Some will have later classes. I’ll call these five, and see who’s at home. You take the two with no phone number, and get their class schedules from the registrar.”
Gray looked at his watch. “Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.” He left first, then Darby. She went to the pay phones on the first level outside the classrooms, and dialed the number of James Maylor.
A male voice answered, “Hello.”
“Is this Dennis Maylor?” she asked.
“No. I’m James Maylor.”
“Sorry.” She hung up. His address was ten minutes away. He didn’t have a nine o’clock class, and if he had one at ten he would be home for another forty minutes. Maybe.
She called the other four. Two answered and she confirmed, and there was no answer at the other two.
Gray waited impatiently in the registrar’s office on the third floor. A part-time student clerk was trying to find the registrar, who was somewhere in the back. The student informed him that she wasn’t sure if they could give out class schedules. Gray said he was certain they could if they wanted to.
The registrar walked suspiciously around a corner. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Gray Grantham with the
“Is there a problem?” she asked nervously.
“Not at all. Just a few questions. Are they in class this morning?” He was smiling, and it was a warm, trusting smile that he flashed usually at older women. It seldom failed him.
“Do you have an ID or something?”
“Certainly.” He opened his wallet and slowly waved it at her, much like a cop who knows he’s a cop and doesn’t care to spell it out.
“Well, I really should talk to the dean, but—”
“Fine. Where’s his office?”
“But he’s not here. He’s out of town.”
“I just need their class schedules so I can find them. I’m not asking for home addresses or grades or transcripts. Nothing confidential or personal.”
She glanced at the part-time student clerk, who sort of shrugged, like “What’s the big deal?”
“Just a minute,” she said, and disappeared around the corner.
Darby was waiting in the small room when he laid the computer printouts on the table. “According to these, Akers and Kaas should be in class right now,” he said.
Darby looked at the schedules. “Akers has criminal procedure. Kaas has administrative law—both from nine to ten. I’ll try to find them.” She showed Gray her notes. “Maylor, Reinhart, and Wilson were at home. I couldn’t get Ratliff and Linney.”
“Maylor’s the closest. I can be there in a few minutes.”
“What about a car?” Darby asked.
“I called Hertz. It’s supposed to be delivered to the
Maylor’s apartment was on the third floor of a warehouse converted for students and others on very low budgets. He answered the door shortly after the first knock. He spoke through the chain.
“Looking for James Maylor,” Gray said like an old pal.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Gray Grantham with the
The door was unchained and opened. Gray stepped inside the two-room apartment. A bicycle was parked in the center, and took up most of the space.
“What’s up?” Maylor asked. He was intrigued by this, and appeared eager to answer questions.
“I understand you clerked for
“That’s correct. For three months.”
Gray scribbled on his notepad. “What section were you in?”
“International. Mostly grunt work. Nothing glamorous. A lot of research and rough drafting of agreements.”
“Who was your supervisor?”
“No single person. There were three associates who kept me busy. The partner above them was Stanley Coopman.”
Gray pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Garcia on the sidewalk. “Do you recognize this face?”
Maylor held the picture and studied it. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”
“He’s a lawyer, I think with
“It’s a big firm. I was stuck in the corner of one section. It’s over four hundred lawyers, you know.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
“Positive. They cover twelve floors, most of which I never went on.”
Gray placed the photo in his pocket. “Did you meet any other clerks?”
“Oh. Sure. A couple from Georgetown that I already knew, Laura Kaas and JoAnne Ratliff. Two guys from George Washington, Patrick Franks and a guy named Vanlandingham; a girl from Harvard named Elizabeth Larson; a girl from Michigan named Amy MacGregor; and a guy from Emory named Moke, but I think they fired him. There are always a lot of clerks in the summer.”
“You plan to work there when you finish?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m cut out for the big firms.”
Gray smiled and stuck the notepad in his rear pocket. “Look, you’ve been in the firm. How would I find this guy?”
Maylor pondered this for a second. “I assume you can’t go there and start asking around.”
“Good assumption.”
“And all you’ve got is the picture?”
“Yep.”
“Then I guess you’re doing the right thing. One of the clerks will recognize him.”
“Thanks.”
“Is the guy in trouble?”
“Oh no. He may have witnessed something. It’s probably a long shot.” Gray opened the door. “Thanks again.”
Darby studied the fall listing of classes on the bulletin board across the lobby from the phones. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d do when the nine o’clock classes were over, but she was trying like hell to think of something. The bulletin board was exactly like the one at Tulane—class listings tacked neatly in a row; notices for assignments; ads for books, bikes, rooms, roommates, and a hundred other necessities stuck haphazardly about; announcements of parties, intramural games, and club meetings. A young woman with a backpack and hiking books stopped nearby and looked at the board. She was undoubtedly a student.
Darby smiled at her. “Excuse me. Would you happen to know Laura Kaas?”
“Sure.”
“I need to give her a message. Could you point her out?”
“Is she in class?”
“Yeah, she’s in administrative law under Ship, room 207.”
They walked and chatted in the direction of Ship’s admin law. The lobby was suddenly busy as four classrooms emptied. The hiker pointed to a tall, heavyset girl walking toward them. Darby thanked her, and followed Laura Kaas until the crowd thinned and scattered.
