Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(65)

“Thanks. Maybe I could get something out of a duck-carving class . . . if the ducks are decent.”

“They’re actually very good; the instructor is in that folk art museum in New York City,” Pweters said. He looked up at Fitzgerald’s window. “Jeff told me what happened . . . Damnit, Margot was a nice lady.”

“You know her well?” Virgil asked.

“Not well, but I knew her from the coffee shop. She always seemed nice, always had a good word for cops.”

They walked across the street toward the shop, and Virgil said, “Stay loose.”

“I’ve actually got my hand on my gun; it’s in my parka pocket,” Pweters said.

Virgil stopped and said, “Shoot. Hang on here a second.”

He went back to the 4Runner, popped the back door, got his Glock out of the gun safe, and stuck it in his parka pocket.

When he got back to Pweters, the deputy said, “Remind me not to call you for backup.”

Virgil stepped up to the shop door, pressed a doorbell, then pounded on the door for a few seconds.

Pweters asked, “Honest to God, did you forget to take your gun?”

Virgil took his gloves off, shoved them in the other pocket, and said, “Maybe.”

—

A window popped open overhead, and Fitzgerald shouted, “We’re closed. We’re closed!”

“It’s Pweters,” Pweters shouted back. “Come on down and open up. Me’n Virgil need to talk to you again.”

“About what?”

“Open up, and we’ll tell you.”

The window slammed shut, a light came on in the shop area, and a moment later they heard Fitzgerald stomping down the interior stairs. He turned on another light, and they could see he was wearing a sweatshirt and cargo shorts and leather slippers.

“Hand on the gun?” Pweters asked out of the side of his mouth.

“Won’t need it,” Virgil said, as he watched Fitzgerald approach the door. “This feels wrong. He’s too . . .”

“Disheveled,” Pweters suggested. “Psychologically unfocused.”

“That’s it,” Virgil said. “He might have killed Hemming, but he didn’t do Moore.”

“So what are we doing here?” Pweters asked, as Fitzgerald fiddled with the door lock.

“Wrong question,” Virgil said. “The right question is, ‘What did he do?’ I know he did something.”

—

Fitzgerald was physically, if not psychologically, disheveled, and sleepy. He opened the door, heavy-eyed, scowling, and asked, “What do you want now?”

Virgil asked, “Where were you an hour ago?”

“Here,” he said, “watching TV. I was asleep, with the TV on, when you started banging on my door.”

“Anybody with you?”

“No . . .”

“What was on?” Virgil asked. “What was on TV? What were you watching?”

“CNN . . . the talking heads,” he said.

Virgil asked, “What was the first news story you saw?”

“Donald Trump, some new tweet . . . Obama . . . Let me see . . .”

He rolled out an explanation, and Virgil interrupted to ask, “You got Sirius Radio in your car?”

“My car is a 1992 Jeep pickup truck. The fuckin’ steering wheel barely works. You’re askin’ if I got Sirius Radio?”

“Just askin’,” Virgil said. He turned to Pweters and said, “Dunno.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Fitzgerald asked. “Did something happen?”

Pweters looked at Virgil, who stared at Fitzgerald, shrugged, and said, “Somebody shot Margot Moore and killed her. From what you’re telling me, once again, you don’t have an alibi. You were watching TV by yourself.”

Fitzgerald gaped at him, sputtered, “Margot? Somebody shot Margot?”

Virgil rubbed his forehead with his left hand, said, “Oh, boy,” and then, “Fred, I know goddamn well you had something to do with killing Gina Hemming. Sooner or later, I’ll prove it, and you’re looking at thirty years. Since you had something to do with killing Gina, I believe you had something to do with killing Margot. That’s how it is. What I don’t know is exactly what you had to do with it, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Fuck you!” Fitzgerald stepped back and slammed the door. A couple of seconds later, he opened it again and said, “I didn’t have a fuckin’ thing to do with killing either one of them.”

“What did you do?” Pweters asked. “I’ve known you for a while, and Virgil thinks you killed them or got one of your buds to do it. I personally am willing to believe you didn’t kill them. But you did something . . . I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’m calling my lawyer,” Fitzgerald said. He stepped back and slammed the door again. Two seconds later, he opened it back up again and said, “My lawyer’ll call you in the morning.”

“Who is it?” Pweters asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Fitzgerald said.

Virgil and Pweters glanced at each other, and Virgil said, “Lawyers cost money, Fred. If you don’t have it, I can fix it so that a public defender takes it for free. He’ll be your lawyer, and probably be as good as anyone else you can get. Margot’s murder’s only an hour old, and we’ve got to get on it. Every minute we lose is a problem. If you think you might have something to say to us, I’ll crank up the public defender and get him over here right now.”