“Fantastic. I really appreciate it, Jennifer.”
“One more thing,” she said. “He’s not the only one who used the
account. There’s another signature on some of the searches–a Kristie
Kirkash. Know anyone by that name?”
“No,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s young, cute, and
one of his students. Maybe even plays sorority softball.”
“Sleazy affair for the prof? How do you figure?”
“He’s a creature of habit.”
Hot morning and the Valley was frying. A big rig had overturned on the
freeway, showering all lanes with eggs. Even the shoulder was blocked
and Milo cursed until the highway patrolman waved us through.
We arrived at the junior college ten minutes behind schedule.
Made it to class just as the last students were entering.
“Damn,” said Milo. “Improv TIME” We climbed the stairs to the
trailer. I remained in the doorway and he went up to the blackboard.
It was a small room-half the trailer, partitioned by an accordion wall
and set up with a conference table and a dozen folding chairs.
Ten of the chairs were occupied. Eight women, two men. One of the
women was in her sixties; the rest were girls. Both men were
fortyish.
One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other,
Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried
himself in a book.
Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. “Mr. Jones won’t be
making it today. I’m Mr. Sturgis, your substitute.
All eyes on him, except those of the reader.
One of the girls said, “Is he okay?” in a strained voice. She had
very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling
earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic balls on nylon
fishing line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth,
tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of
both.
Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.
Milo said, “Not really, Kristie.”
She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.
She said, “Hey, what’s going on?” and grabbed her purse.
Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.
“You tell me, Kristie.”
She froze. The other students gawked. The reader’s eyes floated above
the pages of his book. Moving slowly.
I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.
Shoes.
Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn’t go with his silk
shirt and his designer jeans.
Milo’s eyes narrowed. The reader’s fixed on mine, then sank out of
view as he raised the book higher.
Theories of Organizations.
Kristie started to cry.
The other students were statues.
Milo said, “Yo Joe! Cavity check!”
The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was
enough.
Bland face. Dick and Jane’s dad from a half-block distance. Up close,
details destroyed the paternal image: five o’clock shadow, pockmarks on
the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.
And the sweat-a coat of it, shiny as fresh lacquer.
He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the
forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.
He picked up his books and stepped away from the table while keeping
his head down.
Milo said, “Hey, c’mon, stay. I’m an easy grader.”
The man stopped, began to lower himself, then he threw the books at
Milo and made a rush for the door.
I stepped in front of him, locking my hands in a double-arm block.
He shouldered me full-force. The impact slammed me against the door
and pushed it open.
I fell backward onto the cement, landing hard and feeling my tailbone
hum. Reaching out, I grabbed two handfuls of silk. He was on top of
me, clawing and punching and spraying sweat.
Milo pulled him off, hit him very fast in the face and the belly and
shoved him hard against the bungalow. The man struggled. Milo
kidney-punched him, hard, and cuffed him as he sank, groaning.
Milo forced him down on the ground and put one foot on the small of his
back.
A pat-down produced a wad of cash, a flick-knife with a black handle, a
vial of pills, and a cheap plastic billfold stamped RENO: NEVADA’S