when Shrake pulled away from the curb at the ball diamond, Virgil took his place. There was a game going on, town ball, fast-pitch, and Virgil was looking down at the diamond from the parking place.
He half-watched the game, half-watched Wyatt’s place, and at the same time, dug his camera out of the bag in the backseat. He used a Nikon D3, with a 70-200 lens and a 2x Nikon teleconverter. When put together, the rig was heavy and long, but also reasonably sharp, and good in low light.
He still had plenty of light, and he settled in to wait.
One of the ball teams, Robert’s Bar and Grill, had a damn good pitcher; he was mowing down the other team, which was surviving less on pitching than on its fielding. In the two innings Virgil watched, Robert’s had runners in both innings, while the other team never did get a man to first.
He was interested enough in the game that he almost missed Wyatt. He came out of the apartment carrying an oversized gym bag. A tall thin man, he was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes, and moved like an athlete. He looked like the figure in the construction-site trailer videos. Virgil propped the barrel of the camera on the edge of the passenger-side window, and ran off a half-dozen shots as he walked around the car, threw the bag inside, then got in.
Following him wasn’t a problem: Wyatt drove out to the highway, turned toward downtown, pulled into a strip mall, got his gym bag, and walked into a tae-kwon-do studio. Virgil called Shrake and made arrangements to switch off.
The lesson had to last at least an hour, Virgil thought, so he took the time to load the photos into his laptop. When Shrake arrived, Virgil climbed into the backseat of Shrake’s Cadillac and passed the laptop across the seat. “Portraits,” he said.
The other two looked at the photos for a minute, then Shrake said, “Got him. Want us to stay with him overnight?”
“Ah… yeah.”
“Shoot. Okay, are you in? Make it more tolerable,” Jenkins said.
“I’m in. I’ll take the middle shift.” The middle shift was the bad one-four hours in the middle of the night.
Shrake took the first watch, following Wyatt from the tae kwon do studio to a supermarket, and then back to his house. He waited there until midnight, when Virgil took it. Virgil sat for four hours, until four o’clock. Jenkins arrived right at four, and Virgil went back to the Holiday Inn and crashed. Shrake, who’d gotten a full night’s sleep, took it at eight o’clock, and at nine-thirty, called Virgil and said, “It looks like he’s getting ready to move.”
Virgil brushed his teeth and called Barlow: “He’s moving. Heading up to the college, we think.”
“I talked to the landlord,” Barlow said. “Got a key, and scared the shit out of him. He won’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll be at your hotel in five minutes. We can ride over in my truck-we don’t want a caravan.”
Virgil picked up Barlow and one of his techs, whose name was Doug Mason, and they headed over to Wyatt’s. “Doug knows computers,” Barlow said.
“Excellent,” Virgil said. They didn’t have much to say on the way over, and halfway there, Shrake called to say that Wyatt had just walked into the college carrying his briefcase.
Wyatt lived on a working street, mostly younger families, and at ten-fifteen, the street was deserted. They climbed out, three men in jackets and slacks-Virgil was wearing a dress shirt and dark slacks, so he wouldn’t hit a neighbor’s inquiring eye quite so hard. Barlow had the key, and they walked up to the door and in. Just inside was a small square mudroom, with a stairway leading up, and a door to the left, leading into the garage.
They took the stairs, quickly, clearing the place: the second and third floors were probably eight hundred square feet each, and smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. The second floor had a small living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom that Wyatt was using as an office. The third floor had two larger bedrooms, a storage space with a low, slanted ceiling, a good-sized bathroom, and several closets. The place was cluttered with paper- books, magazines, newspapers. Virgil knew and recognized the symptoms: in the downdraft of a divorce, lonely guys often didn’t have much to do, and so hung out in bookstores and newsstands, and acquired paper; and also hung out in bagel joints and movie matinees.
Mason went straight to the office and said, “I’m on the computer.”
Barlow said, “I want to run down and look at the garage.”
“I’ll start upstairs,” Virgil said.
He went through the bedroom in a hurry, but took care not to mess it up. He checked the closets, and a few boxes inside the closets, and found more symptoms of divorce. Wyatt had moved out of his house, but hadn’t taken any junk with him. Hadn’t taken his stuff. He’d simply packed up some clothes, a couple of spare tae kwon do uniforms-including a spare black belt-and had gotten out.
Virgil cleared the bedroom, bathroom, four closets, and the storage area in fifteen minutes. Back downstairs, he found Barlow in the office with Mason. Mason was sitting in the computer chair, his fingers laced over his stomach, watching a screen full of moving numbers. “Anything?”
“Not right off the top-but there’s a lot of stuff in here, so I hooked up my own drive, and I’m mirroring his,” Mason said. “I can look at it later.”
“You know what the guy’s got for tools?” Barlow asked. “A bicycle pump and a pair of needle-nose pliers. That’s it.”
“He’s gotta have more than that-any normal guy does,” Mason said.
“But he’s getting a divorce. He might have a garage full of stuff at the other house,” Virgil said. “Every time I got thrown out, my wives kept the tools. Women like to have tools around.”
“Wives?” Mason asked.
“Or maybe there’s something out at the farmhouse,” Virgil said.
“Gotta be something, if he’s our guy. He’s not putting those things together with his bare fingers.”
Barlow had been in the process of going through a file cabinet, and Virgil started working through the rest of the house. Five minutes later, Barlow came out with a file in his hands. “The divorce is stalled out right now, over visiting rights with the children, and some money issues. The next court appointment is in August.”
Five minutes after that, Virgil realized that they weren’t going to find anything in the house: the house had been sterilized. Wyatt was smart: he’d anticipated the chance of a search. An hour later, he was proven right.
“The guy doesn’t even look at porn,” Mason grumbled. He’d been working through Wyatt’s online history. “You hardly ever run into an asshole who doesn’t even look at it.”
They left empty-handed, as far as they knew-Mason still had to finish going through the computer files. Barlow said, “Doesn’t prove anything. Guy would be an idiot to work in his own house, especially if he thinks he might bring somebody home with him. He’s got a place where he does it, and he keeps it there.”
“The farmhouse,” Virgil said.
“Somewhere,” Barlow said.
It was another quiet day out in the cornfield, nothing moving but a couple of crows that flapped overhead as they were arriving. Virgil had told them how the house was laid out, and Barlow had brought along a crowbar. They checked all four sides of the house, picked out the window with the shabbiest-looking plywood covering, and pried the board loose. Virgil backed his truck up next to the wall, took a flashlight with him, and climbed through the window from the trunk’s bumper.
The interior of the house was dim and smelled like dried weeds, or corn leaves. The floors were wood, and creaked underfoot. A stairway led up; two of the stair treads were broken, and there was a patina of dust on the others.
He went through a doorway into the back, getting a face full of spiderweb as he went through the door.
Barlow called, “Anything?”
Virgil was standing in a bathroom, in thin light seeping through the cracks around the doors and window openings. All the faucets and handles were missing from a sink basin and toilet, and there was nothing but a hole in the floor where a tub had once been. He stooped and shone his light into the hole, then up toward the ceiling. He called back, “Come in here a minute.”
He heard Barlow clamber through the window, and called, “Back here.”
Barlow stepped up beside him and looked in the door. “What am I looking at?”
“Nothing,” Virgil said.
“Nothing?”
“Yeah. Look at the holes in the ceiling. Shouldn’t there be some kind of pipe feeding down to the toilet?”
