“Nice place,” Johnson said, nodding his approval.
“Yeah, he’s rich, Drake is,” Katy said. “The Weekses live right at the end of the road, a little farther.”
They drove on and found the Weeks place, a broken-down single-wide mobile home set up on concrete blocks, well back in a notch in the woods. A stream of smoke seeped out of a can-size chimney on top. Virgil pulled in, and they all got out. He led the way up to the front door, climbing the graying stoop while Johnson and Katy waited below, and rapped on the door.
He heard feet cross the floor inside, and then a man yanked the door open, peered out, saw Johnson and Katy behind him, looked back at Virgil and asked, “Who are you?”
Weeks was a tall, thin man, with ropy muscles in his arms and neck, big battered hands, and small suspicious blue eyes.
“I’m with the MBCA,” Virgil said.
“What the hell is that?”
“The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Minnesota?”
And Virgil gave him a look at his badge.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Y’re a long way from home.”
He ignored that and said, “Katy Waller here lives and works down at the Wallers’ ranch.” He turned and motioned at Katy. “Somebody stole more than six hundred dollars from her chest of drawers, probably last night. We’re hoping that Phillip Weeks could help us figure out who took it.”
“Can’t help you,” Weeks said. “Little asshole ran off last night, said he ain’t coming back, took his clothes and he’s outta here. And he ain’t coming back. He shows up here again, I’ll kick his ass and throw him right back out. Time he was workin’ on his own anyway.”
At sixteen. Sure.
Weeks started to close the door, but Virgil said, “Do you know if he took the money?”
“Shit. I don’t know about any money,” Weeks said. “I didn’t take it, and I told you, he’s gone. Now get off my fuckin’ porch.”
“Do you know where he might be headed?”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a shit.”
A Montana cop might have had more to say about that, but Virgil didn’t, because he wasn’t one. Weeks slammed the door and Virgil backed down the steps and said to Katy, “I think I believe him. I don’t have any resources here to try to track the kid. If he really took off with that money, he could be on a Greyhound halfway to California or Seattle by now.”
“Goddarnit,” she groaned. “I was gonna buy clothes.”
“On the way out,” Virgil told Johnson, “let’s stop at the Drake place. I’ll ask if anybody talked to Phillip before he left.”
Back down the short road Johnson pulled in behind the RV, gave a low whistle, and said, “A Rosestone recreational vehicle. Never seen one in the flesh, but I thought about buying one of ’em. Those are the Cadillacs of RVs.”
“But you’ve got the Cadillac of Cadillacs, why would you want the Cadillac of something else?”
“Think of where you could go with that thing,” Johnson said, eyeing the big rig, practically salivating.
“No place too far from an interstate highway or a gas station,” Virgil said. “Almost as close to nature as Grand Central Station.”
Virgil and Katy walked up to the door of the cabin, while Johnson made his way slowly around the RV, giving it a closer look, running his fingers over the smooth finish. Virgil knocked, and a minute later, a youngish, soft-faced man opened the door, looked out, and asked politely, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Drake.”
“I’m Michael Drake.”
He was an inch or so over average height, slender, and older than he looked at first impression. Somewhere around forty-five, he was wearing black slacks with pleats, a black dress shirt, and tasseled black loafers. An expensive-looking watch circled one wrist, a turquoise bracelet on the other.
Virgil told him about the missing money and looking for Phillip Weeks, and halfway through the explanation, Drake started shaking his head. “I haven’t seen Phillip at all this trip. Don’t see him much anyway.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Have you asked his father about him? He lives with Bart.”