Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(34)
“Was he with a woman?”
She shook her head. “No. Passenger seat was empty. He was crawling along at ten miles an hour like he was looking for people coming out of bars.”
“Young pussy,” Jerry said. “Can’t hold that against him.”
* * *
—
Quill had no more information about that, and Virgil moved along to other topics. She said that she and her father didn’t have many issues, except that he thought she was lazy and she thought he was a rigid asshole, and he’d smelled some weed on her one morning and had given her a hard time. She didn’t use any other dope, she said, and could hardly wait until Minnesota legalized marijuana.
“Did your father use any drugs that you’re aware of? Illegal drugs?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she took a moment to light the cigarette. “Interesting you should ask,” she said. “I don’t do cocaine myself—can’t afford to—but it occurred to me once that he reminded me of a cokehead I used to know. This older real estate guy from Apple Valley who hung out at the bars by the U, trying to pick up the younger chicks. Talked about his deals and his coke, like anyone might give a . . . might care. I was at Barth’s house a couple of times, and he made me think of that. But I don’t know that he used anything. Like coke.”
She had little more. The night or morning that her father had been killed, she’d been there, in her apartment, with a half dozen friends coming and going, eating pizza and drinking beer and playing the old games in the closet, and Twister—the Twister, she implied, was played totally ironically.
“Not by me,” Jerry said. “I got in a couple of good gropes.”
The friends had started coming over about eight o’clock, and all but one had left around four o’clock in the morning. Another young woman, who lived at home in White Bear Lake, hadn’t wanted to drive all the way back and had stayed over. They’d both slept in until noon and then had gone out for bagels and coffee. The other girl hadn’t left her apartment until almost two o’clock in the afternoon.
* * *
—
Virgil asked if she knew anything else he ought to know about. She didn’t. Then, unexpectedly, she added, “You know, I didn’t hate Dad. Toward the end, I even started to like him a little bit. But he was so hard-assed, and he never let up.” She seemed about to tear up.
Virgil nodded, and told her he might be back. “I can’t ever tell in advance what might be relevant, when I talk to people.”
“Anytime . . . But call ahead. I’ll want to get my story straight,” Quill said, back to the sarcasm.
Brett said, “Hey. Tell him about that weird guy we met. On the sidewalk.”
Quill frowned, and said, “Oh, yeah.”
“What weird guy?” Virgil asked.
They told him about the neatly dressed man who they’d encountered on the street who’d asked questions about the investigation. They had no information about him other than a description, which Virgil took down in his notebook. “I thought afterward that he might be a cop, but he said he was a student. He was too old to be a student, though,” Quill said.
“He didn’t give you a name? Nothing at all?”
“No. We were standing there eating ice cream, and he started talking to us. Then he got in his car and drove off.”
Brett said, “He knows that Green person, the professor. He said he was in Anthropology and saw her around the building. I guess they’re in the same building.”
“Huh.” Virgil didn’t know exactly what to think about that. “I’ll ask around.”
As he turned to leave, Brett said, “Have a good day, man,” and he sounded sincere.
Jerry slapped his laptop, and said, “What a piece of shit. It’s like somebody’s gotta carry every fuckin’ byte up the fuckin’ stairs.”
Quill asked him, “Want a pussy shot to keep your blood pressure up?”
“Absolutely.”
Quill turned her back on Virgil and pulled the robe wide. Jerry said, “Oh my God . . .”
Virgil left, muttering, “Jesus.”
“Fuck you!” Quill shouted after him.
* * *
—
Virgil had a text from Trane that said she’d be in the office. Virgil drove back across the river and found her eating lunch at her computer. When he walked in, she turned, and said, “Interesting interview with one of the lab technicians. Remember that I mentioned that Quill was involved in a lawsuit?”
“Yeah, I saw that in your notes.”
“I talked to the university’s lawyer, who’ll be defending the case if it goes to court, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it—I couldn’t see a connection. Now the lab guy tells me that a year or so ago a quadriplegic named Frank McDonald had nerve rerouting surgery that was planned and directed by Quill. Another surgeon, a microsurgeon, did the actual procedure. Beforehand, McDonald had some small amount of movement in his arm and fingers; afterward, he got more movement, but supposedly he also had a lot of pain. He had a month of physical therapy after the surgery, but when he returned home that care was reduced to three hours a day, in the morning, early afternoon, and evening. The first day the reduced care started, after his wife went out to a supermarket, the guy used his new mobility to swallow a whole tube of painkillers. He was dead when the wife got back.”