CHAPTER
19
At 9:00 A.M. I tried Julia Steinberger’s office but she wasn’t in and the Chemistry Department office said she was teaching a graduate seminar til noon.
I had other things to do on campus.
In the Psychology office, three secretaries sat at computer screens but the receptionist’s desk was empty. Mail was piled high on the counter and several students stood at the bulletin board reading employment ads.
I said, “Excuse me,” and the nearest typist looked up. Young, cute, redheaded.
Showing her my faculty card from the med school crosstown, I said, “This probably makes me persona non grata, but perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help me anyway.”
“Ooh,” she said, smiling, still punching keys. “Treason, Doctor? Well, I don’t care about football. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a grad student named Casey Locking.”
“He’s got an office down in the basement but he isn’t here too often, mostly works out of his house.”
She made a trip to the back, came back empty-handed.
“That’s funny. His folder’s gone. Hold on.”
She typed, switched computer files, brought up a list of names. “Here we go. Room B-five-three-three-one, you can use the phone at the end of the counter.”
I did. No answer. I went downstairs, anyway. Most of the basement rooms were labs. Locking’s was marked by an index card. No answer to my knock.
Back upstairs, I told the redhead, “Not in. Too bad. He applied for a job and I was going to set up an appointment.”
“Would you like his home number?”
“I guess I could try it.”
She wrote something down. Out in the lobby I read it: A 213 number with an 858 prefix. Hollywood Hills, east of La Cienega. Not the Mulholland house.
So he’d gone there to meet someone. Probably Cruvic.
His folder gone. I used a lobby pay phone and called the number. Locking’s liquid voice said, “No one home. Speak or forget it.” Hanging up, I left the building.
Time to visit the History Department.
Hays Hall was one of the U’s oldest buildings, just behind Palmer Library and, like Palmer, yellowish limestone grimy with pollution. Seacrest’s office was on the top floor, up three flights and at the end of an echoing, musty hallway lined with carved mahogany doors. His door was open but he wasn’t inside.
It was a big, chilly, pale green room with a domed ceiling and leaded windows that needed washing, brown velvet drapes tied back with brass rings, built-in bookshelves, a tatty Persian rug once red, now pink.
An ugly seven-foot Victorian desk on ball feet was backed by a black cloth orthopedic chair. Facing it were three cracked red leather club chairs, one of them mended with duct tape. The desk was as neat as his home office: Arranged on the surface were a precisely cornered stack of blue-book exams, two neolithic urns, and a Royal manual typewriter. Half an egg-salad sandwich on waxed paper sat on a green blotter along with an unopened can of Diet Sprite. Not a stain, not a crumb.
Seacrest came in drying his hands with a paper towel. He had on a gray V-neck sweater over a brown-checked shirt and gray knit tie. The sweater’s cuffs were frayed and his eyes looked filmy. Walking around me, he sat down behind the desk and looked at the sandwich.
“Morning,” I said.
He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. “What can I do for you?”
“If you’ve got time, I have a few questions.”
“About?”
“Your relationship with your wife.”
He put the sandwich down. He hadn’t invited me to sit and I was still on my feet.
“My relationship with my wife,” he repeated softly.
“I don’t want to intrude—”
“But you will, anyway, because the police are paying you.”
He broke off a small piece of bread crust and chewed slowly.
“Good racket,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Why are you willing to intrude?”
“Professor, if this is a bad time—”
“Oh, spare me.” He tilted back in the chair. “You know, it wasn’t until that little nocturnal visit you and Sturgis paid me that I realized I was actually a suspect. What was the purpose of that, anyway? Trying to catch me off-guard? Hoping I’d somehow incriminate myself? Is it a bad time? It’s always a bad time.”