CHAPTER
20
It was good to get back out in the sunlight.
Pretending the warmth could melt the bitterness I’d absorbed up in his office.
Real pain and anger or an act to prevent me from probing?
Confronted with a question about his and Hope’s relationship, he’d never said it had been good, only that they’d both been hard to live with and their endurance proved something.
Then he’d admitted he was jealous but turned it into worship.
Living with a masterpiece . . . that could wear thin.
I thought of the sudden way he’d flushed. Short fuse.
People with severe temper-control problems often betray themselves physiologically.
Root around to your heart’s content.
Secure in his innocence or a psychopath’s catch-me-if-you-can challenge?
The meeting at Kenneth Storm Sr.’s office in Pasadena was at one. Julia Steinberger would be finished teaching in twenty minutes.
I used a library phone and gave Casey Locking’s home another try. Same tape.
Late evening in England, but still a civil hour to call Hope’s other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez.
Once again, the phone just kept ringing.
Back to the world of real science.
Julia Steinberger was heading for her office, flanked by two male graduate students. When she saw me, she frowned and told them, “Could you give me just a minute, guys? I’ll come by the lab.”
They left and she unlocked the office. She was wearing a knee-length black dress and black onyx necklace and looked troubled. When the door closed behind us, she remained standing.
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,” she said, “but the first time you were here there was something I left out. It’s probably not relevant—I find the whole thing distasteful.”
“Something about Hope?” I said.
“Yes. Something—remember how I told you I’d had an intuition about her possibly having been abused?”
“The fierce look.”
“That was true,” she said. “She had that look. But . . . I—there was something else. It was last year—at the Faculty Club. Not the welcoming tea, something else—some guest lectureship, who remembers.”
Walking to her desk, she braced her palms on the top. Looked at the doll she’d fondled the first time, but made no move toward it.
“We chatted a bit, then Hope moved on to circulate and Gerry and I found someone else to talk to. Then, maybe an hour later, at the end of the evening, I went to the ladies’ room and she was in there, standing at the mirror. There’s an entry room before you get into the main bathroom, also mirrored, and the way it’s set up, you can get a look into the bathroom as you pass. It’s carpeted, I guess she didn’t hear me.”
She lowered her eyes.
“She was in there, examining herself. Her arms. Her dress was cut low on the shoulders but with elbow-length sleeves. I’d noticed it, very elegant, figured it had cost a fortune. She’d pulled one of the shoulders down and was looking at her upper arm. There was a strange look in her eyes—almost hypnotized—and her expression was blank. And on the arm was a bruise. A large one. Black-and-blue. Right here.”
She touched her own bicep. “Several marks, actually. Dots. Finger marks. As if she’d been squeezed very hard. Her skin was extremely white—beautiful skin—so the contrast was dramatic, almost like tattoos. And the bruises looked fresh—hadn’t yet turned that greenish-purple color.”
She hurried back to the door, fighting tears. “That’s it.”
“How’d she react when you walked in?” I said.
“She yanked up the sleeve, her eyes came back into focus, and she said, “Hi, Julia,’ as if nothing had happened. Then she made happy talk and put on her makeup. Chatting on and on about how different things would be if men were expected to always be in perfect face. I agreed with her and we both pretended nothing had happened. What was I supposed to say? Who did that to you?”
She opened the door. “Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just had delicate skin, bruised easily . . . but when she asked me to be on the committee, I just felt as if I owed it to her.”