“I didn’t know you were telling the truth about that,” Ann shouted. “It’s not like I could go and ask Danny if you had an alibi. Then people would start wondering why we were trying to set up alibis.”

“You could’ve figured out a way.”

“Why don’t we talk about me for a while,” Ann shouted. “You know where I was when that lady got shot, and when that man got shot. The same fuckin’ place, down in Hargrove’s fuckin’ ditch with the Bob-Cat. Clayton Hargrove wouldn’t let me off the site one fuckin’ minute early, so you know I was down there until four-thirty and later . . .”

—

Virgil was getting discouraged. “Hasn’t given him an inch.”

“I’ll tell you something else—if we do find something and get them to trial, and Apel tells them about the wire, the defense is going to want to hear this recording. Then we will be truly fucked.”

Ann was back to screaming. “You fuck, you goddamn . . . You motherfucker . . . I don’t want you here tonight. I want you out of the house and I want a divorce. I want a divorce right now. And I’m going to talk to that fuckin’ Flowers about this tomorrow, we gotta lot of shit to get straight.”

More shouting, footsteps running up the stairs, screaming apparently from below. And Apel: “I’m getting my underwear. I’m getting my socks . . .”

Five minutes later, he was out of the house, carrying an oversized gym bag.

“His clothes,” Jenkins said. “Man, that Ann’s gotta mouth on her, huh?”

—

They’d arranged to meet Apel at Skinner & Holland after whatever happened at his house, and he pulled up behind the store a few seconds after they got there.

“Well, that was a waste,” he said, as they went inside. “That bitch wouldn’t budge. You know what she did when I went out the door? Do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, do I want to?” Jenkins asked, as they peeled the wire off Apel’s back.

“She stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked it,” Apel said. Virgil checked: he wasn’t faking the anger. “Can you believe that? That fuckin’ Andorra, if he was still alive, I’d go over there and shoot him.”

“Where are you going now?” Virgil asked. “We want to stay in touch.”

“There’s a motel I can go to, over in Albert Lea; I got a friend there who’s the night manager, he’ll give me a rate. But I’ll tell you what, I ain’t giving up that house. I ain’t moving out. I’m going back after work tomorrow, I’m gonna put my bed in the office, and I’m gonna live there until the divorce. Say, can I borrow your recording for the divorce? I’m going to tell my lawyer about it. The bitch admits she was fuckin’ Glen . . .”