“Sounds good to me.”
We were halfway to de Maartens’s front door when loud barking came from the brown house and a big, yellow face parted the curtains of thefront window. Some kind of retriever. Steady barking but no enmity— announcing our presence without passing judgment. The door began opening before we got there, and a young, red-haired woman smiled out at us.
She was tall and solidly built, wore a black T-shirt and green drawstring pants, held a paintbrush in one hand. Wet, blue bristles. Her hair was the color of fresh rust, cut in a pageboy that hung to midneck, the bangs perfectly straight above inquisitive hazel eyes. The pants were baggy but the shirt was tight, accentuating a soft, friendly bosom and generous shoulders. Nice coating of flesh everywhere except for her hands, which were slim and white, with tendril fingers. The smell of turpentine blew through the doorway, along with classical music—something with woodwinds. No sign of the yellow dog. The woman had stopped smiling.
“Police, ma’am,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “Are you Mrs. de Maartens?”
“Anika.” Pronouncing her name as if it were required for border crossing. “I thought you were UPS.” “Thought” came out “taut.” Her accent was thicker than her husband’s, harder around the edges. Or maybe that was anxiety. Who likes the police on a sunny afternoon?
“Expecting a delivery?”
“I—I’m supposed to get art supplies. From back home. Was there a crime somewhere on the block?”
“No, everything’s fine. Where’s back home?”
“Holland . . . Why are you here?”
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am, we just wanted to talk to Professor de Maartens. Is he in?”
“You want to talk to Simon? About what?”
“A student of his.”
“A student?”
“It’s better if we talk to the professor directly^ Mrs. de Maartens. Is he in?”
“Yes, yes, I go get him, hold on.”
She left the door open and headed toward the music. A big butter-colored form materialized. Heavy jowls, small bright eyes, short coat, droopy ears. Retriever mix, a splash of mastiff somewhere in the bloodline. The dog regarded us for a second, then followed Anika de Maartens. Returned moments later with a man in tow. Man and beast walking in synchrony, the master’s hand resting lightly on the animal’s neck.
“I’m Simon. What is it?”
De Maartens was six feet tall and heavyset, with a whiskey-colored crew cut and a ruddy, bulb-nosed, thick-lipped face, as close to spherical as I’d seen on a human. Despite his clothing—gray sweatshirt, blue cutoffs, rubber beach sandals—he looked like a Rembrandt burgher, and I half-expected him to whip out a clay pipe.
“Detective Sturgis,” said Milo, extending a hand.
De Maartens looked past it, kept coming toward us. “Yes?” The sound of his voice made the dog’s ears perk.
Milo began repeating his name.
“I heard you,” said de Maartens. “I’m not deaf.” Smiling, as he and the dog stopped at the threshold. His head turned from side to side, and he stared blankly, settling on the space between Milo and me. That’s when I saw his eyes: black crescents set in bluish sockets so deep they appeared to have been scooped out of his flesh. Immobile crescents, the merest sliver of black showing through dull black, no gleam of pupil.
A blind man.
The psychophysics of vision in primates. The Braille Institute Award.
He said, “This is about the girl—Lauren.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some of my students I do know,” said de Maartens. “The ones who ask questions, visit during office hours. Voices that recur.” He touched his ear. The dog looked up at him adoringly. “Lauren Teague was not one of them. She got an A in the class—a very high A, so perhaps she did not need to ask questions. I can produce her exams when I return to my office next week. But right now, I am on vacation and I do not see why I need to be bothered. What can you hope to learn from two exams?”
“So there’s nothing you can tell us about Ms. Teague?”
De Maartens’s thick shoulders rose and fell. He canted his face toward me. Smiled. “Is that you, Dr. Delaware? Nice aftershave. After your second call when I grew cross, I called the department to see what records they have on her. Just her grade transcripts. All A’s. I should not have grown cross, but I was in the middle of something and I did not see the point. I still do not.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears, aimed his eye sockets back at Milo. “Three times during the quarter, the class was divided into discussion groups of approximately twenty students each, supervised by teaching assistants. The groups were optional, nothing discussed was graded. It was an attempt by the department to be more personal.” Another smile. “I checked with my department chairman, and he said it would be permissible to give you the names of the students in Lauren Teague’s group. Her T.A. was Malvina Zorn. You may call the psychology department and obtain Malvina’s number. She has been instructed to give you the names of the students in the group. The chairman and I have signed authorizations. That should be all you need.”