Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(70)

“Call me as soon as you get back from Eau Claire.”

“I will.”



* * *



—

“Something good?” Shrake asked.

“Could be,” Virgil said. He slipped a couple of French fries off Shrake’s plate. “Somebody seen hanging around Quill’s carrel up at the library. But quite a while ago. Don’t know if it’s connected. Anyway, let’s go talk to McDonald.”



* * *



—

McDonald lived in a tree-shaded rambler in St. Louis Park, which was good because the day was both hot and humid. They’d driven over in their separate vehicles, left them at the curb, and as they walked up the driveway, Shrake asked, “If she’s here, which I doubt, you wanna go in hard?”

“Semi-hard,” Virgil said.

“Last time I heard that phrase, I was in bed with a woman from the county recorder’s office,” Shrake said.

“I didn’t want to hear about Trane sex, and I don’t want to hear about county recorder sex,” Virgil said. “Push the fuckin’ doorbell.”

People were rarely home when the cops pushed their bells for the very good reason that they were at work, unless they were the kind that didn’t work. McDonald, as it turned out, did work, but as a nurse on the three-to-eleven shift at the Hennepin County Medical Center.

She came to the door in her white nurse’s uniform, wrinkles of concern across her otherwise smooth forehead. She was a bit overweight, with a round face, dark hair cut short, and dark brown eyes. Virgil held up his ID, and said, “Mrs. McDonald, we’re agents of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and we’re investigating the death of your husband, Frank. We have a few questions for you.”

She looked from Virgil to Shrake and then back to Virgil. “But . . . that’s all over with. Frank died almost a year ago.”

“It’s not quite over with,” Virgil said. “May we come in?”

“Well . . . Could you wait here for a couple of moments while I make a phone call?”

Shrake said, “Don’t run away, Ruth. Make your call.”

“I’m not going to . . . Don’t be stupid.”

She closed the door, and Virgil said to Shrake, “Yeah, don’t be stupid.”

“Maybe I ought to watch the back door,” Shrake said. Virgil gave him a look, and Shrake said, “Okay, maybe not.”

Virgil said, “I’m going to stand in the shade.”

“Good idea.”

They were standing in the shade of McDonald’s dwarf maple when a St. Louis Park cop car slid to the curb behind Virgil’s Tahoe.

Shrake: “She called a fuckin’ cop on us. Can you believe that?”

“On you,” Virgil said. “Nobody calls the cops on me because I’m not that kind of guy.”

The cop got out of his car, and Virgil walked over to him, holding his ID out in front of him.

“BCA. Did McDonald call you?”

The cop looked at Virgil’s ID, then looked at Shrake, and asked Virgil, “Who’s the mook?”

Shrake said, “Hey, I thought that was you. Still dating fourteen-year-olds?”

“She was twenty-three,” the cop said. “What I didn’t know was, she wasn’t entirely divorced.”

“So you guys know each other and we’re good?” Virgil asked.

The cop waved at him. “Yeah, you’re good. I’ll call in and tell them to cancel the SWAT team.”

Before he did, the cop knocked on McDonald’s door, and, when she opened it, he told her that Virgil and Shrake were legit. “Catch you later,” he said to Shrake.

When the cop was back in his car, Virgil said, “You never introduced us.”

“Couldn’t remember his name, but he claims he’s a nine handicap,” Shrake said. He showed his overly white teeth to McDonald. “We need to talk. Right now.”



* * *



—

They sat in the living room, McDonald perched on a couch, Shrake in a La-Z-Boy, Virgil sitting on a kitchen chair. McDonald said, “Everything is settled, the estate—”

“We’re looking at a murder—the murder of Professor Quill, whom you know, at the University of Minnesota, almost three weeks ago, now. That murder has some ties back to the death of your husband,” Virgil told her.

“What!”

“When we looked at your husband’s death,” Shrake said, stopping momentarily to probe his teeth with a silver toothpick, which had both McDonald and Virgil leaning toward him, waiting, “we discovered some . . . unusual aspects . . . So, Mrs. McDonald, did you murder your husband?”

“What!”

“Did you—”

“No! Are you crazy? I loved Frank! I’m a nurse, I’d never . . .”

Virgil, quiet and gentle: “Did you help him with his pain pills?”

“Of course. Every four hours. I’m very professional . . .”

“Yeah, right,” Shrake said. “Then how come there were none of your fingerprints on the bottle? It’s like it was wiped clean before your husband supposedly picked it up.”

She started to blubber, then stood up, her arms straight down at her sides, and said, “I’m calling my lawyer.”