Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(29)

“Huh. I’ll tell you something about Davenport and basketball: you don’t want to be standing in the paint when he’s coming through,” Combes said. “He’ll lay that hockey defenseman shit on your ass and you’ll wind up in the bleachers.”

“He said you can shoot,” Virgil said.

Jock bonding. Combes was pleased. “I do have my moments.” Then, “So . . .”

“Yeah. How close were you and Dr. Quill?”

“Hell, not real close—we didn’t go out drinking or anything. He came to my Christmas party most years; he kinda liked my old lady. We did play handball most Friday afternoons when we both were in town.”

Virgil dropped his voice. “Here’s the thing, Jack. I mean, you’ve done criminal law, you know what we do. We’re looking for people who Dr. Quill might have been involved with, and who might have a propensity to violence.”

Combes: “That’s not me.”

Virgil took a nip of his Diet Coke, and said, “That’s not where I was going. We pretty much tore apart his house and we found the remnants of an eight ball of cocaine hidden in a desk drawer. You’ve dealt with druggies. Did you ever see any sign that Dr. Quill was using cocaine? Did you ever see him with anybody who might have been dealing it to him?”

Combes was already shaking his head. “You gotta know that I’ve defended a lot of these guys, court-appointed deals. Sure, I know the signs. All of them. I can look at two guys and tell you which one is a coke freak and which one is a methhead. I’ll tell you this: Barth Quill never in his life used cocaine. He didn’t know any coke dealers. The whole idea is laughable.”

“But—”

Combes shook off the interruption. “No buts. Look. What you really want to know is if I might have slipped him a little coke. If I might have introduced him to one of my clients. The answer is no. If I’d even suggested that he might like a little chemical fun, he would have crossed me off his list of friends. You know the phrase ‘rectally challenged’?”

“I’m not—”

“That’s the lawyer version of ‘He’s got a corncob stuck up his ass.’”

“I know that one,” Virgil said.

“Well, that was Barth. He was a guy who’d get out of the shower to pee. A good guy, but stiff. Way stiff. You’d say something a little off-color and it would take him five seconds to decide to laugh, and you knew he didn’t approve.”

“Then why was he a good guy?”

Combes shrugged. “He just was. My wife went into the university hospitals to get her tits done up and she was in there three days. He stopped in twice a day, brought her flowers, chatted with her. Talked to her surgeon, explained some technical stuff to her. That was Barth. He had his own street guy, this beggar, who’d wait for him outside the hospital buildings every morning, and Barth would give him ten bucks. Every day. Told me that with ten bucks you could get enough calories at a Burger King to survive. Probably kept the guy alive. Because he thought he should. He didn’t want anyone to thank him, either. It wasn’t charity. It was his duty.”

“His wives didn’t like him much,” Virgil said.

“’Cause he was stiff, and he could have a mean mouth. He didn’t want to be that way, but he couldn’t help it. He could dance, by the way. He was a hell of a dancer. Ask his wives about that.”

“But no cocaine.”

“No coke.”

Virgil kicked back in his chair, looking at Combes. He knew the kind of guy Combes was. He might have tasted a little cocaine from time to time, probably drank a little too much, probably was okay to his wife, probably had a couple of kids—and they were probably pretty good kids—probably liked to watch a ball game in the evenings—any kind of ball you could name—probably knew his way around a fishing boat but wasn’t a fanatic about it, probably slapped backs. Lots of probablys, but Virgil thought he was probably right.

And, Virgil thought, he was telling the truth. That was always disturbing in a source.

Virgil sighed, stood up, stuck out his hand. “Jack, I appreciate it. I probably won’t need to, but if I do, I might call you again.”

“Anytime,” Combes said.

Combes went back to his friends, and Virgil walked out to the parking lot. As he was pulling out, Combes came out of the clubhouse and waved him down. Virgil pulled up next to him and dropped his side window. Combes said, “Had a thought. Maybe talk to Barth’s daughter. She’s a college kid, kinda out there. I was thinking about the coke. He mentioned one time that she was having some problems, hanging out with the wrong people. I don’t know exactly what that meant. Could have meant, like, slackers. In Barth’s eyes, that’d be as bad as dopers. He might have meant something rougher, though. I don’t know. But he was bothered.”

“I thought he didn’t have much to do with his daughter,” Virgil said.

“He didn’t until she started going to college and messing up. Then they talked. At least occasionally. He mentioned once that she’d been over the night before. It might have been about money—probably was, to some extent. And I might not know what I’m talking about. She might be a real princess.”

“I’ll check,” Virgil said. “Thank you.”