Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(51)

“I don’t need the details on that, except . . . did the handcuffs ever leave marks on either of you?”

“A couple of times . . . you’d kind of struggle around. It was all play, but the handcuffs were metal, and sometimes you’d get marks. Did Gina have marks when you found her?”

“Yeah, but they were older, not from the night she died,” Virgil said. “How often would the two of you get together with Fred?”

“I was seeing him maybe . . . once a month. Gina more often, once a week.”

“Last Thursday?”

Another silence, then, “I know that Thursdays were good for her. Fridays and Saturdays are party nights in Trippton, out at the club, especially in the winter. She didn’t miss those because she was kind of lonely; she liked the social aspect of the club. Sunday was the night before she had to be back at work.”

“You’re telling me that Fred might well have gone over there Thursday night after the committee meeting.”

“I know he did on other Thursdays,” she admitted.

“Have you talked to Fred since I talked to you?” She looked away, and he knew what the answer was. “That looks like a yes.”

She nodded. “Yes, I did. I told him you were investigating, and I worried that you’d find him and that he’d mention my name. He was worried that no matter what happened, if his name came up, that you’d figure he’d killed Gina. He says he didn’t have anything to do with it but that you’d . . . frame him. Because of his prior record.”

“We don’t do that,” Virgil said.

“He doesn’t believe that you don’t do that,” Moore said. “He thinks you’ll do whatever is convenient, that you’ll be taking a lot of pressure to get this solved and he’s the best target.”

Virgil: “Do you think he did it?”

“No. I don’t. He really seemed panicked about having it pinned on him,” Moore said.

“You think he’s in the wind?”

“‘In the wind’?”

“Do you think he’s run away?” Virgil asked.

“Oh . . . No, I don’t think so. He’s probably out at his shop.”

“Is he an ice fisherman?”

“Yes. He’s talked about it . . .”

“I gotta tell you, he’s looking good for this,” Virgil said. “He’s got a history of violence . . .”

“He wouldn’t hurt Gina. He knows exactly what our relationships were with him, that he was our . . . boy toy. We had fun. He wouldn’t have to hurt Gina, unless she tried to shoot him or something. He’s a strong guy. If she went after him for some reason, he could wrestle her down with one hand. He wouldn’t even hit her with his fist.”

They went back and forth for another five minutes, then Virgil jabbed a finger at her and said, “Margot, you’re standing on the edge of a legal cliff. You have no further contact with him. You don’t call him, you don’t tell him about this conversation. If he calls you, you tell him that you can’t talk. Do you understand?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” she asked.

“I can’t advise you on that. I’d say not yet. And if you hire one locally, that increases the chances that your . . . relationship . . . will become public knowledge.”

She leaked another tear. “I don’t know, I don’t know . . .”

—

When Virgil left, Moore was on her way to the restroom to wash her face and redo her makeup. Virgil drove down to the sheriff’s office, found Purdy around at the fire station, and told him about Fred Fitzgerald. “I’m going down there to talk to him and I’d like a deputy to come along.”

“You think there might be trouble?”

“I don’t know him. He has a history,” Virgil said.

“Okay. I’ll send Luke Pweters with you. He used to wrestle for the U over at Mankato. He’s out in a car right now. Let me find out where he is and ask how long it’ll take him to get back.”

—

The answer to that question: ten minutes.

They’d walked back to Purdy’s office, Virgil told Purdy about the whip he’d found in Hemming’s dressing table and about the identical whip he’d bought at the magazine shop, and how he’d gotten Fred Fitzgerald’s name.

“I knew Jimmy was selling a little porno out of the back room, but that’s been going on for fifty years,” Purdy said, his feet comfortably up on his desk. “His old man did the same thing—a friend of mine in middle school snuck in there and grabbed a couple of magazines and smuggled them out, that’s how I learned the ins and outs of sex . . . so to speak. Never hurt anybody that I know of.”

“Kinda like ditch weed,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, like that,” Purdy agreed. “Everything has gone to hell since those days, Virgie. No more ditch weed. The pot that’s out there now, it’s like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer. Same with porno. Not just big titties anymore; now it’s stuff you can’t even think of on your own.”

“Somebody else told me that same thing,” Virgil said.

—

Pweters showed up, a big, affable blue-eyed man in his late twenties or early thirties who looked like he could pull your arms off. He had a large nose, broad shoulders, and a Ranger buzz cut. “I know Fred,” he said. “He wrestled for a year in junior high, but he started smoking and that was the end of him. Didn’t have the wind. Think he was at one hundred and fifty-two, but he’s put on some fat since those days.”