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.”
