Bare Bones

“I could never give out a password.” She sounded as though I’d asked for her bank card PIN. “Besides, I don’t know it.”

“Does anyone else use this computer?”

“Gene Rudin.”

“Dr. Cagle’s graduate student?”

The deb nodded. Not a hair moved.

“Gene’s off to Florida until the start of fall term. Left Friday.”

A long, lacquered finger pointed at the computer.

“But that scanner won’t run. I’ve had a work order in to computer services for at least two weeks now.”

Slidell and I exchanged glances. Now what?

“Did Dr. Cagle ask you to send any faxes last week?” I asked.

The lacquered hands vanished in an arm fold across her chest, a hip shifted, and one sandaled foot came forward. The toes were the same brilliant red as the fingers.

“I’ve already told you, I didn’t see Dr. Cagle last week. And besides, do you know how many faculty I’m responsible for? Or how many grads and undergrads and booksellers and visitors and whatever trail through my office?” I guessed Slidell and I fell under the “whatever” heading. “Hells bells, I do half the student advising around here.”

“That can’t be easy,” I said.

“Faculty faxing is not in my job description.”

“You must get a lot of visitors.”

“We get our share.”

“Did Dr. Cagle have any unusual callers last week?”

“That would not be for me to say.”

What the hell did that mean?

“Did Dr. Cagle have any visitors last week?”

There was a long pause as she chose her words.

“I may not agree with Dr. Cagle’s alternative lifestyle”—she pronounced it as two words: “alter native”—“but he’s a fine man, and I don’t question his associations.”

“Someone came to see Cagle?” Slidell asked gruffly.

One deb eyebrow shot up. “There’s no need to be a grumpy pants, Detective.”

Slidell opened his mouth. I cut him off.

“You were unfamiliar with Dr. Cagle’s visitor?”

The deb nodded.

“What did he want?”

“The man asked for Dr. Cagle. I informed him the professor was out of town.” The deb shrugged one freckled shoulder. “He left.”

“Can you describe the guy?” Slidell.

“Short. Had black hair. Lots of it. Real shiny and thick.”

“Age?”

“Wasn’t no spring chicken, I’ll tell you that.”

“Glasses? Facial hair?” Slidell’s tone was sharp.

“Don’t get snippy with me, Detective.”

The deb unfolded her arms and flicked at a nonexistent speck on her skirt, her way of allowing Slidell to cool his interrogatory heels.

“No mustache or beard, nothing like that.”

“Can you remember anything else about the man?” I asked.

“He wore funny sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes.”

“What did you see when you looked at his face?” Slidell glared at her.

“Myself.” The deb slapped a key on the desktop. “That’s for the wall cupboards. Check with me when you leave the building.”

Slidell and I spent the next forty minutes searching every remaining cabinet, drawer, and shelf in the place. We found nothing related to the Lancaster case, and nothing to indicate where Cagle had gone.

Frustrated, I returned to the desk and idly ran my fingertips under the blotter’s plastic edging.

Nothing.

I lifted a corner and peeked underneath.