“No. I’m looking at Dr. Quill’s yoga mat,” Virgil said. “If you could step back, you’re in my light.”

She stepped back, and he scanned the mat from one end to the other, flipped it over, did the same thing with the back. Halfway down, he stopped, squinted. The library lady was peering over his shoulder. Virgil stood up, stepped back, and said, pointing, “I want you to get down and look right there.” He took a pencil from his pocket, bent over, and laid it on the mat.

“Well . . .” She got down on her knees anyway, looked where the pencil tip pointed, and after a moment said, “Oh.”

“You think that’s an eyelash?” Virgil asked.

“No, I—”

“Mustache hair?”

“No, I—”

“What, then?”

“I think it might be a . . . You know . . .”

“Dr. Quill was blond. Do you think his pubic hair would be that color? Dark brown, almost black?”

“Well, I don’t—”

“Neither do I,” Virgil said. He got on his phone to Trane. “There’s a yoga mat in Trane’s carrel.”

“Yes, I saw it,” she said.

“Did you unroll it?”

“Yes, just to make sure nothing was rolled up inside. Why?”

“I unrolled it and found what a pubic hair expert here at the library thinks just might be one. In her preliminary opinion, she doesn’t think it came from Dr. Quill since he’s a blond and this hair is not.”

“Shit! Shit! We missed it,” Trane said. “I knew you were gonna be trouble, Flowers. I’ll call the lab, see how closely they scanned the mat. If they really missed it, I’ll get somebody over there to collect it.”

“Okay. Tell the lab guys to bring new crime scene tape. I’ll wait until they get here.”

“Shit! Shit! Listen, I’m coming, too. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

When Virgil got off the phone, the library lady said, “I’m not a . . . hair . . . expert . . .”

“I must have misunderstood,” Virgil said.

* * *

—

Virgil left the yoga mat unrolled on the floor, stepped out of the carrel, and closed the door as the library lady hurried away, glancing back over her shoulder only once. As Virgil was picking up the clump of crime scene tape, two uniformed campus cops walked past the far end of the book stacks, hesitated when they saw Virgil at the carrel door with the tangle of tape. They walked over, and the older one asked, “What were you doing here, sir?”

Virgil said, “I’m with the BCA. I’m working with Margaret Trane on the murder of Dr. Quill.”

He slipped his ID out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the ranking cop, a sergeant. The cop glanced at it and handed it back. “Figure out anything?”

“Couple of things. Like, maybe I ought to be wearing a shirt and tie. Nobody seems to believe I’m a cop. Anyway, Margaret’s on her way over right now, to take another look at the carrel.”

“Kinda stuck?”

“Ah, we’ll get there,” Virgil said. “What’s up with you guys? Anything to do with Quill?”

“Nah. You know the Andersen Library, across the street?” the sergeant asked.

“They were building it when I was a student here. I was never inside.”

“Well, it’s where they keep the rare book collections and other valuable stuff. Most of it’s underground. Anyway, they’re missing maps. At least several. They’re doing an inventory now, but there are a hell of a lot of maps. We were looking at the cleaning staff because they’ve got keys to most things and could probably get keys to everything if they set their minds to it. One of the janitors told us he thought he saw a woman over there, well after hours, who actually works over here. She used to work over there. She denies it, said she never goes over there anymore except during the day. She does know the janitor by sight. She says she sees him over here, late in the day, out back. She says he’s toking up before he goes to work. So, you know, stoned, confused, familiar with her face . . .”

He shrugged.

Virgil asked, “How much are the maps worth?”

“Several thousand dollars each, maybe more . . . The library hasn’t tried to market them, so they don’t know for sure. The thing is, the missing ones are all old European maps and would probably get the biggest bucks if they were sold in Germany or France. And if they’re sold there, through a private dealer, we’d never hear about it.”

“The woman here . . . What’s her name?”

“Genevieve O’Hara. First name is pronounced the French way: Jzhan-vee-EHV.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, the janitor wasn’t sure that it was her he saw. If he was stoned . . . and knew her face . . . that’s a problem. Whoever took the maps knew what they were doing—they’re valuable, but not the most valuable; they weren’t often referenced; and they’re not so uncommon that their sale would get special attention. So there’s all that.”

“Huh. Is this woman French?”

“No. Not Irish, either. Born right here in Minnesota.”

* * *

—

They were still talking about the map thefts and the Quill murder when Trane came up the stairs, looking harassed. She blew a stray hank of hair from her face, and said, “Okay, let’s see it.”

The two campus cops followed them to Quill’s carrel. Virgil unlocked the door, and said, “The pencil point is an inch away from it.”

“What is it?” the shorter of the two cops asked.

Trane didn’t answer. She got down on her knees, pushed her glasses back on her nose, looked, and said, “Okay.”

She stood up, and said, “Lock the door.”

Virgil did, and said, “We’ve got to go somewhere and talk about it.”

“There are a couple of study rooms here . . .”

* * *

—

The campus cops would have been happy to hear their conversation, but Virgil waved them off with a cheerful “See you later, guys” as he followed Trane to an empty room.

“Crime Scene ought to be here pretty quick, given what I told them and how their asses are now up around their ears,” Trane said. “If Quill was screwing somebody in there, it’d have to be after hours. And we know he was there after hours.”