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Virgil looked around the restaurant, decided he could speak without being overheard, and said, “Okay: it’s possible Burston was acting for Byrne or Drukker when he tried to discourage Sand from investing in the street-people housing. But it’s also possible that hedoesn’t know those guys. Or that Burston has a direct interest, like a piece of nearby property. But you know what? Byrne and Drukker don’t feel right to me. The killings have a personal feel. If the killer is one of those three, I’d bet on Burston. Acting on his own.”
Lucas thought about it for a moment, said, “We’ve got some stuff going on. Without thinking about it too much, I’d say I agree with you. It feels personal to me, too.”
“If it’s personal, and not a pro, the killer is stone cold,” Virgil said. “Walking through like that, doing the kill shots on the kids?”
“He’s a bad man,” Lucas agreed.
On the way across the Twin Cities, the other Brooks called back, from the tax assessor’s office. “I can’t find Burston’s name on any property within a half mile. The only property I find under his name is a downtown condo. But, there are quite a number of properties around the rail yard that are owned under corporate names, and I have no way to find out if he might be behind one of those.”
When she rang off, Virgil asked, “What do you want to do?”
“I want you to keep digging through the finance files, and I’ll get in touch with Sandy and push her on connections between Burston and the for-profit condo developers. I’ll try to set up interviews tomorrow for Burston and that car thief guy out in Stillwater, whatever his name is.”
“Henry Carter.”
“Yeah, him.”
Virgil: “Then, lay on your couch with a cool washcloth on your head, and try to remember what Lundgren said that makes you think she knows something.”
Lucas glanced over at Virgil: “Goddamnit. Encroaching old age. But I heard something. I did.”
8
Virgil went back to his hotel, which was attached to the Mall of America, walked over to the mall and browsed through the thrillers at the Barnes & Noble store, bought a Mick HerronSlow Horsesespionage novel that he hadn’t yet read, got a Cinnabon, went back to the hotel and started digging through the financial records.
After an hour, he quit, read the Herron for an hour, then opened his computer and started revising chapters in the novel. He was confident in his dialogue, but the Herron novel highlighted what he felt was a deficit in his scene-setting and characterization. He needed to put some of that stuff in.
Virgil had written a lot of short outdoor nonfiction and several pieces of crime nonfiction for magazines. He’d learned, in two practice novels and one that was about to be published, that novel writing didn’t work like nonfiction writing. His mother had a sewingmachine that had a built-in zigzag stitch, which he thought of as a metaphor for fiction writing. It wasn’t done in a straight line—you constantly went back and forth.
If something needed to be changed, enhanced, made-up, twisted... go back and do it. It’s fiction.
—
Lucas called ThomasBurston, and after going through two secretaries, got him on the line, and made an appointment to meet him the next day. He spent another hour online, trying to find background on Burston, and read what BCA and St. Paul cops had gotten from earlier interviews. He did find some online information, but nothing of special interest. He went for a run, ate dinner with the family, and in bed that night, turned restlessly on his damaged shoulder, and tried to think what might have touched him during the Lundgren goat farm interview.
Whatever it was, he didn’t find it.
—
The next morning,Lucas was waiting on the curb when Virgil picked him up. He climbed into the Tahoe, and asked, “Anything?”
“Nada.”
“Me neither,” Lucas said. “Burston has some online stuff, but it’s mostly PR. Facebook, LinkedIn, like that. Nothing critical, that I could find, anyway. With St. Paul and your guys, he wasn’t exactly stonewalling, but he didn’t have a lot to say.”
“I assume he was happy to hear from you?” Virgil asked.
“He was overjoyed,” Lucas said. “You work on the novel?”
“Some. This case isn’t helping.”
“You gonna quit the BCA?”
“Maybe next contract,” Virgil said. “I’ll finish this book, and one more, then see what Esther can drag through the door in terms of money.” Esther was Virgil’s New York agent. “If it’s big enough, I’ll bail. I’ll have enough time with the BCA for a state pension, no matter what happens.”
“Ah, man.”
“You quit, once,” Virgil said.
