Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(45)

Inside, it was candles and knickknacks for the first twenty feet, smelling of cinnamon and jasmine, then a candy rack and a glass-fronted refrigerator case full of soda, three rows of paperback book racks, and finally a magazine rack.

There were three other people in the place, one of whom was talking to a tall, thin gray-faced man behind the counter who was wearing a University of Minnesota hoodie; he glanced at Virgil as he went by and made Virgil think of a vulture sitting on a branch. Virgil walked all the way to the back rack, where he picked up an outdoor magazine, glanced at a feature entitled “Swamp Gobblers in Your Sights,” and checked out the store. In the back, the scent of cinnamon had faded, giving way to the pleasant odor of newsprint.

—

There wasn’t much to see—nothing unexpected—but there was a door leading farther into the back, as Birkmann said, right next to the magazine rack. He’d read the first three badly written paragraphs of the “Swamp Gobbler” story and was exchanging it for a tattered copy of Automobile when a man dressed in a red-checked hunting parka walked through the store to the back, looked suspiciously at Virgil, reached up above the door and pushed what must have been a hidden doorbell button—Virgil heard a buzzer bleep at the front of the store.

An electronic lock snapped on the door, and the man in the red-checked coat pushed through. Virgil stuck out a foot to block the door from closing and followed the man into the back.

Through the door, he found himself in a narrow room with a magazine rack on the wall filled with pornographic magazines and DVDs. There was a third man in the room, in a tan canvas coat, deeply engrossed in a copy of Big ’Uns. Nobody looked at nobody else.

Virgil spotted a “Novelties” sign at the end of the magazine rack, went that way, and turned a corner. The store didn’t have much, but what they had was low quality: the usual sex toys, including some for men; edible underwear; and, best of all, a box containing a whip that appeared to be exactly like the one he’d found in Hemming’s dressing table.

He took down the box, found another box behind that: two whips, so maybe a regular item. On the bottom shelf was a row of bondage magazines, fresh enough that there must actually be a regular clientele.

He put the box under his arm, poked around to see if he could turn up a modified Barbie, but didn’t. On the way out of the back room, he said to the man still studying Big ’Uns, “That’s not something you see every day, huh?” and went on out.

—

James Barker was alone at the front of the shop. He peered out from his hood, taking in Virgil and his box, and said, “I don’t know you. What were you doing back there?”

“Gathering evidence,” Virgil said.

“Say what?”

Virgil held up his ID case. “Virgil Flowers, Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’m trying to trace down purchasers of this model of whip. I need to know who, exactly, bought one.”

“Hey, that ain’t right. You can’t come rockin’ in here and poke around. First Amendment, dude,” Barker said.

“The First Amendment guarantees your freedom of religion, speech, and press, that you can assemble with other people and petition the government for redress of grievances,” Virgil said. “It doesn’t mention whips, bondage and discipline, or withholding information from the police. Of course, you could take the Fifth, but that would imply that you have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?”

“Of course not,” Barker sputtered. “But . . . I’m not the only one selling stuff outa here. I might not know who bought what.”

Virgil looked around the store. “You’re telling me you have staff?”

“I have a woman who works the mornings . . .”

“Somebody bought a B and D whip from a woman in the morning?”

“It could happen,” Barker said.

“Yeah, but it didn’t, did it, Jimmy? You sold a whip to a guy, maybe more than one. I can see it in your face. And this happens to be a murder investigation.”

“Gina Hemming?”

“Yeah. Did you sell one to Hemming?” Virgil asked.

“No . . . Women don’t go back there,” Barker said. “They don’t know about it.”

“So, who bought it, Jimmy?” Virgil asked. “Or, maybe . . . you held one out for yourself?”

“No, no, no, no . . . But if I tell you, the guy’s gonna kill me.”

Virgil smiled, brought out all the teeth. “This is great, because it tells me two things: the guy is violent, and you know who he is. That means if you don’t cooperate, I can charge you with accessory after the fact in a murder.”

“Jeez, man, you don’t have to be an asshole about it,” Barker said.

“The name?”

“Fred Fitzgerald. He’s a biker guy. He’s got a tattoo shop out on Melon.”

“Thank you. Don’t go calling Fitzgerald or I’ll bust your ass. Listen, since you’re in this deep . . . does Fitzgerald buy any other stuff involved with bondage and all that? Or sex toys?”

“Yeah, from time to time. Nothing that would hurt anyone. Handcuffs, butt plugs, stuff like that.”

“Is Fitzgerald a fisherman?”

“I don’t know. A lot of people around here are . . . I know he has a snowmobile for when he can’t ride his Harley.”