Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(45)

“One way or another, all of it,” Trane said. “The newspapers and television knew everything except the fact he was hit twice, but that was mentioned in the autopsy report, and his wife and daughter had access to it. Who knows who they might have told? The keys, laptop, and phone—all those details were leaked during the first week of the investigation, but at different times. Would a scammer have seen all those mentions on TV and in the papers? I mean, ’CCO had the missing keys and phone, but the Star Tribune got the computer.”

Virgil said, “Have you talked to your Narcotics guys? You know what China White is?”

“Yeah, but we’re not talking about China White, we’re talking about coke . . . At least, I think that’s what we’re talking about. I’m trying to find somebody who knows about this Territorial Lounge.”

“I got a guy at the BCA who might be able to help,” Virgil said.



* * *



—

Virgil thought about the tip and China White as he continued into the Cities and across the Mississippi to the university. There were, in his experience, a whole bunch of reasons that somebody could wind up violently and illegally dead. There were a whole bunch more that somebody could wind up violently but legally dead, but those didn’t apply in the Quill case.

In his territory, in the southern third of Minnesota, the most common murders were domestic conflicts. Domestics were followed in frequency by alcohol-or drug-inspired mayhem. Psychological upsets counted for a few, and the rest were for a variety of reasons: money, sex, revenge, immaturity—the ten-year-old who shoots his mother for taking away his cell phone—and ideology. Virgil had never seen a purely ideological murder, Republicans being too cautious, Democrats generally being bad shots.

Mostly it was domestics and booze.

Where would the Quill murder land in that matrix? Wasn’t a domestic, and there was no reason to think alcohol was involved. Not ideology. Unlikely money, since he had an elaborate will that would be hard to break; people would get what he left them, no more, no less. All of the people who seemed possible suspects were mature adults except his daughter, who didn’t have any reason to kill him except general disdain, which wasn’t usually enough. So a maturity problem didn’t seem likely.

Could be anger or revenge, if Green were involved, or somebody in Quill’s lab, if the killer was an employee unhappy about not receiving credit for scientific work or a low salary or had other job tensions. Was somebody about to be fired?

Could be sex, if Quill were having an illicit relationship or if he were inviting hookers up to the carrel late at night.

Virgil thought about that for a moment. If the library was empty, and if he didn’t want to take a chance of inviting a prostitute into his home, that would explain the pubic hairs on the yoga mat. The ex-wives did say Quill liked sex, and with the breakup with his third wife, he wasn’t getting any. But a hooker? A hooker wouldn’t likely forget a wallet, and Quill had seven hundred dollars in his and it was still in his back pocket when he was found.

Then, finally, drugs, and the tip on an unknown dealer called China White. Drugs could explain a lot. If the cocaine found in the old desk was Quill’s, and if he were involved with a dealer, it would explain surreptitious meetings late at night. And if he was getting drugs from a prostitute, which was not unheard of, it’d be an even more credible explanation.



* * *



—

It would also mean that the attack on Terry Foster was almost certainly not related to the Quill murder. Maybe Foster was the victim of a random act, a coincidence.

He called Trane, who picked up instantly. “What?”

“I wanted to mention a couple of things that we should keep in mind. If the Terry Foster attack is related to the Quill murder, then we’re dealing with a planner, not an impulse killer. If Foster is related, then the killer is male, not a female named China White. Foster was sure of that.”

“That’s all true, but only if Foster is related to Quill.”

“You were planning to talk to the St. Paul cops yesterday. Did you get that done?”

“Nope. Do you know Roger Bryan?”

“Yes. He caught it?” When Virgil was a St. Paul cop, he’d worked with Bryan, then a new detective. Virgil considered him competent, and maybe better than that.

“Yeah. He was doing one of those low-rent Ironman things yesterday—bike fifty K, swim Lake St. Croix, run ten K. He was gone all day. He’s working today, we’re meeting up this afternoon.”

“I’d like to sit in on that.”

“You’re invited,” Trane said. “You still headed for the lab?”

“I’m there now,” Virgil said. “Looking for a place to park where I won’t get towed.”



* * *



—

Virgil had taken a couple of required chemistry courses when he was at the university and had scored solid B’s, which might have been C’s if he hadn’t impressed the chemistry professor with his formula for what the professor called, with a complete lack of cultural sensitivity, the “Yellow Peril.” That is, a cheap and semilethal concoction of ethanol, orange juice, and pineapple nectar, which the professor served at departmental parties.

All Virgil remembered of his legitimate chemical efforts was measuring the density of Pepsi Cola and the confusing mass of glassware in the lab. He expected something similar when he followed a harried-looking woman through the door of Quill’s laboratory but found, instead, something that more closely resembled a sophisticated computer lab. The room was the size of a high school classroom, with several doors down its interior length leading to other rooms.