“Drugs?”
“They did the whole bloodwork drill at the hospital and he was absolutely clean.”
“Women?”
“He says no. An on-and-off thing, nothing serious.”
“Money? Gambling?”
Bryan was shaking his head. “None of that—at least, not that he’d admit to. We talked to friends of his and they said he’s a quiet, routine guy. Likes a beer or two, or three, but doesn’t need it. Not yet anyway. That’s why we still have it as a strong-arm job—there doesn’t seem to be any other motive. We even asked if it might go back to his military service, but he doesn’t think so. He was an intelligence officer, got shot once, but he wasn’t a guy ordering anyone into combat or kicking anyone’s ass. He spent most of his time in an office. He got wounded sitting in a truck.”
Virgil said, “Wait a minute . . . He was an intelligence officer? I got the impression that he was an enlisted man . . . a sergeant or something.”
“Nope. He was a captain. You think that might be important?”
“I don’t know,” Virgil said. “Odd that he didn’t say something. I was a captain myself, and I mentioned that when I talked to him. That’ll usually bring on a few minutes of Old Home Week. You know, where were you, what’d you do, who’d you know, all of that.”
“He’s a quiet guy,” Bryan said. “He was over there for a quite a while . . . Maybe a little PTSD? Doesn’t like to talk about it?”
Trane asked, “That aside, you got anything?”
“We got zip,” Bryan said.
“Exactly what we got on the Quill case,” Trane said. “There’s an uninteresting coincidence.”
* * *
—
Outside again, Trane said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m gonna go poke around Foster again,” Virgil said. “There’s something there. Best case, I find out who killed Quill. Average case, I catch a mugger. Worst case, I get what Bryan got.”
“Which is zip.”
* * *
—
Trane was parked in a no-parking zone a block in front of Virgil. Virgil got to his car before Trane got to hers and he watched her walking away, down the street, now talking on her cell phone, her free arm waving over her head. She was arguing with someone, and the argument looked hot. He started his car, rolled up the street, and Trane turned, saw him, and flagged him down. A moment later, she was off her phone and had walked back to him. Virgil rolled down his window.
“You won’t believe what just happened,” she said.
“Green confessed?”
“Worse. Fifty-four days ago I busted a guy for an assault for a fight, the details not being important because we had him, cold, with a bar full of witnesses. Guess how I know it was exactly fifty-four days ago?”
“Ah, maybe because of the sixty-day speedy trial law?”
“You got it. He filed for a speedy trial the day we arrested him, and the paperwork got lost. Somebody finally woke up in the county attorney’s office and asked what happened with the Logan trial,” she said. “After some major clusterfuckery, they managed to schedule a trial on day fifty-nine out of sixty, royally pissing off the judge, but I’ve had no prep at all. I didn’t even know about the speedy trial request. Anyway, I’m getting prepped for the next couple days, and then I’ve got to be there for the trial.”
“You’re telling me that I’m on my own,” Virgil said.
Trane tipped back her head and closed her eyes. “Yeah, goddamnit. You could probably ask for more help, but you’re doing pretty good, and you know the Cities. Keep your nose to the grindstone and your feet on the fence and your ears to the ground. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Maybe three. Or four.”
“That’s so—” Virgil said.
“What can I tell you?”
“You’d think—”
“Yeah. You would,” Trane said. “Anyway . . .”
“I’ll try to make you proud.”
“Do that, cowboy.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Virgil sat in his truck and watched Trane drive away; she was still fuming about the trial, muttering to herself. After a moment, he called Katherine Green, but she didn’t pick up. He called her again, still no answer. Finally he called Clete May, the guy with the Japanese bow. May picked up, and Virgil asked, “Do you know a woman in Cultural Science whose name is Sandy and looks like a pileated woodpecker?”
“Sure, Sandy Thomas. Personally, I wouldn’t describe her that way. She’s been studying jujitsu since she was nine years old and would kick your ass if she heard you call her that.”
“Then I’ll ask for your discretion on the woodpecker thing, if you run into her. So she’s in Cultural Science?”
“Yes. Well, sometimes. She’s twenty-six or twenty-seven and has had five or six majors, I think. Never graduated. But, right now, she’s in Cultural Science.”
“You know where she lives?”
“No, not really,” May said. “If you’re looking for her, she teaches a jujitsu class about now. Over at the RecWell. I’ve been invited, but I’ve always had other commitments. Like, to my personal well-being.”
“She’s rough?”
“Rough and tough. My martial arts experience has been considerably more relaxed than hers. I’m not saying she’s a fanatic, but she’s a fanatic.”
* * *
—
There was no Recreation and Wellness Center when Virgil attended the university; at the time, even the word “wellness” probably hadn’t been invented, so he would go to “the gym.” Still, he knew where the RecWell was located because he’d driven by it a number of times.
He went there, was astonished at what he found—a fitness center that was a monument to wretched excess. He showed his badge at the front desk, was told that he was a half hour early for Thomas’s class. A female student aide, who looked like she could crack English walnuts between the cheeks of her ass, led him to a women’s locker room, left him outside, and a minute later returned with a slender, muscular woman whose red hair did indeed give her the aspect of a pileated woodpecker. She was wearing a two-piece yoga outfit in red and black that ended just below her knee. Also, below her knee, Virgil spotted an impact hematoma. As she walked up to Virgil, she crossed her arms over her chest, showing off solid biceps—both had dime-sized bruises, as though she been poked by fingertips or sticks—and asked, “What’s up?”