Deadline(129)

            By the time all four board members had emerged, he was no longer interested: he was frightened. He got on his phone and called Hetfield. “Henry. This is Del. Where are you? Right now?”

            “Getting gas at the QuikTrip,” Hetfield said. He must have sensed something in Cray’s voice. “What happened?”

            “Were you invited to a board meeting at Vike Laughton’s office?”

            Hetfield’s voice went cold. “No. You’re saying there was one?”

            “Yeah. I’m at Village Pizza, you know, across from Vike’s back door. Not spying, just getting a pizza. All four of them came sneaking out of there, and they were sneaking—they came out one at a time, a minute or two apart, and took off.”

            “Sonsofbitches have decided to rat us out,” Hetfield said. “They’re gonna try to give us up, make a deal, convince Flowers that they didn’t know about it.”

            “I wish you hadn’t said that,” Cray said. “I was hoping you’d come up with something else. ’Cause that’s sorta what I think, too. What’re we gonna do?”





                     24


            NEAR THE END of every successful investigation in the history of the world, the suits show up to take the credit. Both Virgil and his boss, Lucas Davenport, were friendly with the governor, who’d helped find a new boat for Virgil, after his first boat had been blown up by a mad bomber. The governor, however, was planning to vacate the office, perhaps to make a run at the vice presidency.

            So, one way or another, there’d be a new suit in town.

            The current attorney general had already hinted that he was going to run for the governor’s office, and between now and then, would not be averse to favorable publicity that portrayed him as a protector of the people, a defender of freedom, but also a sincere, heartfelt, and honest spokesman for the larger and richer special interests.

            As it happened, the Buchanan County school district presented a perfect chance to protect the public: it largely voted Republican, so, since the AG was a Democrat, a vigorous prosecution wouldn’t piss off anybody critical, and would generally show up the Republicans as the pack of thieving, money-gouging, scheming hyenas that all true-blue Americans knew them to be.

            That was the general idea; the actual words would be repackaged into something much softer and much, much more hypocritical.

            —

            WHICH WAS WHY DAVE, the assistant AG, slapped Virgil on the back before he slipped into the booth at Ma & Pa’s Kettle, then ordered a pitcher of Bloody Marys—“I can’t drink bourbon at breakfast”—and began the debriefing. When Virgil outlined what he had, a slender line appeared in Dave’s forehead. “What you’re telling me is, it’s gonna be easy to nail down, but at this very moment, it’s not quite nailed down.”

            “That’s about right,” Virgil said. “I gotta emphasize, it will be. The whole pack of rats is coming apart. Two of them have run. I assume you got decent stuff from Masilla.”

            “I did—but you’re telling me it’s the whole school board, and this Viking guy and Masilla have really only handed over the heads of the superintendent and his money guy. Even that will take a little further nailing, since all those records went up in smoke.”

            “Not all of them,” Virgil said. He slid the folder of Clancy Conley’s photos across the table. Dave left the folder closed as the waitress delivered two plates of French toast with link sausage, and the pitcher of Bloody Marys for Dave, and Virgil’s Diet Coke. When she was gone, Dave opened the folder, as he sipped the first of his drinks, slowly thumbed through the photos, then said, “My, my.”