Dark of the Moon by John Sandford Read Free Book Online Page B

newspaper.”
    Williamson shook his head. “I don’t work for you, Bill. I worked for your father, and now I work for your father’s estate. When the estate passes to you, I’ll be out of here like a hot desert breeze. Until then, I’m working for the estate.”
    “You better find a job by the end of next week, then,” Judd said.
     
    V IRGIL SAID TO J UDD: “We need to look at your father’s will. We assume it’s in a safe-deposit box. We’re gonna get a writ to open it, since it could be material for this investigation. Also because we’d like to see what else is in the safe.”
    Judd nodded: “That’s fine with me. Let’s get Bob Turner and go talk to the judge and crack the box. Get things moving.”
    “Can I come?” Williamson asked.
    Stryker said, “No.”
    Williamson grinned: “No harm in asking. Goddamn, it’s hot out here.”
     
    O N THE WAY back to their vehicles, they stopped at the burn pit and Stryker called down, “Anything new?”
    A chubby woman in a yellow protective suit and face mask stood up, used a paper towel to wipe sweat off her face, put the towel in a trash bag, and said, “I’m dying of heat prostitution.”
    They all grinned down at her and she added, “Nothing else, really. But we’ve got the carpals and they’re intact; they were under a piece of sheet steel and that must’ve given them some protection, so I think we’re good for DNA. And with Bill Jr. to provide us a sample, we can be sure on the ID.”
    “Get it done,” Stryker said.
    On the way down the hill, Big Curly said, “I’d like to cut me off a piece of that,” meaning the woman in the yellow suit.
    Stryker nodded. “I’ll mention it to Mrs. Curly.”
     
    O NE OF the best things and one of the worst things about a small town was that everybody knew everything that was going on. The judge knew about as much of the Judd case as Virgil did, and pounded out a writ on his secretary’s computer, and printed it.
    “Good to go,” he said, and handed the paper to Stryker.
    Stryker called the Wells Fargo branch and talked to the manager, who said he’d be waiting. Judd’s attorney said he’d walk over.
    “So let’s go,” Stryker said.
     
    “G O ” MEANT WALKING —the bank was three blocks away, two blocks through an older residential area, cutting the business district about halfway down Main Street. They walked past the drugstore, which gave out a whiff of popcorn, and Judd trotted back and went inside and then caught up, carrying a paper sleeve of it, munching at it like a starving man; and past the newspaper, which shared a building with an office that said JUDD ENTERPRISES, and one that said WILLIAM JUDD JR., INVESTMENTS, then on down the street past a combination barbershop and beauty salon.
    The bank’s time-and-temperature sign said eighty-seven degrees when they walked under it, and into the lobby. The banker was a white-haired man with a neat mustache, and the lawyer was a white-haired man with a neat mustache; a Mexican-looking guy in jeans and a T-shirt, and a black mustache, stood off to one side with a toolbox. Stryker was becoming a white-haired man with a neat mustache. Should Virgil grow a mustache, he’d look like everybody else, Virgil thought: a monoculture of German-Scandinavian white people, now getting a little salsa poured on it, to the great relief of everyone.
    The banker took the writ, and led the way into the vault, explained that since Judd had the necessary keys, which hadn’t been found in the burnt-out house, they’d have to drill the box, and would charge the estate for it later. Drilling the box took three minutes, the banker gave the Mexican guy a twenty, and the guy took his tools and left.
    The box was one of the bigger sizes; big enough, say, to hold three roasted chickens. The banker carried it to a privacy carrel, but since they weren’t being private, they all crowded around when they popped the lid.
    Judd said, with some reverence, “Holy