Bloody Genius (12 page)

“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.”

“I thought it was the dog that brought the slippers and the pipe,” Virgil said.

“The job descriptions are similar,” she said.

Virgil peered at her, and said, “Huh.”

“What?”

He slapped his thighs, stood up. “That doesn’t get me anywhere. I was hoping you had a jealous boyfriend with a collection of baseball bats. That’d be simple. Now I have to go back to wondering if there’s a connection to the Quill murder. Or if it was just a mugging gone wrong.”

“I don’t see how it could be connected to Quill. As far as I know, Terry had nothing to do with him,” Green said.

“That’s what Terry told me. But suppose somebody from Cultural Science did kill Quill because he was obsessed with the idea of protecting you. And maybe had reason to think that Terry could figure that out.”

“That sounds like a TV cop show,” Green said.

“Yeah.” Virgil pushed hair out of his eyes. “That’s always a bad sign. Whatever it is, it’s never like TV.”

Virgil drove over to Davenport’s after leaving Green’s house, and, as he’d thought, it was only about four blocks and a half million dollars away. Davenport was a U.S. Marshal and had been shot in Los Angeles the previous spring by federal fugitives. The fugitives had been a colorful bunch, and had included a cannibal. When Davenport recovered from the shooting, he had gone back after them, with a couple of other marshals and an FBI man, and now most of the fugitives were dead.

When Virgil pulled into his driveway, Davenport was shooting baskets at a hoop hung over his garage door. He looked too thin, thinner than Virgil had ever seen him, and there was an underlying grayness to his face.

“Big guy,” Davenport said, passing the ball to Virgil as he got out of his truck. Virgil banged the ball off the rim, and Davenport said, “Brick,” and, “The ball’s supposed to arc, Virgil. Arc, like a rainbow. You’re not throwing a runner out at first.”

“I know the theory,” Virgil said. He’d been a college third
baseman but had played basketball in high school, without much enthusiasm. “It’s hard to give a shit about basketball. If the hoop were at sixteen feet, and they let women play, it’d be different . . . How are you feeling?”

“Okay. I look bad, but I’m okay. Where’s Frankie?”

“She’s on her way up, with our Sam. She should be here pretty soon.”

Davenport’s wife, Weather, showed up a few minutes later with a sack of raw steaks, and they all went in the house, and Davenport’s two kids still living at home went into the back to do whatever kids do when they get bored with their parents, and Virgil and Davenport drank beers and talked with Weather as she unpacked the steaks, after which Davenport started chopping up vegetables for a salad.

The talk drifted to Virgil’s case. Margaret Trane, Davenport said, was maybe the best investigator in the Minneapolis Police Department. “When she called me about you, she said she was stuck.”

“Things have loosened up,” Virgil said. He outlined the past two days in Minneapolis, and Davenport frowned, and said, “That sounds like you’ve got a ton of stuff to work with. You oughta be making good progress. Instead, you’re talking like you’re seriously screwed.”

“I don’t feel screwed, but something unusual is going on,” Virgil said. “I haven’t put my finger on it. I got a lot of clues but no clue. While a lot of people didn’t like Quill, it doesn’t seem like they disliked him enough to kill him.”

“You don’t understand campus politics, Virgil,” Weather said. “There’s no meaner group of people in the world than academics
when they get stirred up. I’ve heard a lot about this feud between Quill and Green. Believe me, something like that could lead to murder. But you know what your real problem is?”

“You’re about to tell me,” Virgil said.

“Yes. Your real problem is, all the people you’re dealing with are really, really smart,” Weather said. She was a plastic and microsurgeon and on staff at the University of Minnesota hospitals, among others. “If this wasn’t a spontaneous murder, if the killer planned it, then you’re going to have a hard time catching him, and an even harder time convicting him. I bet he’s set himself up with an alibi, and it’ll be hard to break. Maybe impossible.”

Virgil said, “There’s no prints, no DNA, no nothing. You’re right about the killer being smart. It doesn’t feel planned, though.”

“The only thing harder than knocking down a well-planned murder is knocking down one that wasn’t planned at all. If it’s totally unplanned and the killer gets past that first day, then it gets tough. For example, I can’t see Virgil’s guy planning to use a laptop as a murder weapon,” Davenport said. “That sounds spontaneous.”

“Not entirely sure that he was hit by the laptop,” Virgil said. “The head wound suggests it could have been—it’s a good fit—but it wouldn’t have to be. I could find ten things in our barn that could have made the same wound.”

Davenport’s son, Sam, dashed up to the kitchen door and shouted, “They’re here.”

“Well, go open the door,” Weather said.

He dashed away, and, a minute later, Frankie tottered through the kitchen door, and said to Virgil, “You criminal. You did this to me.”

Davenport went over to kiss her, and said, “Did what? You look terrific.”

“You are such a charmer . . . If Weather hadn’t married you, I would have.”

“Hey, what about me?” Virgil asked.

“You could marry Letty,” Frankie said.

“We all know that ain’t gonna happen,” Davenport said. “I’m gonna go fire up the grill.”

When he’d gone, Frankie leaned toward Weather, and asked, quietly, “He still looks pretty rough. Are you sure you want him to keep working?”

“No. But Lucas is gonna do what Lucas is gonna do. It’s always been that way. I can slow him down most of the time, when he’s planning to do something crazy, but not all the time. This time, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Davenport asked, returning to the kitchen, looking for a can of briquette starter.

“Can’t wait for the babies to show up,” Weather said. “I want to see what that fuckin’ Flowers does with his dadhood.”

They didn’t talk about Davenport anymore or about the shootings in LA and Vegas. Davenport did mention that he’d stopped to talk to his adopted daughter, Letty, at Stanford before he went on to Los Angeles. She was about to graduate and was deciding between a hot job offer and an economics scholarship at Yale.

Virgil: “Did she ask about me? If she does, you could tell her I’m taken. For the time being anyway.”

“Don’t start,” Davenport said.

They ate steaks, and Davenport’s son Sam and Frankie’s son, also a Sam, roughhoused around the yard and shouted a few off-color words and were corrected in a desultory way. The adults talked
about everything but crime, and toward the end of the evening a U.S. senator called Davenport to say that he was needed for a confidential job in Washington.

The senator gave Virgil a hard time for a few minutes—while governor, he’d been involved with Virgil when Virgil purchased his boat—then signed off after Davenport promised to call him the next day. At ten o’clock, Frankie followed Virgil and Sam out of Davenport’s driveway. Frankie and Virgil both had hands-free phone links in their vehicles and they raked over the details of Virgil’s case as they drove, finally giving up as they pulled into the barnyard.

Sam got out of the truck, and Honus the Yellow Dog, who’d been sleeping on the porch, ambled over in the dark to meet him.

“Don’t be going online,” Frankie said to her son.

“I’m too sleepy anyway,” Sam said, and Virgil rubbed his head.

Virgil woke up Sunday morning in his own bed, with gray clouds outside and a stiff wind blowing through the leaves of a sugar maple that grew in the side yard. He yawned, stretched, got up, and looked out the window. The hayfield was as slick as a Marine recruit’s haircut, not a single bale waiting to be thrown. He smiled to himself, stretched again, and went to get cleaned up.

Frankie was having a second cup of coffee when he made it down to the kitchen, and she said, “Virgie, we gotta talk.”

Virgil said, “Oh, shit. Listen, I didn’t have any choice about going up there. If I hadn’t been ordered to go, I would have thrown that hay. Really, I would have.”

“No, no, I’m not talking about hay. I want to tell you I enjoyed
myself last night, but I’m getting pretty lumpy. We might have to, mmm, go easy on the more vigorous sex until the kids get here.”

“Oh, Jesus! Why didn’t you say something?” Virgil asked. “I’d never hurt you. I—”

“We’re not quite there yet. You didn’t hurt me, and I enjoyed the heck out of myself,” she said. “I’m not saying that the sex has to stop. We’ll have to go to, you know, alternatives.”

“I’m up for that,” Virgil said. “Anytime, anyplace. Well, almost anyplace. The roof of the barn wouldn’t be good. You’d probably roll off.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I figured you’d be cooperative.”

“Gotcha. We can start working on alternatives tonight,” Virgil said. “Or this afternoon . . . if I don’t have to do something with hay.”

“Barn’s full of hay. There won’t be any hay next year, so you’re in the clear. We’re four years into the alfalfa now, we need to kill it off. Rolf wants to rotate in some corn.”

She went on like that for a while, and Virgil heard “four years,” “Rolf,” as well as “alfalfa,” “corn,” and a couple other agricultural words, and when he realized she’d finished talking, he said, “You know what you’re doing, I can’t advise you. Except—”

“You going to advise me now,” she said.

“Yeah. I’ll advise you that next spring you’re going to have two new kids and not a hell of a lot of time to do farmwork or architectural salvage. I’ve got to keep working to bring in the cash. Maybe it’s time to ease off on the farming. And the salvage. Take a break. Or make a deal with Rolf: he does it all, he gets it all. He could use the money. That’d keep the company going.”

“I hate it when you talk sense.”

“I’m not often accused of doing that,” Virgil said. “Anyway, what are we doing today?”

“We could start by going down to Fleet Farm. I need two fence posts and some reflector buttons.”

They spent the late morning rolling around Mankato, running errands, stopped at a Pagliai’s Pizza for lunch, at the riverfront Hy-Vee’s, where they spent a hundred bucks on food that would hold them for maybe three days. Frankie talked about getting a couple of quarter horses so the kids would grow up with horses, in addition to Honus the Yellow Dog and the chicken.

“If we got horses, we’d have to build a stable,” Virgil said.

“I’ve got the materials from the salvage operation. Rolf says he can get Lonnie Marks to pour the foundation at cost, and then you two could build it. Easy: post and beam. I’m thinking six stalls, a tack room, storage for concentrates, a loft for the hay. I’m not thinking we do it in the next fifteen minutes. Maybe start it next spring, finish it a year later. The only thing that would be expensive are the rubber mats I’d want to put down on the concrete.”

“Who shovels the horseshit?” Virgil asked.

“Well, I mean, you know . . .”

“That’s what I thought,” Virgil said. But he liked the idea of horses. The image of himself galloping across the prairie. “We can talk about it.”

On the way home, they were silent, preoccupied by different thoughts. For the first time in his life, Virgil had responsibilities that he couldn’t walk away from—two kids on the way, a woman he wanted to marry and eventually, he thought, surely would.

That was not exactly what he’d seen coming. When he was in
the Army, in the Balkans, he’d taken a couple of leaves in Europe. He’d somehow imagined a writing life, on one of the coasts, with frequent visits to Paris, his favorite big city.

Not happening. He was a cop living on a Midwestern farm well outside a small city.

Still, he thought, he had the writing. He was doing a dozen articles a year for a variety of magazines, had been published in
Vanity Fair
and
The New York Times Magazine
.

And was edging into something new. He hadn’t talked to Frankie about it, but he had three chapters of a novel in his writing drawer and was working on it regularly, so much so that he’d begged off a musky fishing trip to Canada with his old friend Johnson Johnson to keep it going.

That afternoon, Virgil did chores, including pulling out two old, rusting posts at the driveway entrance, then replacing them with two new wooden posts and mounting reflectors on them. That done, he spent three hours at his writing desk, sending out query letters to magazines about article assignments and working on the novel.

That evening, they caught a movie beamed down from the satellite, then, just before dark, went for a walk.

The night was quiet, except for the random cricket. The sky had cleared out in the afternoon, and the wind had dropped to nothing. Virgil could smell the hayfield, and, overhead, the stars were so close they could almost be touched.

“Is there anywhere better than Minnesota in the summer?” Virgil asked.

“There’s isn’t,” Frankie said. “Unless you’re dead in the library.”