Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(41)

“No. Should I have?”

“Foster said that Green might have eyes for him, he felt some interest. I’m wondering if the attack on Foster might be a red herring—that it doesn’t have anything to do with the Quill murder but is somebody who’s interested in Green who might be taking out the competition. After talking to Foster, I got the feeling he was targeted. That the attack wasn’t random. That it was an ambush.”

“Well, poop,” Trane said. “I guess I work tomorrow . . . Are you on your way home?”

“I’m meeting my girlfriend and one of her kids over at Davenport’s place and then going home after that. When I found out what happened, I came over here to Regions. Now I’m thinking I should find out where Green is and talk to her about it.”

“She’s over in St. Paul, too. I went to her house. Let me get you that address.”



* * *



—

Virgil considered calling Green to make sure she was around, but after getting her address from Trane, on Mount Curve Boulevard, he realized she must live within a few blocks of Davenport. The interview probably wasn’t critical. And if she wasn’t home, he’d try again on Monday.

She was home.

Green lived in a white clapboard house set high on a bank above the street, with a tucked-under garage and a big deck over it. Virgil pulled into the short driveway, climbed the stairs to the front door, and knocked. Green peeked out through a corner of the drape-covered picture window next to the porch, and Virgil twiddled his fingers at her. The door popped open a moment later, and she said, “Officer . . . ?” the question mark in her tone indicating she’d forgotten his name.

“Virgil Flowers,” Virgil said. “We’ve had an . . . event . . . that I’d like to get your reaction to.”

She pushed open the screen door. “Come in. What happened?”

The door gave onto the living room, which was filled with beige furniture and two side-by-side bookcases filled with texts; an archway to the right led to a generous kitchen with a table and four chairs. Virgil went left, perched on a couch, and she sat on a chair facing him.

“You told me that Terry Foster might have a predilection, or at least a familiarity with, violence, since he was in combat in the Army. Somebody attacked him the night before last, outside his house, and hurt him. Bad.”

“Oh my God! Is he? I mean . . .” Her reaction seemed genuinely spontaneous. She hadn’t known about Foster.

“He’s not going to die, but his arms are broken, and he’s sustained some head injuries,” Virgil said. “The question is, is this related to the Quill murder? I need to talk to you about that.”

“Why would it be?” she asked, frowning. “Wouldn’t it more likely be a robbery? A mugging?”

“There are some unusual aspects to it.” He explained about the ambush, about how the attacker apparently lay in waiting for Foster. “Most muggers want your money and don’t want to kill anybody because then it becomes a big deal. Muggings are usually crimes of opportunity, a random meeting on the street. This guy never demanded anything. He hid, he waited, he attacked.”

“What would I know about that?”

“Uh, don’t take this the wrong way,” Virgil said, “but are you currently involved in a personal relationship?”

She flushed, and a spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “I . . . What . . . How would that . . . ?”

“Foster is about your age, and he finds you attractive. He told me so. I was wondering if there was somebody else in your life who’d know about Foster’s feelings, who would try to discourage him.”

“Death would be discouraging,” Green said, maybe with a hint of humor in her voice. She went serious again. “No. I don’t have a personal relationship with anyone at the moment. Terry is not unattractive, but there are some . . . barriers . . . when it comes to relationships between professors and students. The university doesn’t forbid them, but it does discourage them. If a relationship becomes a problem, it’s the professor who loses. Always.”

“He’s not a kid.”

“That does make a difference. A forty-five-year-old male Art professor having an affair with an eighteen-year-old freshman is in deep trouble. And if he doesn’t already have tenure, he won’t get it. A thirty-four-year-old female Cultural Science professor sleeping with a thirty-four-year-old Army combat veteran won’t attract so much attention because the power differentials in the two situations are quite distinct,” Green said. “What attention it did attract, though, wouldn’t be good, especially for the professor. This is all theoretical, of course. I have no physical relationship with Terry and never have had.”

“Might somebody think you do?”

She shook her head. “If somebody does, it’s a fantasy. I had a pleasant relationship with a nice man, a Realtor, that ended two years ago. He wanted a comfortable home, two or three kids and a couple of dogs, a supportive wife to make sure the dishwasher didn’t overheat. That wasn’t me. We both eventually recognized that and we broke up. I haven’t been on a date since then. Too busy. To say nothing of the whole male privilege thing, which I’m pretty tired of. You know, the little woman to bring his slippers and pipe after a hard day slaving over the listings.”