"And the Mexicans back to Mexico, and the Chinese back to China, and the Indians to Israel, and so on and so forth," Williamson said. "I wrote a long feature on him, got picked up by the Associated Press."

"HERE COMES TROUBLE," Big Curly muttered.

Virgil looked and Bill Judd Jr. was headed toward them. Judd was a heavy man, with a turkey-wattle neck under a fat face, thinning hair, and small black eyes. He must have been close to sixty, Virgil thought.

Judd nodded at Williamson, glanced at Virgil, and asked Stryker, "What're you going to do about this, Jim? If that's Dad down there, and if that boy from the state fire marshal was right, then it's murder. What're you going to do?"

"Investigate it," Stryker said.

"Like you're investigating the Gleasons?" Judd shook his head, his wattles swinging under his chin. "Give me a break, Jim. You bring in the BCA or…Goddamnit, you bring in the BCA."

Stryker tipped his head toward Virgil. "Meet Virgil Flowers, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension."

Judd's face snapped toward Virgil. He examined him for a moment, checked the T-shirt, then said, "You don't look like much."

Virgil smiled. "I'm not easily insulted by suspects," he said. "There been too many of them over the years."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" Judd asked.

"Well, you're pretty much the only suspect we've got at the moment," Virgil said. "In a situation like this, you always ask, 'Who inherits?' The answer, as I understand it, is you."

Judd looked at Virgil for a long three seconds, then turned to Williamson. "You keep that out of the 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.