People were rarely home when the cops pushed their bells for the very good reason that they were at work, unless they were the kind that didn’t work. McDonald, as it turned out, did work, but as a nurse on the three-to-eleven shift at the Hennepin County Medical Center.

She came to the door in her white nurse’s uniform, wrinkles of concern across her otherwise smooth forehead. She was a bit overweight, with a round face, dark hair cut short, and dark brown eyes. Virgil held up his ID, and said, “Mrs. McDonald, we’re agents of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and we’re investigating the death of your husband, Frank. We have a few questions for you.”

She looked from Virgil to Shrake and then back to Virgil. “But . . . that’s all over with. Frank died almost a year ago.”

“It’s not quite over with,” Virgil said. “May we come in?”

“Well . . . Could you wait here for a couple of moments while I make a phone call?”

Shrake said, “Don’t run away, Ruth. Make your call.”

“I’m not going to . . . Don’t be stupid.”

She closed the door, and Virgil said to Shrake, “Yeah, don’t be stupid.”

“Maybe I ought to watch the back door,” Shrake said. Virgil gave him a look, and Shrake said, “Okay, maybe not.”

Virgil said, “I’m going to stand in the shade.”

“Good idea.”

They were standing in the shade of McDonald’s dwarf maple when a St. Louis Park cop car slid to the curb behind Virgil’s Tahoe.

Shrake: “She called a fuckin’ cop on us. Can you believe that?”

“On you,” Virgil said. “Nobody calls the cops on me because I’m not that kind of guy.”

The cop got out of his car, and Virgil walked over to him, holding his ID out in front of him.

“BCA. Did McDonald call you?”

The cop looked at Virgil’s ID, then looked at Shrake, and asked Virgil, “Who’s the mook?”

Shrake said, “Hey, I thought that was you. Still dating fourteen-year-olds?”

“She was twenty-three,” the cop said. “What I didn’t know was, she wasn’t entirely divorced.”

“So you guys know each other and we’re good?” Virgil asked.

The cop waved at him. “Yeah, you’re good. I’ll call in and tell them to cancel the SWAT team.”

Before he did, the cop knocked on McDonald’s door, and, when she opened it, he told her that Virgil and Shrake were legit. “Catch you later,” he said to Shrake.

When the cop was back in his car, Virgil said, “You never introduced us.”

“Couldn’t remember his name, but he claims he’s a nine handicap,” Shrake said. He showed his overly white teeth to McDonald. “We need to talk. Right now.”

* * *

—

They sat in the living room, McDonald perched on a couch, Shrake in a La-Z-Boy, Virgil sitting on a kitchen chair. McDonald said, “Everything is settled, the estate—”

“We’re looking at a murder—the murder of Professor Quill, whom you know, at the University of Minnesota, almost three weeks ago, now. That murder has some ties back to the death of your husband,” Virgil told her.

“What!”

“When we looked at your husband’s death,” Shrake said, stopping momentarily to probe his teeth with a silver toothpick, which had both McDonald and Virgil leaning toward him, waiting, “we discovered some . . . unusual aspects . . . So, Mrs. McDonald, did you murder your husband?”

“What!”

“Did you—”

“No! Are you crazy? I loved Frank! I’m a nurse, I’d never . . .”

Virgil, quiet and gentle: “Did you help him with his pain pills?”

“Of course. Every four hours. I’m very professional . . .”

“Yeah, right,” Shrake said. “Then how come there were none of your fingerprints on the bottle? It’s like it was wiped clean before your husband supposedly picked it up.”

She started to blubber, then stood up, her arms straight down at her sides, and said, “I’m calling my lawyer.”

“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.