Shock Wave vf-5

by John Sandford

  “You can’t see potential money,” Virgil said.

  “But it’s real,” Pye said, shaking a fat finger at him. “It’s the thing that drives this whole country. People thinking about money, and how to get it. There are people out there who break their hearts over money. It happens every day. The shrinks talk about sex, and cops talk about drugs, and liberals talk about fundamentalist religion, and the right-wingers talk about creeping socialism, but what people think of, most of the time, is money. When I was the horniest I ever was, and I was a horny rascal, I didn’t think about sex for more’n an hour a day, and I’d spend sixteen hours thinking about money.”

  “But that means that the motive might not have any… exterior

  … at all,” Virgil said. “It’s just something in some guy’s head.”

  Pye shrugged: “That’s true. But that doesn’t make it unimportant.”

  “Not a hell of a lot of help, Willard,” Virgil said.

  “It might be, if you ever come up with a good suspect,” Pye said. “Once you get a name, start analyzing his history, talking to his friends and neighbors, there’s a good chance you’ll find his… dream.”

  “Which you stepped on,” Virgil said.

  Pye shrugged again, waved his hand at the raw dirt and the concrete pads: “This is my dream. Why shouldn’t I have my dream?”

  Virgil had a few answers to that, but didn’t feel like tangling with Pye right at the moment. So he said good-bye to Pye and Chapman, and headed back to his truck. Halfway into downtown, he took a call from Jenkins, the BCA investigator.

  “All done. We’re going over to a place called Bunson’s. You know where it is?”

  “I can find it,” Virgil said, which he could, having eaten almost all of his meals there. “You get both Martin and Gore?”

  “Yeah. Gore put up a fight, but we clubbed her to her knees, cuffed her. I don’t know how she got those bruises on her face; probably a domestic squabble.”

  “You’re joking,” Virgil said.

  “Of course I am,” Jenkins said. “I only said that because you’d be worried that I wasn’t.”

  “I’ll see you at Bunson’s,” Virgil said.

  Jenkins and Shrake were partners of long standing, both big men who dressed in sharp suits that looked like they might have fallen off a truck in Little Italy, and were referred to as “the thugs” around the BCA. They were often used for hard takedowns; they were fairly easygoing, when not actually involved in a fight.

  Virgil found them talking over beers at Bunson’s, took a chair, ordered a beer of his own, and asked how it had gone.

  “Routine, but you know-you feel a little bad,” Shrake said. “They were both crying and pleading. It’s not like busting some asshole who knows the rules.”

  “I didn’t feel that bad,” Jenkins said.

  “That’s because you’re cruel, and you enjoy the spectacle of other human beings in pain,” Shrake said. “I’m not that way.”

  Jenkins said, “Mmm. This beer is kinda skunky.”

  Shrake said to Virgil, “So walk us through this case. Lucas said you’d flown in some private luxury jet over to Michigan.”

  Virgil took them through it, and when he was done, Shrake said, “So let me get this straight: you can’t get anybody into this Pinnacle, but you think someone could have gotten down from the roof.”

  “But you can’t get on the roof,” Virgil said. “I even found a guy who’s a glider pilot, and he says you’d need at least three hundred yards to land a glider up there… I asked about parachutes, but then you’d need a pilot who’s an accomplice.”

  Shrake unwrapped his index finger from his beer bottle, pointed it at Virgil and said, “So I guess it’s a safe bet that you never heard of motorized paragliders.”

  Virgil said, “Uh…”

  Jenkins said to his partner, “No more beer.”

  Shrake said, “I saw a wi-fi label on the door, wonder if it’s real.” He groped around in his bag, pulled out a battered white MacBook, got online with Google, poked a few keys, called up a YouTube video, and turned the computer around so it faced Virgil.

  YouTube was running a Cadillac ad, followed by a four-minute video in which a guy drove into a parking lot and unpacked what looked like a parachute, laying it on the concrete. He then pulled on a backpack motor, with a small propeller in a metal cage, hooked himself to the parachute, and fired up the motor.

  The airstream from the propeller inflated the chute, and the guy took a few steps across the concrete pad and was in the air. He flew a few hundred feet in a circle, did a short running landing, killed the engine, put the backpack motor in the back of his truck, folded up the chute, packed it away, then threw it in his truck… and did it all in four minutes and ten seconds.

  “Holy shit,” Virgil said. “How did you know about this?”

  “I have wide interests,” Shrake said. “Also, insomnia.”

  Virgil spent another five minutes on Google, looking up paragliders, then gulped the rest of his beer and said, “I gotta go,” and he was gone. Outside, he got on the phone to Barlow: “Are you still at Erikson’s?”

  “Just left.”

  “Is Mrs. Erikson there?”

  “Was two minutes ago.”

  “Head back there. Keep her there. I’ve got a question,” Virgil said. “You might want to be there when I ask it.”

  Barlow was standing on the front porch of the Erikson home, talking to Sarah Erikson, when Virgil arrived. Virgil said, “Mrs. Erikson, your husband has a propeller on the wall of his garage. What did that come from?”

  Her forehead furrowed: “He used to fly, a kind of ultralight thing. But he did something stupid and went up when it was too windy for him and he crashed. He broke his ankle, and got some burns on his back, from the engine exhaust pipe, and was lucky to get away with that. The propeller broke and the engine was wrecked. He quit flying, and put the propeller on the wall to remind himself not to do it anymore.”

  “Was his glider… did it have solid wings, or was it one of those paraglider things, like a parachute?”

  “He did both, ultralights and the paragliders,” she said. “It was his paraglider that he crashed. Why are you asking all of this stuff?”

  “Trying to work through some possibilities,” Virgil said. “Did he fly out of an airport? Or just off the street? Or what?”

  “Out of Jim Paulson’s Soaring Center, out on 17,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Virgil said. To Barlow: “Walk me back to my truck.”

  Barlow tagged along behind and asked, voice low, “What’s that about? Paragliders?”

  “Erikson flew paragliders. I just did some research on them. People have flown them to fifteen, sixteen thousand feet,” Virgil said. “You can land on a spot a few feet across, and you could get one in the back of a station wagon, no problem. They’re like a parachute with a motor, except they go up as well as down.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Barlow said. “Why didn’t we know about these things?”

  “ ’Cause they’re weird, and not a lot of people fly them,” Virgil said. “But they’re also cheap. You can get up in the air for a few thousand bucks, don’t need a license.”

  Barlow looked back at the house: “So it was Erikson.”

  “I’m going out to this soaring center-try to nail it down,” Virgil said.

  Paulson’s soaring center was almost invisible from the highway, down a gravel track past a cornfield, the track marked only by an unlit metal sign. Virgil found the track on his second pass, went four hundred yards in, and discovered a narrow tarmac airstrip that ran parallel to the highway.

  A yellow metal building sat at one end of the strip, and a few yards down the landing strip, a phone pole held up a windsock. In the back, a long metal shed, open on one side, covered a half-dozen brightly colored gliders. Three men were hand-towing a brilliant red glider off the landing strip. They looked toward Virgil as he got out of the truck, and then continued on toward the shed.<
br />
  Virgil saw somebody moving inside the yellow building, went to the door, which had a Welcome sign in the window, and went in. A gray-haired guy was sitting behind a counter and said, “Hey, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m Virgil Flowers. I’m an agent with the BCA.”

  Virgil asked him-the guy was Paulson-about Erikson.

  “Yeah, he used to fly out of here, he and some other guys had an ultralight, but one of them broke it up,” Paulson said. “Then Henry started flying paragliders until he cracked that up.”

  Virgil got the story on Erikson and his gliding; was told that Erikson had been “okay” as a flier. “It ain’t rocket science,” Paulson said.

  Virgil told him why he was asking: the possibility that Erikson was the bomber, and the possibility that he’d flown it onto the top of the Pye Pinnacle.

  Paulson nodded. “Yeah, you could do that. In fact, there’s a rich guy out in Los Angeles, he flies from his house out in Malibu into some hotel in Beverly Hills, lands on the roof, and walks from there to work. The neighbors are all pissed off about it, because of the engine noise.”

  He claimed that power paragliding was “safe as houses, if you know what you’re doing.”

  “But that’s what you would say, since you run a gliding center,” Virgil said. “I mean, I know about two guys flying gliders: Erikson, who cracked up, and quit, and his former partner, who you just told me about, who cracked up and didn’t quit.”

  “Neither one was hurt bad,” Paulson said. “I’m not saying you can’t kill yourself. You can. If you treat it with respect, it’s safer than driving a car… Well, maybe.”

  Virgil pulled out his survey list. “Look at this,” he said. “Is there anybody else on this list who flies these things? The powered paraglider?”

  Paulson bent over the counter, then took out a pencil, wet it with his tongue, and dragged it down the face of the list. “Oh, yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Bill Wyatt.”

  He touched the wet tip of his pencil on the name, and made a dot. He went the rest of the way down the list and said, “He’s about it.”

  Virgil felt a buzz way down in the testicles: Wyatt was the other teacher at Butternut Tech. “He flew a paraglider?”

  “Still does. Not so much lately, haven’t seen him for a couple of months, I guess. Good flier-way out of Henry’s class. He’s got some balls. He was in Iraq One, back whenever that was, reign of King George the First.”

  “He teaches up at the college, right?”

  “Yeah… history or something.”

  “Good guy?” Virgil asked.

  Paulson said, with a grin, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  They talked about Wyatt for a couple of minutes. Paulson said he had no knowledge that Wyatt might be a bomber, or crazy, or anything in particular, but he was an angry, arrogant, self-centered prick. Most of the pilots around the place, Paulson said, didn’t like him.

  Virgil brought the conversation back to Erikson, and finally asked Paulson not to talk about the interview. “Could be a little dangerous. And unfair. We don’t know that either of these guys has the least involvement. But if one of them does, then, and you ask about it, well, he’s not a guy you want looking at you.”

  Paulson said, “We gotta be talking about Bill, right? Because Henry’s dead as a doornail. And I’ll tell you, I don’t see any way that Henry’s the bomber. No way at all.”

  “How about Wyatt?”

  “Well…” Paulson looked out his narrow window, and shook his head. “You know, I got no truck with Saddam Hussein or terrorists or any of that, but I don’t want to hear a guy bragging about killing them. About smoking them. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to hear it. They’re people, not paper targets.”

  “He does that?”

  “If you know him for more than fifteen seconds, he does,” Paulson said.

  A guy who brags about killing. A guy who was in the army, and flew paragliders; a guy with some balls.

  Virgil went out to the truck and called Barlow. “Got some pretty interesting stuff, dude. I got another suspect for you.”

  “Better than forty-sixty?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Virgil said. “I’m saying seventy-thirty.”

  “Gonna get your ass kissed?” Barlow suddenly sounded happy.

  “Could happen,” Virgil said. “Yes, it could.”

  21

  Virgil and Barlow arranged to meet at the Starbucks. Virgil got a grande hot chocolate, no-fat milk, no foam, no whipped cream, and Barlow got a venti latte with an extra shot. As they took a corner table, Virgil said, “Remind me not to stand next to you if you’re handling a bomb. That much caffeine, you gotta be shakin’ like a hundred-dollar belly dancer.”

  “At least I’m not drinking like a little girl,” Barlow said. “So tell me about this new guy.”

  Virgil told Barlow about what little he had on Wyatt. He concluded by saying, “He makes me a lot happier than Erikson, at least, to start with. Erikson never looked quite right-you said so yourself. The means to get in the Pinnacle-that’s the key thing.”

  “But Erikson had it, too.”

  “He had it once, but he didn’t even have access to a paraglider anymore, as far as we know. And the last time out, he crashed: not a place you’d go back to, not without practice. Not to land on the top of a skyscraper in the middle of the night. Then, there’s that whole thing about his work schedule.”

  Barlow held up his hands: “All right, all right. But I don’t think we can entirely back off him. We have to nail down what we’ve got, just in case.”

  “I don’t want you to back off,” Virgil said. “I want you to keep pushing Erikson. I want a lot of cops around there. I want people talking.”

  “You want it to look like we got him. That’s gonna be a little rough on Sarah Erikson,” Barlow said.

  “Yes. Cruel, but not unusual,” Virgil said. “I want the guy looking the other way. All I got is this slender thread. I need to do some background work on him. See if I can turn the thread into a noose.”

  “Into a moose?”

  “A noose. NOOSE,” Virgil said.

  “So what you’ve got is, he can fly a paraglider, and he’s a self-centered prick,” Barlow said, summarizing.

  “Who knew Erikson, and who I suspect knew Erikson’s garage. They used to fly together.”

  “Okay,” Barlow said.

  “You sound like it’s nothing,” Virgil said.

  “No, it’s something all right. Last week, I’d have jumped all over it. But now…”

  “The other thing,” Virgil said, “is that Erikson doesn’t look much like the guy in the video.”

  “Camo can be weird, it can hide a lot of stuff-that’s why they call it camo,” Barlow said. “But I’d be happy to hear that Wyatt looks more like the video. And whatever happened to your decision that PyeMart money is involved?”

  “That comes next,” Virgil said. “I gotta go see Pye.”

  He went to the AMERICINN, and Chapman came out of Pye’s room and said, “Willard’s not sure he should talk to you. The state attorney has issued a warrant for one of our employees. Willard’s a little worried about that, and really pissed off.”

  Virgil said, “Let me stick my head in. It’s purely about the bomber.”

  “Wait one,” she said, and went back into the room. A minute later, she reappeared and said, “All right. But he’s not going to talk about anything that has to do with this warrant, or any supposed bribes, or anything like that.”

  “Deal,” Virgil said.

  Virgil went inside and found Pye sitting on the motel floor, doing an overhead arm stretch. Pye said, “What?”

  Virgil: “You do yoga?”

  “Of course not,” Pye said. “I’m doing my stretches. Which I can do later.” He got to his feet and said, “What do you want?”

  “I got a guy that I’m looking at, for the bomber. I want to see if he has any connection with PyeMart. So I just want you to call up one of your p
eople, and see if there’s a William Wyatt connected to PyeMart in any way, shape, or form-or if your security people are aware of a William Wyatt.”

  “You’re not saying we bribed him?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Virgil said. “I just want to know if you ever had a relationship with him, of any kind, that ended badly, and that might incline him to bomb you.”

  “I can do that,” Pye said. “What else?”

  “That’s it,” Virgil said. “How long will it take?”

  “A while-until tomorrow, probably, if I keep people looking all night. That’s if you want ‘any way, shape, or form.’ ”

  “I’ll take tomorrow morning,” Virgil said. “Do not talk to anybody else about this. I’ll call you.”

  “We did not bribe anybody, nohow, no way,” Pye said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Virgil said. “But I’m pretty sure the grand jury will want to know where Arnold Martin’s sailboat came from. And why two city councilmen tell a different story.”

  “You don’t believe me?” Pye demanded.

  Virgil scratched the back of his head and then said, “Well, Willard, personally, I like you all right. You got some color, and you’re a smart guy. But I gotta say… no. I don’t believe you. Have a nice day.”

  Chapman followed Virgil outside, the metal door banging closed behind them. “Is this store dead?”

  “Yeah, I think it probably is,” Virgil said. “Maybe you can donate those concrete pads to the city, as municipal tennis courts, or something. Take a tax write-off.”

  A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. “You know, that’s not a bad idea…”

  Virgil looked at his watch as he left the motel: still broad daylight, but the sun was getting low. He’d have Wyatt on the brain overnight.

  Thought about it for a minute, then thought about John Haden, the other professor he’d spoken to, that morning. He looked at his cell-phone record, punched up Haden’s phone number, and got him.

  “I need to talk to you.”