He shrugged, tapped on his computer for a moment, then printed out a list of numbers. “This is what we got. Numbers. It’s a pretty big business-the numbers I’ve been able to find all go out to places that a heavy-equipment operator might call. But there are some that I couldn’t tell you who the people are… but none of them’s name is Knox.”

Virgil checked the numbers against the number from Wigge’s pad: nothing matched.

“Well, keep piling them up,” Virgil said. “I’m done at the house, if you want to take a team over.”

SANDY CALLED HIM on his cell phone as he was walking up to Davenport ’s office. “Where are you?”

“About thirty feet down the hall,” he said.

She hung up and stuck her head out of Davenport ’s office. “Carl Knox has a cabin,” she said. “What was that number you found at Wigge’s? Was it up north?”

“Yup. You got Knox’s number?”

“Yes, but it’s not under his name-it’s under one of his daughter’s names, Patricia Ann Knox-Miller. But the cabin is his. He deducts the taxes.”

“What’s the number?” He opened his notebook as she read out the number for the cabin.

“That’s weird,” he said when she’d finished.

“What?”

“That’s the number,” he said. He looked up at her. “We found the hideout.”

VIRGIL CALLED the number again, and once again failed to get an answer. Since he had the phone in his hand, he called the Sinclair number again, and this time, Mead Sinclair picked up the phone.

“I’d like to talk to you; I’ve got a Vietnam story for you,” Virgil said.

“Always happy to hear Vietnam stories,” Sinclair said. “Especially the ones where the American imperialist running-dogs get their comeuppance.”

Virgil thought about that for a second, then said, “I bet you really pissed a lot of people off in your day.”

“You have no idea,” Sinclair said. “When are you coming over?”

“Right now.”

“ARE YOU going north?” Sandy asked.

“Probably-but right now, I’m going over to the Sinclairs’. Could you get some plat books and spot Knox’s place for me? Just send it to my e-mail.”

“When are you going?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“I was thinking of going dancing tonight,” Sandy said. “If you’re around, we’ll be at the Horse’s Head.”

“ Sandy, you know…”

“What?”

“If I went dancing with you, I don’t think Lucas would like it,” Virgil said. “We’re in the same group.”

“Don’t get your honey where you get your money,” she said, one fist on her hip.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Virgil said. “But-think about it.”

“I refuse to think about it,” she said. “You think about it, when you’re driving your lonely ass up to some godforsaken cabin in the North Woods.”

“ Sandy…”

VIRGIL WANTED to check with Davenport in person, but Carol, his secretary, said he was in his third crisis meeting at the Department of Public Safety downtown. “He’ll be completely insane by the time he gets back. I know he wants to see you. He wants to make sure there’s not a boat on the back of your truck.”

“I’ll be back,” Virgil said.

In the hallway, he ran into Shrake, who was coming down the hall carrying a tennis racket with a cannonball-sized hole through the face of it, the strings hanging free. Virgil didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “Hey-Shirley Knox sorta liked your looks.”

“Yeah?” Shrake said. “I sorta liked hers, too.”

“Gotta be careful,” Virgil said.

“I’m cool,” Shrake said. “So, uh… what’d she say about me?”

THE DAY WAS getting away from him, he thought, sliding from afternoon into evening as he got to Sinclair’s apartment. Sinclair was barefoot, wearing white cotton slacks and a black silk shirt open at the throat. “Mai’s not here,” he said. “We should be able to talk in peace and quiet.”

“She dancing?”

“Grocery shopping. She’s running around somewhere, looking for a particular kind of food store. Some place that has seafood and weird spices.”

“Gorgeous and a good cook.”

Sinclair laughed. “She taught herself to cook fourteen things really well. Two weeks of dinners. Every other Wednesday, rain or shine, we have Korean bulgogi. Not bad. But today is okra gumbo day. Good gumbo, but you know, sometimes I’ll wake up on gumbo day and I think I can’t look another okra in the face… I can’t tell her that, of course.” He led the way to the back porch and his stack of papers. “What’s your Vietnam story?”

Virgil laid it out: the theft of the bulldozers, the shoot-out at the house, the deaths of the men in the circle of thieves.

“That’s a great story, Virgil,” Sinclair said, sitting back in a lounge chair, fingers knitted behind his head. “The business about the shooting in the house. The murders. That was a wild time-you think this could be a comeback?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil said.

“I did some research on you, you know, after you picked up that line from Virgil,” Sinclair said. “You’re a writer.”

“I write outdoor stuff,” Virgil said.

“Hey-I read that story about the moose hunt up in the Boundary Waters, and packing that moose out in the canoes. That’s good stuff, Virgil. There’s a great American tradition of outdoor writing, of exactly that kind. Teddy Roosevelt did it,” he said, and Virgil got red in the face, flushing, pleased by the flattery, had to admit it.

Sinclair let him marinate in his ego for a moment, then continued: “Anyway, this Vietnam story, what you just told me. If you could get Bunton to repeat that, or any of them to repeat that, if they’d go on the record-and if there’s a connection going back to those old days-I could put you in touch with a guy on the New York Times Magazine. They’d buy it in a minute.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve been publishing for forty years in those kinds of magazines-they’d buy it,” Sinclair said. “I mean, aside from the facts of the matter, it’s a terrific story. A bunch of American rednecks flying into Vietnam as the place goes up in flames, to steal millions of bucks’ worth of bulldozers? Are you kidding me? Keep your notes, buddy.”

Virgil nodded. “But what do you think about the story?”

Sinclair ran his tongue over his lower lip, then shook his head. “I’ve worked with the Vietnamese for a long time. They can be a subtle bunch of people and they know how to nurse a grudge. On the other hand, they can be the biggest bunch of homeboy hicks that you could imagine. So I suppose it’s possible that there’s a Vietnamese connection…”

“But you don’t believe it.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Millions of people were killed back then. Millions. Whatever happened in that house, however bad it was… was nothing. And the lemon thing. That’s pretty obvious. It’s like a flag to attract your attention. Have you thought about the possibility that it’s coming from another direction?”

“Yeah, I have,” Virgil said. “I’ve even got a guy I’m thinking about. But I don’t want to take my eye off the Vietnamese connection, either.”

“Which is why you were harassing Tai and Phem.”

“Checked them out-they seem like they’re on the up-and-up,” Virgil said. “That’s what the Canadians tell us, anyway. But who knows? They could be some kind of crazed Vietnamese hit team.”

Sinclair nodded. “They could be. On the other hand, they could just be a couple of gooks who got lucky and were born in Canada instead of a reeducation camp.”

“You still pissed about that?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “And they’re still pissed at me. They don’t believe that I didn’t tell you about them.”

Mai came back carrying two big grocery sacks, plunked them on the counter; she was wearing a simple white blouse and blue jeans, and looked terrific. She even looked like she smelled terrific, but when Virgil sniffed, he smelled raw crab. She asked, “Can you stay for dinner?”