“Gonna walk home after that?”
“Sure, it’s only a couple of miles.”
“What an aerobicon . . . listen, if you have time and inclination, I don’t mind you talking to the other students involved in the committee, too. Maybe you won’t scare them as much as I scared Cindy.”
“I thought you did fine with her.”
He frowned. “Maybe I shoulda brought a parrot. You up for student interviews?”
“How do I locate them?”
Reaching over to the backseat, he grabbed his briefcase and swung it onto his lap, took out a sheet of paper, and gave it to me.
Xeroxed photo-ID student cards and class schedules. The reproductions were dark and blurred, turning Cindy Vespucci into a brunette. Kenneth Storm had a full face, short hair, and a sad mouth, but that’s about all you could say about him.
I folded and pocketed it. “Any rules about how I present myself?”
He thought. “Guess the truth would be fine. Anything that encourages them to talk. They’ll probably relate to you better, professorial demeanor and all that.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Professors are the ones who fail them.”
The tall, white Psychology Tower was on the outer edge of the Science Quad—maybe more than architectural accident—and the brick cube that housed Chemistry was its next-door neighbor.
It had been a long time since I’d been inside the chem building and then only to take an advanced psychopathology course in borrowed classroom space; back when I’d been a grad student, psychology had been the U’s most popular major and the lecture halls had overflowed with those seeking self-understanding. Twenty years later, fear of the future was the dominant motive and business administration was king.
Chemistry’s halls still oozed the vinegary reek of acetic acid and the walls were toothpaste-green, maybe a bit grimier. No one was in sight but I could hear clinking and splashing behind doors marked LABORATORY.
The directory listed two Steinbergers, Gerald and Julia, both with offices on the third floor. I took the stairs and found Julia’s.
The door was open. She was at her desk grading exams with radio soft-rock in the background, a nice-looking woman around thirty wearing a black scoop-necked sweater over a white blouse and gray wool slacks. An amber-and-old-silver necklace that looked Middle Eastern rested on her chest. She had square shoulders, an earnest face that surprised itself by bottoming out in a pointed chin, a serene mouth glossed pink, and shiny brown hair ending at her shoulders, the bangs clipped just above graceful eyebrows. Her eyes were gray, clear and unbothered as they looked up. Beautiful, really. They made her beautiful.
She marked a paper and put it aside. “Yes?”
I told her who I was, trying without success to make it sound logical, and that I’d come to discuss Hope Devane.
“Oh.” Puzzled. “Might I see some identification?” Pleasant voice, Chicago accent.
I showed her the badge. She studied my name for a long time.
“Please,” she said, handing it back, and pointing to a chair.
The office was cramped but fresh-smelling, gray-metal University issue brightened by batik wall hangings and folk-art dolls positioned among the books on the shelves. The radio rested on a windowsill behind her, next to a potted coleus. Someone singing about the freedom that love brought.
The exams were stacked high. The one she’d put aside was filled with computations and red question marks. She’d given it a B−. When she saw me looking at it, she covered it with a notebook and turned the stack over just as the phone rang.
“Hi,” she said. “Actually not right now.” Looking at me. “Maybe in fifteen. I’ll come to you.” Pretty smile. Blush. “Me, too.”
Hanging up, she pushed away from the desk and rested her hands on her lap. “My husband’s down the hall. We usually have lunch together.”
“If it’s a bad time—”
“No, he’s got things to do and this shouldn’t take long. So, run that by me again, I’m still intrigued. You’re on the faculty but you’re working with the police department on Hope’s murder?”
“I’m on the faculty crosstown, at the med school. I’ve done forensic work and occasionally the police ask me to consult. Hope Devane’s murder is what they call a cold case. No leads, a new detective starting from scratch. Frankly I’m a member of the court of last resort.”