what happens.”
They went inside, got a booth, peeled off their parkas. Coakley was wearing a plaid wool shirt over a black turtleneck, with just a hint of lipstick. They discovered a common interest in blueberry pancakes and link sausages, and after they ordered, she said, “Kelly Baker—it has to be local. I mean, local-local. Here, not Estherville, not Iowa.”
“Close to here,” Virgil agreed. “The killers weren’t travelers.”
The pancakes arrived with the café owner, who introduced himself as Bill Jacoby, and asked if there was anything new in the case. “Maybe,” Virgil said. “We think whoever killed Deputy Crocker was a woman, and we’re looking around for whoever may have had an ongoing sexual relationship with him.”
“He was killed by somebody he was sleeping with?”
“We think so,” Virgil said. There were a couple of dozen people in the café, and the nearby tables had gone quiet. “We’re kind of looking around for someone who knows who that might be.”
“Well, I don’t,” Jacoby said. “Be an interesting thing to know, though.”
“And something else,” Virgil said. “You know that Kelly Baker girl who was killed down by Estherville a year ago? We think that murder is tied into the new ones.”
“Really,” Jacoby said. “Man, that’s freaky. That’s a lot of dead people.”
“Sure is. We’re looking for all the connections we can find,” Virgil said.
A grizzled, rancher-looking guy in the booth behind Coakley said, “You know, you should talk to Son Wood. He used to hang around with Crocker, some, and they go back a ways. He might know who Crocker was going with.”
Virgil leaned sideways so he could see the guy past Coakley: “Son Wood. S-O-N? Where’s he at?”
“He’s got Son Wood’s Surface Sealers out on 15 South,” the rancher-guy said.
Coakley said, with a little razor in her voice, “Virgil, eat your pancakes. They’re getting cold.”
Virgil said, “Hey. I’m just trying to be a friendly guy.”
“Come in anytime for a cup of coffee,” Jacoby said. “We don’t have doughnuts, but we got twelve kinds of pie.”
“I’ll do that,” Virgil said.
WHEN JACOBY HAD GONE, Coakley leaned into the table and said, “What? You’re a talk-show host?”
He said, “What good does it do to keep the information private? The killers know everything we do. Why shouldn’t the taxpayers know it?”
She said, “Well.” Thought about it, then said, “It doesn’t seem law enforcement-like.”
“That’s a problem for law enforcement,” Virgil said. “You can get a lot more done if you ask around, and spread the joy.”
“I’m still a little annoyed,” she said. “Sitting here in a café, blabbing to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”
“Your eyes sparkle when you’re annoyed,” he said, giving her his second-best cowboy grin. His first-best grin was so powerful that he reserved it for places where the woman had her back against something, for support; like a mattress.
“For God’s sakes, Virgil, try to keep your mind on what you’re doing. . . .”
“Slender, yet firm body,” Virgil said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
She showed some teeth. “I’m gonna stick this pancake up your nose, in about one minute.”
“All right. All right,” he said, holding up his hands, palms out. “I’ll suppress my feelings, if you say so. You’re the sheriff.”
“I’m going to talk to the girls, then send them out to Battenberg. I’ll go with them. I’ve got John Kraus talking to that list of kids on Bobby’s phone. What are you doing?”
“Well, I developed one solid lead since last night,” Virgil said.
“Really?” Her eyebrows popped up.
“Yes. There’s a guy named Son Wood on Highway 15 South who hung out with Crocker, and who might know what women he was hanging with. I’m gonna talk to him.”
“Virgil . . .”
“Then, I’m going to go talk to Kelly Baker’s parents.”
“Good. That’s a plan. Maybe I’ll meet you there—I’ve never talked to them, myself.”
THEY FINISHED their pancakes under the eyes of the café patrons, Virgil telling her about the strangeness of the Floods, and about this and that. Coakley looked at her watch and took a last hit of her coffee and said, “Call me.”
She left, and Virgil watched her go. Slender, yet firm body. And she gave him a hard time, but she sort of liked it. It was, Virgil thought, drifting toward the philosophical, a truism that no woman was really upset when somebody suggested she was attractive.
Jacoby came over with a carafe: “More coffee?”
“Thanks, Bill—maybe a half cup.”
“Anything more that Lee didn’t want us to know?” Jacoby asked as he poured.
“Well, not really, not much that wasn’t in the paper this morning.