"What?"
"I said, good book."
"You read it?"
Myron nodded. "Without moving my lips."
The kid stood. He was tall and lanky.
"You play basketball?" Myron asked.
"Yeah," the kid said. "Just finished my freshman year. Didn't play much."
"I'm Myron Bolitar."
The kid looked at him blankly.
"I played ball for Duke."
Blink, blink.
"No autographs, please."
"How long ago did you play?" the kid asked.
"Graduated ten years ago."
"Oh," the kid replied, as though that explained everything. Myron did some quick math in his head. The kid had been seven or eight when Myron won the national title. He suddenly felt very old.
"We used peach baskets back then."
"What?"
"Never mind. Can I ask you a few questions?"
The kid shrugged. "Go ahead."
"How often are you on duty in the post office?"
"Five days a week in the summer, nine to five."
"Is it always this quiet?"
"This time of year, yeah. No students, so there's almost no mail."
"Do you do the mail sorting?"
"Sure."
"Do you do pick-ups?"
"Pick-ups?"
"Campus mail."
"Yeah, but there's only that slot by the front door."
"That's the only campus mailbox?"
"Um-hmm."
"Been getting a lot of campus mail lately?"
"Next to none. Three, four letters a day."
"Do you know Christian Steele?"
"Heard of him," the kid said. "Who hasn't?"
"He got a big manila envelope in his box a few days ago. There was no postmark, so it had to be mailed from campus."
"Yeah, I remember. What about it?"
"Did you see who mailed it?" Myron asked.
"No," the kid said. "But they were the only pieces of mail I got that whole day."
Myron cocked his head. "They?"
"What?"
"You said 'they. They were the only pieces.'"
"Right. Two big envelopes. Exact same except for the address."
"Do you remember who the other one was addressed to?"
"Sure," the kid said. "Harrison Gordon. He's the dean of students."
Chapter 19
Nancy Serat dropped her suitcase on the floor and rewound the answering machine. The tape raced back, shrieking all the way. She had spent the weekend in Cancun, a final vacation before starting her fellowship at Reston University, her alma mater.
The first message was from her mother.
"I don't want to disturb you on vacation, dear. But I thought you'd want to know that Kathy Culver's father died yesterday. He was stabbed by a mugger. Awful. Anyway, I thought you'd want to know. Give us a call when you get back in. Your father and I want to take you out to dinner for your birthday."
Nancy's legs felt weak. She collapsed into the chair, barely hearing the next two messages--one from her dentist's office reminding her of a teeth cleaning on Friday, the other from a friend planning a party.
Adam Culver was dead. She couldn't believe it. Her mother had said it was a mugger. Nancy wondered. Was it really random? Or did it have something to do with his visit on ...?
She calculated the days.
Kathy's father had visited on the day he died.
A voice on the machine jarred her back to the present.
"Hello, Nancy. This is Jessica Culver, Kathy's sister. When you get in, please give me a call. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I'm staying with my mom. The number here is 555-1477. It's kind of important. Thank you."
Nancy suddenly felt very cold. She listened to the rest of the messages. Then she sat without moving for several minutes, debating her options. Kathy was dead--or so everyone believed. And now her father, hours after talking to Nancy, was dead too.
What did it mean?
She remained very still, the only sound her own breaths coming in short, hitching gasps. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jessica's number.
The dean's office was closed, so Myron proceeded straight to his house. It was an old Victorian with cedar shingles on the west end of the campus. He rang the doorbell. A very attractive woman opened the door. She smiled solicitously.
"May I help you?"
She wore a tailored cream suit. She was not young, but she had a grace and beauty and sex appeal that made Myron's mouth a little dry. In front of such a lady Myron wanted to remove his hat, except he wasn't wearing one.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I'm looking for Dean Gordon. My name is Myron Bolitar, and--"
"The basketball player?" she interrupted. "Of course. I should have recognized you right away."
To grace, beauty, and sex appeal, add knowledge of basketball.
"I remember watching you in the NCAAs," she continued. "I cheered you all the way."
"Thank you--"
"When you got hurt--" She stopped, shook the head attached to the Audrey Hepburn neck. "I cried. I felt like a part of me was hurt too."
Grace, beauty, sex appeal, basketball knowledge, and alas, sensitivity. She was also long-legged and curvy. All in all, a nice package.
"That's very kind of you, thank you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Myron."
Even his first name sounded good coming from those lips. "And you must be Dean Gordon's wife. The lovely dean-nessa."
She laughed at the Woody Allen rip-off. "Yes, I'm Madelaine Gordon. And no, my husband is not home at the moment."
"Are you expecting him soon?"
She smiled as though the question were a double entendre. Then she gave him a look that flushed his cheeks. "No," she said slowly. "He won't be home for hours."
Heavy accent on the word hours.
"Well then, I won't bother you anymore."
"It's no bother."
"I'll come by another time," he said.
Madelaine (he liked that name) nodded demurely. "I'll look forward to it."
"Nice meeting you." With Myron, every line was a lady-slayer.
"Nice meeting you too," she singsonged. "Goodbye, Myron."
The door closed slowly, teasingly. He stood there for another moment, took a few deep breaths, and hurried back to his car. Whew.
He checked his watch. Time to meet Sheriff Jake.
Jake Courter was alone in the station, which looked like something out of Mayberry RFD. Except Jake was black. There were never any blacks in Mayberry. Or Green Acres. Or any of those places. No Jews, Latinos, Asians, ethnics of any kind. Would have been a nice touch. Maybe have a Greek diner or a guy named Abdul working for Sam Drucker at the grocery store.
Myron estimated Jake to be in his mid-fifties. He was in plainclothes, his jacket off, his tie loosened. A big gut spilled forward like something that belonged to someone else. Manila files were scattered across Jake's desk, along with the remnants of what might be a sandwich and an apple core. Jake gave a tired shrug and wiped his nose with what looked like a dishrag.
"Got a call," he said by way of introduction. "I'm supposed to help you out."
"I'd appreciate it," Myron said.
Jake leaned back and put his feet on the desk. "You played ball against my son. Gerard. Michigan State."
"Sure," Myron said, "I remember him. Tough kid. Monster on the boards. Defensive specialist."
Jake nodded proudly. "That's him. Couldn't shoot worth a lick, but you always knew he was there."
"An enforcer," Myron added.
"Yep. He's a cop now. In New York. Made detective second grade already. Good cop."
"Like his old man."
Jake smiled. "Yeah."
"Give him my regards," Myron said. "Better yet, give him an elbow to the rib cage. I still owe him a few."
Jake threw back his head and laughed. "That's Gerard. Finesse was never his forte." He blew his nose into th
e dishrag. "But I'm sure you didn't come all this way to talk basketball."
"No, I guess not."
"So why don't you tell me what this is all about, Myron?"
"The Kathy Culver case," he said. "I'm looking into it. Very surreptitiously."
"Surreptitiously," Jake repeated with a raised eyebrow. "Awfully big word, Myron."
"I've been listening to self-improvement tapes in the car."
"That right?" Jake blew his nose again. Sounded like a ewe's mating call. "So what's your interest in this--aside from the fact that you represent Christian Steele and you used to have a thing for Kathy's sister."
Myron said, "You're thorough."
He took a bite out of the half-eaten sandwich on his desk, smiled. "Man does love to be flattered."
"It's like you said. Christian Steele. He's a client. I'm trying to help him out."
Jake studied him, waiting again. It was an old trick. Stay silent long enough, and the witness would start talking again, elaborating. Myron did not bite.
After a full minute had passed Jake said, "So let me get this straight. Christian Steele signs on with you. One day you start chatting. He says, 'You know, Myron, the way you been licking my lily-white ass and all, I'd like you to go play Dick Fuckin' Tracy and find my old squeeze who's been missing for the last year and a half and the cops and feds can't find.' That how it went, Myron?"
"Christian doesn't curse," Myron said.
"Okay, fine, you want to skip the dance? Let's skip it. You want me to give, you have to give back."
"That's fair enough," Myron said. "But I can't. Not yet, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"It could hurt a lot of people," Myron said. "And it's probably nothing."
He made a face. "What do you mean, hurt?"
"I can't elaborate."
"Fuck you can't."
"I'm telling you, Jake. I can't say anything."
Jake studied him again. "Let me tell you something, Bolitar. I'm no glory hound. I'm like my son was on the court. Not flashy but a workhorse. I don't look for clippings so I can climb up the ladder. I'm fifty-three years old. My ladder don't go no higher. Now this may seem a bit old-fashioned to you, but I believe in justice. I like to see truth prevail. I've lived with Kathy Culver's disappearance for eighteen months. I know her inside and out. And I have no idea what happened that night."
"What do you think happened?" Myron asked.
Jake picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. "Best guess based on the evidence?"
Myron nodded.
"She's a runaway."
Myron was surprised. "What makes you say that?"
A slow smile spread across Jake's face. "That's for me to know and you to find out."
"P.T. said you would help."
Jake shrugged and took another bite from yet another sandwich scrap. "What about Kathy's sister? I understand you two were pretty heavy."
"We're friends now."
Jake gave a low whistle. "I've seen her on TV," he said. "Hard to be friends with a woman who looks like that."
"You're a real nineties guy, Jake."
"Yeah, well, I forgot to renew my subscription to Cosmo."
They stared at each other for a while. Jake settled back in his chair and examined his fingernails. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything," Myron said. "From the beginning."
Jake folded his arms across his chest. He took a deep breath and let it loose slowly. "Campus security got a call from Kathy Culver's roommate, Nancy Serat. Kathy and Nancy lived in the Psi Omega sorority house. Nice house. All pretty white girls with blond hair and white teeth. Kind that all look alike and sound alike. You get the picture."
Myron nodded. He noticed that Jake was not reading or even consulting a file. This was coming from memory.
"Nancy Serat told the rent-a-cop that Kathy Culver hadn't returned to her room for three days."
"Why did Nancy wait so long to call?" Myron asked.
"Seems Kathy wasn't spending too many nights in the sorority house anyhow. She slept in your client's room most of the time. You know, the one who doesn't like to curse." Brief smile. "Anyhow, your boy and Nancy got to talking one day, both figuring Kathy had been spending all her time with the other. That's when they realized she was missing and called campus security.
"Campus security told us about it, but no one got very excited at first. A co-ed missing for a few days is hardly an earth-shattering event. But then one of the rent-a-cops found the panties on top of a waste bin, and well, you know what happened then. The story spread like a grease stain on Elvis's pillow."
"I read there was blood on the panties," Myron said.
"A media exaggeration. There was a bloodstain, dry, probably from a menstrual cycle. We typed it. B negative. Same type as Kathy Culver's. But there was also semen. Enough antibodies for a DNA and blood test."
"Did you have any suspects?"
"Only one," Jake said. "Your boy, Christian Steele."
"Why him?"
"Usual reasons. He was the boyfriend. She was on her way to see him when she vanished. Nothing very specific or damaging. But the DNA test on the semen cleared him." He opened a small refrigerator behind him. "Want a Coke?"
"No, thanks."
Jake grabbed a can and snapped it open. "Here's what you probably read in the papers," he continued. "Kathy is at a sorority cocktail party. She has a drink or two, nothing serious, leaves at ten P.M. to meet Christian, and disappears. End of story. But now let me fill it in a little."
Myron leaned forward. Jake took a swig of Coke and wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak trunk.
"According to several of her sorority sisters," he said, "Kathy was distracted. Not herself. We also know she got a phone call a few minutes before she left the house. She told Nancy Serat the call was from Christian and she was going to meet him. Christian denies making the call. These were all intracampus calls, so there is no way for us to tell. But the roommate says Kathy sounded strained on the phone, not like she was talking to her true love, Mr. Clean-Mouth.
"Kathy hung up the phone and went back downstairs with Nancy. Then she posed for the now-famous last photograph before leaving for good."
He opened his desk drawer and handed Myron the photograph. Myron had, of course, seen it countless times before. Every media outlet in the country had run the photograph with morbid fascination. A picture of twelve sorority sisters. Kathy stood second from the left. She wore a blue sweater and skirt. Pearls adorned her neck. Very preppy. According to Kathy's sorority sisters, Kathy left the house alone immediately after the picture was taken. She never returned.
"Okay," Jake said, "so she leaves the cocktail party. Only one person saw her for sure after that."
"Who?" Myron asked.
"Team trainer. Guy named Tony Gardola. He saw her, strangely enough, entering the team's locker room around quarter after ten. The locker room was supposed to be empty at that hour. Only reason Tony was there was that he forgot something. He asked her what she was doing there, and she said she was meeting Christian. Tony figured what the hell, kids today. Might be having a kinky locker-room encounter. Tony decided it was in his best interest not to ask too many questions.
"That's our last firm report on her whereabouts. We have a possible sighting of her on the western edge of campus at around eleven P.M. Someone saw a blond woman wearing a blue sweater and skirt. It was too dark to make a positive ID. The witness said he wouldn't have even noticed, except she seemed in a rush. Not running but doing one of those quick-walks."
"Where on the western edge of campus?" Myron asked.
Jake opened a file and took out a map, still studying Myron's face as though it held a clue. He spread the map out and pointed. "Here," he said. "In front of Miliken Hall."
"What's Miliken Hall?" Myron asked.
"Math building. Locked tight by nine o'clock. But the witness said she was moving west."
Myron's eyes traced a path to the west.
There were four other buildings labeled FACULTY HOUSING. Myron remembered the spot.
It was where Dean Gordon lived.
"What is it?" Jake asked.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit, Bolitar. You see something."
"It's nothing."
Jake's eyebrows furrowed. "Fine. You want to play it that way? Then get the fuck out. I still got my ace in the hole, and I ain't showing it."
Myron had planned for this. Jake Courter would have to be given something. That was fine, as long as Myron could turn it to his advantage.
"It seems to me," Myron said slowly, "that Kathy was walking in the general direction of the dean's house."
"So?"
Myron said nothing.
"She worked for him," Jake said.
Myron nodded.
"What's the connection?"
"Oh, I'm sure it's completely innocent," Myron said. "But you might want to ask him about it. You being so thorough and all."
"Are you saying--"
"I'm not saying anything. I am merely making an observation."
Again Jake studied him. Myron looked back coolly. A visit from Jake Courter would probably not crack Dean Gordon, but it should soften him a bit. "Now about that ace in the hole ...?"
Jake hesitated. "Kathy Culver inherited money from her grandmother," he said.
"Twenty-five grand," Myron added. "All three kids got the same. They're sitting in a trust account."
"Not exactly," Jake said. He stood, hitched his pants up. "You want to know why I said the evidence pointed to Kathy being a runaway?"
Myron nodded.
"The day Kathy Culver vanished, she visited the bank," Jake continued. "She cleared out her inheritance. Every penny."
Chapter 20
Myron started back toward New York. He flipped on the radio. Wham's classic hit "Careless Whisper" was playing. George Michael was bemoaning the fact that he would never dance again because "guilty feet have got no rhythm." Deep, Myron thought. Very deep.
He picked up the car phone and dialed Esperanza.
"What's up?" he asked.
"You coming back to the office?"
"I'm on my way there now."
"I wouldn't make any stops," she said.
"Why?"
"You have a surprise client waiting for you."
"Who?"
"Chaz Landreaux."
"He's supposed to be hiding in Washington."
"Well, he's here. And he looks like shit."
"Tell him to sit tight. I'm on my way."
"It's like this," Chaz began. "I want to cancel our contract."
He paced the office like an expectant father, and he did indeed look like shit. The cocky grin was nowhere to be seen. The swagger was more like a hunch. He kept licking his lips, darting his eyes, bunching and unbunching his fingers.