“Any possibility that he might get together with women online?” Virgil asked.

Anderson thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. Frankly, it wouldn’t astonish me. The efficiency of it would appeal to him. Sex on demand, without commitment. I understand that there’s often a money exchange involved in the hookups.”

“So, women might be another form of gear,” Virgil suggested. “Get what you want, pay your money, and be done with it.”

“That’s about it,” Anderson said.

* * *

—

Anderson walked through the lab and into the computer space with Virgil as Virgil was leaving but stopped to talk to the woman Virgil had followed into the lab. Anderson said to him, “This is Julie Payne. She knows everything.” Then to Payne: “Was Barth interested in any of the women in the lab?”

She cracked a smile, and said, “No.”

“It was that clear?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. He wasn’t interested in any of us.”

Virgil: “Did he have a girlfriend?”

“That’s harder. Some days he’d come in—this was after he’d left his wife—and he’d have that look that men get after a night of hot sex,” Payne said. “The postcoital, empty prostate macho glow. Both relaxed and predatory, looking for a new target.”

“I didn’t know we got that look,” Virgil said.

“Well, you do. I first spotted it in my ex-husband. First because of me, then later not so much,” Payne said.

“Then you think a girlfriend is likely?”

“Sex seemed likely. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he had a girlfriend. One time, this girl from the hospital came over with some images for Sally—Sally works here, she’s a tech—and they were talking, and this girl said she might try Tinder. Dr. Quill was going by and heard that and said something like, ‘Real bad idea.’ He didn’t say anything else, just kept walking, but he obviously knew what Tinder was.”

“Tinder is pay-to-play?”

“Not supposed to be but sometimes is,” Payne said. “Not all full-time hookers. Sometimes, it’s just a girl who needs a quick couple of thousand so she can go to Mardi Gras or something. The Virgin Islands or Cabo in February.”

“Would Dr. Quill take that risk? A hookup for money?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. If he did, it would be calculated and probably not much of a risk.”

“How would I find one of these women?”

“Stroke to the right, big guy,” Payne said. And then she had to explain what that meant.

* * *

—

Something to think about. Pubic hairs, a yoga mat, an empty prostate macho glow. Why would a hooker kill him and why would she leave behind his wallet, with its unidentifiable currency? Everything she did take—the computer, the keys, the phone—would be evidence against her. And only the computer could be fenced, and not for much, no matter what it originally cost.

* * *

—

Virgil had some time to kill before the meeting with Trane and the cop, so he stopped off in St. Paul for a Butter Flake Roll at Breadsmith, went next door for a Strawberry Surf Rider Smoothie from Jamba Juice, then idled around the corner and looked in a bookstore window until he finished eating and drinking his smoothie, then went inside and bought the latest Dave Robicheaux novel by James Lee Burke.

He made it to St. Paul police headquarters fifteen minutes ahead of time and sat and read the novel until he saw Trane coming down the street.

“Get anything from the lab?” she asked.

“One of his lab employees thinks Quill was having a sexual relationship with somebody. She said he’d sometimes come in with—and I quote—‘the postcoital, empty prostate macho glow.’ And she said he was familiar with Tinder.”

“Ah, the well-known postcoital, empty prostate macho glow. I’m very familiar with it,” Trane said. “Maybe a hooker emptied it for him?”

“That we don’t know. Yet. But I’m leaning in that direction. If I have time, I’m going to figure out how Tinder works, then I’m going to go sit by his house and stroke to the right. See who pops up.”

“You’re expecting something to pop up? I’m told you’re expecting children.”

“You have a dirty mind, Trane. I’m as faithful as the day is long.”

“Winter or summer?”

* * *

—

The desk cop walked Trane and Virgil back to Roger Bryan’s desk. Bryan was on the phone and waved them into chairs, ended the call, stuck out a hand to shake with Virgil, and said, “Virgil Fuckin’ Flowers, as I live and breathe. And how are you, Maggie? I haven’t seen you since when? Last summer on the jumper?”

“Yup. Poor kid.” She turned to Virgil, and said, “Kid jumped off the Lake Street Bridge because everybody at school unfriended him.”

“I read about it,” Virgil said. “I never know what to think when something like that happens.”

“The school held a memorial service for him, and they brought in a busload of shrinks to shrink the kids,” Bryan said. “What they should have done is taken the little assholes out to the soccer field, lined them up, and then beat the crap out of them one at a time.”

“I’ve always thought of you as the Gandhi type,” Virgil said.

“What’s going on with Terry Foster?” Bryan asked. “He’s hooked up with the Quill murder? Is that right?”

“We don’t know. We need to know about what happened to Foster. He’s part of that clusterfuck going on at the U, between Quill and Katherine Green.”

“I know, the culture professor. We asked him about that and came up empty,” Bryan said. “Right now, we’re treating it as a strong-arm robbery attempt, but there are some problems.”

“Like what?”

“Probably nothing you haven’t thought of. Ambush in a remote spot in a well-lit neighborhood. Unless he was scouting Foster, the asshole could have stood behind the garage all night and not seen anyone go by. And he was serious about this thing. If the guy in the backyard hadn’t yelled at him, I think Foster might be dead. But, you get all sorts. We pushed Foster on who might have it in for him. He couldn’t think of anyone, and he looked to me like he was telling the truth. Said there was no reason any of Professor Quill’s people would come after him, none he could think of. That’s the only recent hassle he’d been involved in, and he wasn’t much involved.”