The final target of that lie was one of the symposium’s cochairs, a fast-talking professor of journalism at the University of Washington named Lionel South.
“That was mine, all right. Harvard let us use the K School- the Kennedy School- so we stuck one of their faculty members’ names on it as a cochair. But Vera Mancuso and I- she’s at Clark- really ran it. You say yours is going to be at the med school? What, a psychiatric slant?”
“Eclectic,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’m running interference between the med school, the psych department, and the law school.” Sometimes falsehood came so easy. In spare moments, I wondered about that.
“Media violence,” said South. “Great funding for that.”
“Not bad,” I said.
“Couple more schoolyard shootings, and you’ll really be set.”
I forced a collegial laugh. “Anyway, about your roster.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you right now. Do me a favor and keep us posted. And if you need a cochair…”
I found it on the third page, halfway down the “S’s”:
Shull, A. Gordon, Prof. Comm., Charter College.
A bit of self-aggrandizement; Shull was a lecturer.
That fit.
Milo came back, and I pointed.
“Oh, yeah! Great work… did Shull deliver a paper?”
“No, he just attended. Or signed up to attend.”
“Playing hooky?”
“It would’ve been easy. Once he registered, no one would’ve checked to see if he actually sat through the meetings. Shull had a free schedule.”
“Plenty of time to take in the ballet.”
“Ballet might very well be his thing,” I said. “Growing up with culture, and all that.”
“Cold heart… son of a bitch.” He checked his notes, found the list of Boston hotels, began working the phone. Forty minutes later, he had confirmation. Shull had stayed at the Ritz-Carlton the week of Angelique Bernet’s murder.
“Not far from the ballet hall,” he said. “He picks her up in Boston, takes her to Cambridge where he does her and dumps her. Because it’s away from his hotel and close to the symposium… carve up a girl, be back for another bullshit lecture.” His eyes had heated.
“Time for a warrant,” I said.
He cursed silently. “I picked the most agreeable judge I could find. She’s sympathetic but wants physical evidence.”
“Like the facial hairs found in Mehrabian’s beard,” I said. “But you can’t verify the hair is Shull’s until you have grounds to ask him for a sample.”
“Viva Joseph Heller,” he said. “At least we’ve got a target. Petra’s retracing her steps armed with Shull’s photo. I also talked to Small and Schlesinger about the hair. They said, thanks, keep them informed. My sense is they’d love to dump Mehrabian on us. My sense is also that’s where Mehrabian’s gonna end up.”
He eyed my computer. “Anything else interesting out in cyberspace?”
“Shull had a Web site, but it’s no longer operative.”
“Covering his tracks?”
“Or technical problems,” I said. “An ego like that, he’d want to be out there. I’d like to know what he’s been up to, recently. Dr. Martin could help us there.”
“Think she’ll cooperate?”
“Like I said at the meeting, my sense is Shull’s not her favorite employee, so maybe.”
“Let’s do it,” he said. “At her house, not her office.”
“Why?”
“Get her away from her professional comfort zone.”
Elizabeth Gala Martin’s office had been filled with antiques, but at home she preferred modern.
Her house was a wide, gray collection of cubes set on a large lot in a good part of Pasadena. The landscaping was low-profile, Japanese-inspired, glossed by strategic lighting. A sculptural gong stood off center in the broad, impeccable lawn. Two cars shared the double-wide driveway: a silver, late model BMW sedan and an identically colored Mercedes coupe of slightly older vintage.
Every blade of grass in place. As if the exterior was vacuumed regularly.
Half a mile from Everett Kipper’s place, but that didn’t seem relevant, now. It was 8 P.M. when Milo knocked on the front door.
Martin answered her own door, wearing a long, green silk caftan embroidered with golden dragons. On her feet were gold sandals. Her toenails were pink. Her hennaed hair appeared freshly set, and she wore huge gold hexagonal earrings. Behind her was a wide, white entry hall floored in travertine.
Her initial surprise was replaced by flinty scrutiny. “Professor Delaware.”
“Thanks for remembering,” I said.
“You made an… impression.” She studied Milo. I introduced him.
“The police,” she said, evenly. “More about Mr. Drummond?”
Milo said, “More about Mr. Shull.”
Martin’s hands flexed, and she let them fall to her side.
“Come in,” she said.
The house was rambling, mood-lit, topped by skylights. A rear wall of windows looked out to a softly illuminated garden and a long, skinny lap pool that traced the curves of a high white wall. Large, abstract paintings hung on the walls. Brass cases were filled with contemporary glass.
Elizabeth Martin seated us on a low, black suede couch and took her place in a black leather sling-chair.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Milo said, “Professor Martin, we’re looking into possible criminal activity on the part of A. Gordon Shull. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
Sounds filtered from across the dining room. Footsteps and rattles behind white double doors. Utensil clink, running water. Someone in the kitchen.
“You can’t tell me more, but you’d like me to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Milo smiled. “Exactly.”
“Well, that seems fair.” Green silk rippled as Martin’s legs crossed. She was wearing perfume- something grassy- and it drifted toward us. Body-heat activated? She looked composed, but you never knew.
“Professor Martin,” said Milo, “this is a very serious matter, and I can promise you that the information will come out eventually.”
“What information is that?”
“Mr. Shull’s problems.”
“Oh,” she said. “Gordon’s got problems, does he?”
“You know he does,” I said.
She turned to me. “Professor Delaware, when you came to me you said Kevin Drummond had something to do with a murder. That’s not an everyday occurrence for a boring academic. That’s why you made an impression.” Back to Milo: “Are you now saying that Gordon Shull’s suspected of being a murderer?”
“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“I try to avoid being surprised,” she said. “But before we proceed, you must tell me this: Is something highly embarrassing to my department fulminating?”
“I’m afraid yes, ma’am.”
“That’s too bad,” said Martin. “A murderer.” Her smile was sudden, feral, unsettling. “Well, I suppose when too much garbage piles up, the best thing to do is to take it out. So let’s talk about Gordon. Perhaps you’ll be able to take him off my hands.”
She recrossed her legs. Seemed amused. “A murderer… I must admit, I’ve never thought of Gordon in those terms.”
“What terms have you thought of, ma’am?”
“Lack of substance,” said Martin. “Gordon’s a phony. All talk, no action.”
The kitchen doors opened and a man stepped out, bearing a hefty sandwich on a plate. “Liz?”
The same gray-haired man I’d seen in Martin’s office photos. He wore a white polo shirt, beige linen trousers, brown loafers. Tall and well built but running to paunch. Older than Martin by at least a decade.