“We’re not done,” Ann told Trudy.

As they’d done with Davy, they taped the transmitter to Ann’s back, above the waist of her skirt. She was wearing a loosely woven peasant blouse that completely concealed the transmitter and the microphone.

Virgil rehearsed her, as he had Davy Apel, and said, “If you see a weapon, yell for help. If he gets physical in any way, yell for help. We want him angry, but if he goes over the top . . .”

“I know: yell for help.”

“We’ll be one minute away,” Virgil said. “Leave the side door unlocked when you go in.”

—

They slid into position a few seconds before Ann Apel drove into the driveway and parked outside the garage. She inserted her key in the side door’s lock, opened the door, and disappeared inside. On the receiver/recorder, they heard the door close, then heard her walk up a couple of steps and shout, “I’m not talking to you!”

Davy Apel: “We gotta talk. No matter what happens between us, we’re in deep trouble with Flowers. I don’t think he believes us.”

“I don’t care. I’ve got my alibi, people who saw me when those people were shot—I was miles away, unlike you. You were, like, next door.”

Davy Apel: “I had nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with it.”

“I think you knew I had a relationship with Glen. I think you knew that . . .”

“Not until that fuckin’ Flowers said something.”

Jenkins laughed, said, “That fuckin’ Flowers,” and Virgil said, “Quiet.”

“Well anyway, we’re done,” Ann Apel told her husband. “I don’t want you in this house. You scare me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Davy Apel said. “I pushed my bed into the office, and I’m staying.”

“Davy . . .”

Davy Apel went to pleading. “Listen . . . babe . . . you know I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I mean, maybe a fly, but not a person. I never hurt anybody. Have I ever raised a hand to you, even when we had those bad fights? I’m a lover, honey, I’m not a fighter . . .”

That went on for a while, and finally Ann Apel said, “You can stay, but I’m NOT going to get in your bed. I’m not going to feed you, either; you can get your own goddamn food. Tomorrow, I’m going to talk to Phil and get going on the divorce.”

“You fuckin’ Phil now? Is that what . . .”

“Fuck you!” Ann Apel shouted. “Fuck you . . .”

—

Phil must be an attorney,” Virgil said, as they listened to the fight escalate. Ten minutes later, Ann Apel burst out of the house, got in her car, backed into the street, and sped away.

“Skinner and Holland,” Jenkins said. “If worse comes to worst, we can always get a potpie.”