Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(82)

“I dunno. It seems to be drifting toward some kind of conclusion,” Virgil said. “Keep your eye on the newspapers.”

“I’m like everybody else,” she said. “I don’t read the papers.”





CHAPTER





TWENTY



Virgil stayed up late to finish the James Lee Burke novel, slept late on Friday morning, then called Trane, who was immersed in a study of Robin Jones, the attorney representing Ruth McDonald in the malpractice case. “I’ve talked to a few people and I’m having some doubts,” she said. “Turns out Jones is basically known as a chickenshit, both physically and otherwise. He would be unlikely to go after anyone physically, and I’m told he sure as hell wouldn’t be breaking into a library. He wants to be a congressman, and breaking into anything would be the end of that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep looking. I’m not quite done with him yet,” she said. “What about you?”

He told her all about Nash. “He’s at least a solid suspect. I’ve been told that he’s basically a careful criminal and knows about setting up alibis for himself. The medical convention down in Rochester sounds like an alibi to me. Goes around slapping backs, buying drinks—he’s the life of the party. Disappears at ten o’clock, but at eight the next morning there he is again. What happened between ten and eight? Nobody knows.”

“All right,” Trane said. “I’m pulling for you.”



* * *



—

Virgil went for a run around campus, browsed the bookstore in the basement of the student union, went back to the hotel, got on his computer and dug for everything he could find on Nash. Reviewed all the notes he’d taken in the past week and concluded that Nash was the best lead they’d come up with, assuming that Cohen hadn’t killed Quill and was in the process of getting away with it. He went on Google Maps satellite, spotted Nash’s house and the Surface Research factory, and the routes between them.

He talked to Frankie for an hour, about the condition of both the farm and her womb, was told that both seemed to be doing fine. Late in the afternoon, he took a nap because he suspected he’d be up all night. At six o’clock, he called Shrake, who claimed to have an absolutely critical, and possibly life-changing, date. “Jenkins wanted to go shoot some pool. That was an hour ago, so I know he’s not doing anything. I think he’s driving around town.”

“I was hoping for a less visible car,” Virgil said. Jenkins drove an aging Crown Vic. Even though cops no longer drove them because they were no longer made, the used versions still screamed “cop.”

“We’ve got a late-model silver Camry at the office that’s not doing anything but sitting in the parking lot. He could get in that and be practically invisible,” Shrake said.

“Will Jenkins fit?”

“Maybe.”

Virgil made the call, and Jenkins said, “You’re saving my life. I’m so goddamn bored I was thinking about masturbating.”

“How would that end your life?”

Puzzled silence, then, “Ah . . . No, see, the two things aren’t connected: saving my life and masturbating. I was trying to make a point about . . . Oh, fuckin’ forget it. I’ll get the Camry and meet you. Hey, how about if I stop by Jimmy John’s and get us some hoagies?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be starving by the time it gets dark,” Virgil said. “Maybe a couple of Diet Cokes.”



* * *



—

As the sun reluctantly lowered itself below the horizon—it had been a boring day—Virgil drove south to Edina, spotted Nash’s house from the street. The house showed lights all across what must have been a half dozen rooms. As he watched, one of the lights went out, so somebody was inside. He drove around the block, found a spot where he could sit and look through a couple of yards and see Nash’s garage door.

Jenkins arrived twenty minutes later, parked behind Virgil’s Tahoe. Like his partner, Shrake, he was a large man, dressed in jeans, a black golf shirt, a light cotton sport coat, and black Nike running shoes. He got out of his borrowed car, got into Virgil’s passenger seat, and passed over a bag of hoagies and two Diet Cokes.

“Heard you’d been working with Shrake and Capslock.”

“Yeah . . .”

Virgil explained the situation, as he chewed through his sandwich. Jenkins, looking out at the quiet suburban street, said, “You know, somebody’s going to call the cops on us. We’re gonna have a squad car with a bunch of flashing lights. We’ll probably get shot.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think.” Jenkins got out his phone and called the duty officer at the BCA and asked him to call the Edina cops and tell them about the surveillance. The duty officer called back a moment later and said Edina had already had a call and a patrol car had been dispatched, but now had been recalled. “Told you,” Jenkins said.

“You’re way smarter than you look,” Virgil said.

“Thank you . . . A hoagie? Don’t mind if I do.”



* * *



—

They ate for a while, then Virgil said, “I just had a thought.”