IQ(50)

“Let me see if I understand, Mr. Quintabe,” Bobby said. “You’re telling me the man that orchestrated the attack on Calvin is a dog breeder and a gun collector named Skip and he lives in a town called Fergus?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” the kid said. He was leaning against his car with his hands in his front pockets.

The kid’s buddy, the short guy, was sitting on the edge of the fountain with Anthony, the smart one, who always looked late for something and dressed like Pee-wee Herman. Charles couldn’t stay still, walking around in little circles and rubbing the back of his head. Bug was standing with his feet apart and his hands clasped behind his back like one of those black power guys at roll call.

“Well, can you tell us anything else?” Bobby said.

“His real name is Magnus Vestergard,” the kid said. “He’s got a record going back to high school. The only job he’s ever had was working in his uncle’s gun store but he got busted for selling the inventory. He did time at Solano, dropped out of sight for a while, and when he reappeared he was raising pit bulls and calling himself Skip Hanson. No more arrests, no social media. His website has pictures of his dogs but he doesn’t sell them. He owns his house and drives a new truck.”

“And you got all this from—”

“Public Records dot com.”

“This is unreal,” Anthony said.

Charles looked up at the sky. “This is bullshit,” he said. “This muthaf*cka ain’t doin’ nothing but eatin’ up the clock.”

“Yeah,” Bug said, “this is bullshit.”

“With all due respect,” Bobby said, “I don’t see how public information moves us forward or helps us to resolve our situation one bit. But let me ask you something else. While you were visiting your alleged hit man, did you happen to see the suspect, a giant killer dog?”

“No, I didn’t see the dog, but he was there.”

“He was there but you didn’t see him,” Bobby said flatly. “What do you think of that, Anthony? You’re the one who brought Mr. Quintabe on board.”

“I know, Bobby, but he’s here now,” Anthony said. “Can we move on, please?”

Bobby looked at him. “As for the dog breeder having a lot of guns,” Bobby said, “I have a lot of guns and I daresay everyone here has a lot of guns but none of us are killers, at least on a professional basis. I’m sorry to say this, Mr. Quintabe, but I’m disappointed with you. Very disappointed.”

Hegan liked the kid. He kept his cool, stayed within himself and wasn’t intimidated by Bobby, and most people were. It was like the kid was waiting, holding back, letting Bobby punch himself out before he lowered the boom. Hegan wanted to see that.


Cal’s last basket had an animal theme: a white ermine Cossack hat, a python-skin bomber jacket, eel-skin gloves, sharkskin cowboy boots, ostrich-skin messenger bag, chinchilla pillows, and a full-length overcoat made from six endangered cheetah hides. Cal wondered where his things would be after he was dead and gone. His suits on a rack at the Goodwill, a crackhead bundled up in the overcoat, the jewelry on that show his mother liked to watch about people who hoped their cuckoo clock was worth something. “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”


Bobby was still talking and Hegan could sense the kid was getting tired of playing defense. All he needed was an opening.

“Now here’s what I need you to do, Mr. Quintabe,” Bobby said. “I need you to go in there and tell Calvin that what he’s asked you to do is impossible and that he should get back to work before he’s permanently damaged his career and that you are apologizing for wasting everyone’s time with somebody named Skip who can’t be verified as anything other than a dog breeder and a gun enthusiast and if there was a giant killer dog you didn’t see it.”

Hegan saw it in the kid’s eyes and the way his jaw was set. He was coming off the ropes.

“No, I didn’t see a giant killer dog,” the kid said, “but I saw a kennel twice the size of the others and a washtub for a water bowl and what kind of dog breeder needs an alias, doesn’t sell his dogs, or have a Facebook page? And how does somebody who hasn’t drawn a paycheck since he was eighteen years old buy a thirty-five-thousand-dollar truck and pay the upkeep on fifteen dogs? And the man doesn’t have a lot of guns, he has an arsenal. I saw shell casings for .38-, .40-, and .45-caliber pistols, 7.62 rounds for assault weapons, and .338 Magnums for a sniper rifle, and he’s set up targets on a hill a half mile away and there’s no sense putting them up there if he can’t hit them.

“I picked this up at Skip’s place,” the kid said. He showed Bobby a bullet. It looked like a regular .45-caliber round but the bullet was blunter. “This is a multiple-impact round. When you fire the gun, the bullet breaks into three fragments held together with strings of Kevlar. The fragments come at you spinning like a South American bolo and they hit with a fourteen-inch spread. In other words, I could shoot at you, miss by thirteen inches, and still blow your brains out. Now I don’t know if that verifies Skip as a hit man but it verifies him as something.”

Bobby looked like he’d opened his safe and found a head of cabbage. Hegan turned away to hide his smile.

“Any questions?” the short guy said.