“All right.” Virgil looked around the office and asked where Conley worked—there wasn’t much room and only one desk—and Laughton heaved himself to his feet and led the way through a curtained doorway into a wide dim room at the back, filled with piles of undistributed papers. A metal military-style desk sat in a corner, with a table next to it. Plugs for another Canon printer and a couple small speakers lay on the desk. Vike nodded at it. “Feel free.”
Virgil went through the desk, found a checkbook with a couple of unpaid utility bills tucked under the cover, a book of stamps, a few pieces of computer equipment—a dusty USB hub, some cables, a CD disk containing an obsolete copy of Photoshop—and other desk litter. No laptop.
“Couldn’t find a laptop up at his trailer,” Virgil said. “You know where it might be?”
“He carried it around in a black nylon backpack. He did half his writing down at Stone’s Coffee Shop. Should have been at his house, or in his car, anyway.”
“Wasn’t there,” Virgil said. “A Macintosh, right?”
“Yeah, one of those white ones. Older. You think that means something?”
“Yes, I do,” Virgil said. “He was out jogging when he was killed. Could have been some crazy guy, looking for somebody to kill—but not if Conley’s laptop is missing. They would have had to stop at his house, and risk breaking in to get it. Though, there was no sign of a break-in. Might want to look for somebody with a key . . .”
“Well . . . I don’t know,” Laughton said.
—
LAUGHTON HAD ONLY ONE suggestion for the direction of the investigation: “Like I said, I paid him shit, and when he wasn’t working, I didn’t pay him anything. Still, he managed to hang on, buy gas, pay the rent, and drink. I don’t know exactly how he did that. I don’t think he got enough money from me. I’m wondering if he might have been your dope dealer? He knew everybody in town, so he’d know who the local buyers would be.”
“I’ll check into that,” Virgil said. “Thank you. That’s a possibility.”
—
VIRGIL DIDN’T LIKE two things about the interview. The first was his sense that Laughton had processed Conley’s murder too thoroughly, in too short a time—didn’t ask enough questions about it, didn’t ask about the investigation, didn’t speculate about alternate explanations of what might have happened. At the same time, he seemed exactly like the kind of McDonald’s-coffee-drinking hangout guy who’d do all of that.
The second thing was, Laughton had spent a good part of the interview poor-mouthing, and judging from the paper itself, and Laughton’s shabby office, he might have had reason to do that. Which didn’t explain why there was a very new Nissan Pathfinder parked outside his office.
Virgil had been shopping for a replacement for his five-year-old 4Runner, and knew that the Pathfinder—which looked pretty optioned-out, including a navigation system—cost something north of $40,000.
But who knew? Maybe Laughton had inherited money or something. And the possession of money, or the ability to get a truck loan, didn’t seem to have much to do with a guy getting shot in the back.
—
VIRGIL HAD INTENDED to drop in on the other people on his list, but before he could get started, Johnson called and said, “We got a mutiny going on. We need to meet with some of our guys.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“They know about the dogs on the south hill. They’re getting their guns together, they’re going in.”