,” Stanton said.
    â€œHell, I’m a shitkicker,” Virgil said. He dropped in a chair in front of Stanton’s desk. “But I don’t go around blowing people up with pipe bombs.”
    â€œNeither do I,” Stanton said. “Though, if somebody’s got to get blown up, Pye would be a good place to start. That damn store is going to tear this town up. Hell, it already has. Everybody knows that Pye bought the city council and the mayor. They’ll be leaving town right after the next election.”
    â€œSo you didn’t blow anybody up, and you don’t know who’s doing it?”
    â€œIf I knew, I’d tell the cops,” Stanton said. He hesitated, then added, “Maybe.”
    â€œMaybe?”
    â€œPye’s killing me. I won’t even be able to sell my businesses when he gets through. Probably won’t even be able to sell the buildings—what’d you use them for? Art studios? If he got killed and they pulled the plug on this store, it’d be like I got a reprieve from the death penalty.”
    Virgil looked at him for a moment, and from behind him, the secretary said, “I second everything Ernie just said.”
    â€œWhere were you last night?” Virgil asked.
    â€œAt home. Ate dinner down at Bunson’s with my wife and my youngest kid, got home about seven, watched a ball game until about nine o’clock or so. Put the kids to bed, watched TV with my wife until eleven, went to bed. Of course, that alibi’s no good, because it’s only my wife and kids, and this whole deal will drag them down, just as much as me.”
    â€œYou been out of town in the last month?”
    â€œNo, sir. I been here every day,” Stanton said.
    â€œAnd you’ve got people who aren’t in your family . . . aren’t your secretary . . . who’ll say that?”
    â€œWell, hell, I don’t know,” Stanton said. “Probably. I use my credit card for most everything I buy, and I usually buy something every day. Groceries, or something. But, how’d I know I’d have to prove I was here every day? If I’d known that, I could have set something up.”
    â€œGood answer,” Virgil said.
    He saw Stanton relax just a notch, his shoulders folding back and down into his office chair. From behind Virgil, the secretary said, “I also have a calendar which gives you his appointments every day. Like he went to the dentist twice last week.”
    Virgil swiveled around and said, “Don’t throw it away.”
    Going back to Stanton, he asked, “You know about the car bombing this morning?”
    Stanton nodded. “Yeah, I went out and looked at it. It’s still sitting there. Didn’t hear the boom, but my wife was down at County Market, shopping, and she heard it, and saw it, and called