Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(71)

“Jones or Hardy?” Virgil asked.

“Mr. Jones. You two get out of here. Go back out. I want to talk to Mr. Jones in private.”

“Don’t run away,” Shrake said, grinning at her, “’cause we’ll getcha.”



* * *



—

They went back to stand under the maple tree, and, five minutes later, McDonald came out of the house and trudged across the yard and handed her cell phone to Virgil. “Mr. Jones wants to talk to you.”

Virgil took the cell, and said, “This is Virgil Flowers, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Flowers?” the attorney demanded. “The medical examiner’s report found that Frank McDonald died by suicide. What the hell is going on over there?”

“The report was incomplete,” Virgil said. “We’re working to enhance it.”

“Enhance it? What are you talking about? Who put you up to this?”

“Listen,” Virgil said. “We’re probably going to take Mrs. McDonald over to the BCA to properly interview her. She’ll want a lawyer with her. Would that be you?”

“Take her with you?” Jones was shouting now. “That’s absurd. And abusive. I’ll be filing a very serious complaint with—”

Virgil overrode him. “We need to ask her some questions about the murder of Barthelemy Quill. I believe your firm also represents the woman who was with Dr. Quill when he was murdered.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Ask your boss.”

Long silence, then: “Flowers? You stay right where you’re at. I’m fifteen minutes away, and I’m coming. Let me talk to Ruth.”

Virgil passed the phone back to McDonald, who listened for a moment, then clicked it off, and said to Virgil, “He says I shouldn’t answer any questions until he gets here.”

“How about one question?” Shrake said. “Can we go back inside? It’s too hot to be standing out here. I’m afraid a robin is gonna shit in my hair.”

She said, “No,” and half jogged back to the house, arms stiff at her sides once again.

Virgil moved deeper into the shade, and said, “I’m glad I wasn’t dumb enough to wear a suit and tie.”

Shrake yawned.

Virgil: “Listen, You did okay with her, but now let’s dial it back to a seven.”

“That’s where I was, a seven,” Shrake said. “You ain’t never seen my eleven.”

“Okay, take it back to three. I don’t want Internal Affairs taking up residence in my shorts.”



* * *



—

A lawyer arrived, but it wasn’t Jones, it was Hardy. He jumped out of his green Range Rover, looked at Virgil as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, then strode across the lawn, and Virgil said, “Mr. Hardy,” and Shrake said, “Watch your hair. There’s a robin up in the tree that’s been trying to shit in ours.”

Hardy looked up in the tree for a second, wiped his hand across the top of his head, then turned back to Virgil, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Mrs. McDonald’s attorney of record. As a courtesy. Before we take her in.”

“A courtesy? Take her in? For what? And, by the way, I’m one of her attorneys of record. In addition to Robin Jones.”

“We find that interesting,” Virgil said. “And that’s what we want to talk to Mrs. McDonald about. You guys filed a nuisance suit against the university, which is prepared to take you on, with one of the smartest and most admired men in the Cities ready to testify that everything you claim is bullshit. Then it turns out that one of your clients lures—”

“She didn’t lure anybody!” Hardy shouted. “They were lovers.”

Shrake snorted. “A famous rich doctor is in love with a hooker when he could date any one of a thousand single women in the Twin Cities for free? Tell me another one.”

Virgil rode over both of them. “Lures him into the library, where he’s killed and therefore can no longer testify in your lawsuit, which Robin Jones has said he might split and sue Quill’s estate separately? Did I get that right?”

“No. It’s like you’re taking crazy pills.”

Another car arrived, a Mercedes SL550 with its hard top down, and Hardy said, “Here’s Robin.”

The top on the Mercedes started up, and Shrake said to Hardy, “You know those billboards of yours? ‘Call me Lare’?”

“What?”

“You ought to call yourself Batman since your sidekick’s named Robin. You could put—”

“You know how many times I’ve heard that joke?” Hardy asked. “About a million. You should be embarrassed.”

Shrake shrugged, but in fact he was. Nothing like being the millionth guy to tell a bad joke.

Jones got out of the car and hurried over, a briefcase under his arm. Virgil pegged him to be in his early thirties, with a well-tailored light blue summer suit that was too expensive for his age. You tended to look at him, with his car and his suit, and think, Asshat. He nodded at Hardy, and said, “Glad you could make it. I wanted to talk to you before I file a criminal complaint against these two.”