“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.”

CHAPTER

TEN

   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.