Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(80)

They retrieved the camera, though they didn’t need the pictures anymore. Virgil got Button’s phone out of his jacket pocket, and they drove back to the Whites’ farmyard, Jenkins and Button in the backseat. Button’s hands were cuffed, and one ankle was locked to the steel ring in the floor of the Tahoe.

Fifteen minutes after they got to the Whites’ place, Button’s phone rang, and Virgil answered it.

“You got it?” Male voice.

Virgil whispered, “Got the envelope. But I’m in this field, I’m lost . . . Get me where you left me. Maybe ten minutes . . .”

“You okay?”

More whispering. “Yeah, but I can’t talk. I think there might be some cops up on 18.”

“I’m coming . . .”

Virgil hung up. “He’s coming.”



* * *



—

They brought in a sheriff’s car, hidden on a side road, and when Raleigh Good rolled past the Whites’ house and down the highway in Woody Garrett’s black Camaro, the cop pulled out across the highway and turned on his flashers. Virgil pulled out in the Tahoe, behind the camera, and turned on his own flashers. Good pulled the Camaro over, and when Virgil walked up and shouted, “Get out of the car!” Good got out, and asked, “What are you guys doing here?”

“Collecting you, and Jim,” Virgil said. “Jim’s already in my truck.”

“Was that you on the phone?”

“Yes, it was.”

“That goddamn Button. I will never, ever . . .”

Jenkins patted him down. “Get in the truck,” Virgil said.



* * *



—

They headed back to Wheatfield, trailed by Jenkins and the sheriff’s patrol car. Holland, looking over the seat back, asked Button, “What the hell were you thinking? Or did you think at all?”

“You’re the guys who’re gonna look like stupes when it turns out we’re right,” Button said. “Running around like your asses are on fire, gettin’ nowhere, and all you had to do was listen.”

“Why’d you think it was Osborne? Shooting his own mom?”

“For the money,” Button said.

Virgil said, “Aw, Jesus. Everybody keeps saying money, and there isn’t any.”

Button asked, “What?”

“There’s no money, Jim,” Holland said. “Barry owns the house. Margery was living there for free.”

“Well, yeah,” Button said. “But what about the Florida house?”

Virgil: “What Florida house?”

Button said to Good, “They don’t know about the Florida house.”

Good said, “What a bunch of stupes.”

Virgil looked over the seat back. “What are you talking about?”

“Where are we on this fraud thing?” Button asked. And he said to Good, “Keep your mouth shut, Raleigh.”

“We can talk,” Virgil said. “What about the Florida house?”

“You know Rose? You met her at the house, you sicced her on Clay Ford? Chick with the rose tattoo?”

“I remember,” Virgil said. “What about this house?”

“Rose cleaned house for Marge once a week when she was in Wheatfield. And she watched over Barry’s house when he drove Marge down to Florida. Marge wouldn’t fly,” Button said. “When they were packing up last fall, she heard Barry telling Marge that she ought to sell the place and move back to Wheatfield, where her friends were. They had an argument about it.”

Holland asked, “How much is it worth? The house?”

Button said, “I don’t know. Rose might. Rose is a snoop. But I bet it’s worth a lot.”

“Is Rose still at your place?” Virgil asked.

Raleigh said, “When you told her that Clay Ford might be interested, she hotfooted it right over there, and they been fuckin’ up a storm ever since. She’s moved in with him.”

“That didn’t take long,” Virgil said.

“She’s the restless sort,” Button said. “So . . . we got a deal? I solved your case. I wasn’t trying to fraud you.”

“This better not be Nazi bullshit,” Virgil said.

“Cross my heart,” Button said. “Go ask Rose.”





22


The Tahoe’s clock said 11:51 when they passed the “Wheatfield City Limits” sign, but Virgil drove over to Clay Ford’s house anyway, Jenkins following behind. Ford’s house was dark when they pulled up outside. They left the Nazis chained in the back of the Tahoe, and Virgil knocked on the door and rang the doorbell, and a light went on in the back of the house.

Ford, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a .45, came to the door, looking wide awake. “Virgil?”

“Is Rose here? Put the gun away.”

Ford looked toward the back of the house, and said, “Yeah? What happened?” He put the gun behind his back, probably in a carry holster.

“We arrested the Nazis, and they told us a couple of things we need to check with Rose. We’re not arresting her, or anything, but we need some information.”

From the back of house, Rose called, “Give me a minute to put my pants on.”