He smiled, as if savoring a private joke.
“Also,” he said, “he figures Devane might have been a lesbian. “Should be right up your . . . ahem ahem . . . alley, Sturgis.’ ”
Another shrimp disappeared. His lumpy face remained static and he folded his napkin double, then unfolded it. His necktie was a horrid brown-and-ochre paisley fighting a duel with his gray houndstooth jacket. His black hair, now flecked with white, had been chopped nearly to the skin at the sides, but the top had been left long and the sideburns were still long—and completely snowy.
“Is there any indication she was gay?” I said.
“Nope. But she had tough things to say about men, so ergo, ipso facto.”
Robin returned. She’d reapplied her lipstick and had fluffed her hair. The royal-blue dress intensified the auburn, the silk accentuated every movement. We’d spent some time on a Pacific island and her olive skin had held on to the tan.
I’d killed a man there. Clear self-defense—saving Robin’s life as well as mine. Sometimes I still had nightmares.
“You two look serious,” she said, slipping into the booth. Our knees touched.
“Doing my homework,” said Milo. “I know how much this guy enjoyed school, so I thought I’d share it.”
“He just got the Hope Devane murder,” I said.
“I thought they’d given up on that.”
“They have.”
“What a terrifying thing.”
Something in her voice made me look at her.
“More terrifying,” I said, “than any other murder?”
“In some ways, Alex. Good neighborhood like that, you go for a walk right outside your house and someone jumps out and cuts you?”
I placed my hand on top of hers. She didn’t seem to notice.
“The first thing I thought of,” she said, “was she was killed because of her views. And that would make it terrorism. But even if it was just some nut picking her at random, it’s still terrorism in a sense. Personal freedom in this city kicked another notch lower.”
Our knees moved apart. Her fingers were delicate icicles.
“Well,” she said, “at least you’re on it, Milo. Anything so far?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Situation like this, what you do is start fresh. Let’s hope for the best.”
In the kindest of times optimism was a strain for him. The words sounded so out-of-character he could have been auditioning for summer stock.
“Also,” he said, “I thought Alex might be able to help me. Dr. Devane being a psychologist.”
“Did you know her, Alex?”
I shook my head.
The waiter came over. “More wine?”
“Yes,” I said. “Another bottle.”
The next morning, Milo brought me the boxes and left. On top was the academic resume.
Her full name was Hope Alice Devane. Father: Andre. Mother: Charlotte. Both deceased.
Under MARITAL STATUS, she’d typed MARRIED, but she hadn’t listed Philip Seacrest’s name.
CHILDREN: NONE.
She’d been born in California, in a town I’d never heard of called Higginsville. Probably somewhere in the center of the state, because she’d graduated from Bakersfield High School as class valedictorian and a National Merit Scholar before enrolling at UC Berkeley as a Regent’s Scholar. Dean’s list every quarter, Phi Beta Kappa, graduation with a summa cum laude degree in psychology, then continuation at Berkeley for her Ph.D.
She’d published her first two papers as a graduate student and moved to L.A. for clinical training: internship and postdoctoral fellowship, crosstown, in the Psychiatry Department at County General Hospital. Then an appointment as a lecturer in women’s studies at the University and a transfer, the following year, to the Psychology Department as an assistant professor.
Next came ten pages of society memberships, scholarly publications, abstracts, papers delivered at conferences. Her first research topic had been differential achievement in girls and boys on mathematics tests, then she’d shifted gears to sex roles and child-rearing methods, and, once again, to sex roles as they affected self-control.
An average of five articles a year in solid journals—premium gas for a Ferrari on the tenure fast track. It could have been any C.V., until I came to the tail end of the bibliography section where a subheading entitled Nonpeer Review Publication and Media Work gave an inkling of the turn she’d taken during the year before her death.