“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
“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.
