"What's wrong with that? Lots of people work in the real world before going on for postgraduate degrees."
"Right. But there's a ten-year blank spot in his curriculum vitae."
"Ten years?"
Rafe nodded and placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers brushing the base of her neck, raising delicious gooseflesh along her arms.
"Like he dropped off the face of the earth. He's not telling anybody what he did with those years, which means he's hiding something. And we're going to find out what it is."
He began to knead the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders, magically relaxing them. She closed her eyes and reveled in the soothing sensations. As always, Rafe's touch caused her doubts to dwindle, her fears to fade. Nothing mattered more than keeping him by her side. As she listened to Rafe's soft voice, she found herself falling in line with his way of thinking. Her interest was piqued now.
What was Ev hiding?
Everett Sanders, Ph. D., where the fuck are you?
Renny sat and smoked a cigarette on the stoop outside the apartment house. Waiting. He'd been waiting here most of the day. This guy Sanders had to show up sooner or later. He hoped for sooner.
He was almost out of names. And just about out of hope. He'd checked out all but two of the people on Lisl Whitman's guest list. If he didn't hit pay dirt with this one or the final one, he'd be forced to write this whole trip off as a complete bust. No way. Too much time and money and goodwill back at Midtown North down the tubes for that. He needed to score here.
More than just a score—he needed to strike it rich. He needed Everett Sanders, Ph.D., aka Father William Ryan, S.J., to walk up the steps-, head bowed, lost in thought. Renny would recognize him in an instant and say, "Hey, Father Bill. How's Danny doing?" Then he'd land a right hook and knock him back to the sidewalk. And extradition be damned, he'd haul him back to Queens for arraignment.
A dream. A pipe dream.
As he was scuffing his latest cigarette butt into oblivion on the stone stoop, a bony guy in a tan raincoat started up the steps. At first glance he looked older, but close up Renny pegged him as somewhere in his mid-forties. This sallow, bifocaled ghost wasn't Ryan, that was for sure. And hopefully he wasn't Sanders, either. Because if he was, that left only one more name to check.
"Excuse me," Renny said, reaching for his badge. He'd been using his NYPD shield but not giving anyone a good enough look at it to realize that it had been issued a long way from North Carolina.
The man stopped abruptly and stared at him.
"Yes?" His voice was cool, dry—like the desert at night.
"Would you be Professor Sanders?" Please say no.
"Why, yes. Who are you?"
Damn! "I'm Detective Sergeant Augustino with the State Police"—a quick flash of his medal in midsentence—"and I'm investigating an incident at Dr. Lisl Whitman's party last month."
"Party? Incident?" The man's expression was genuinely confused for a moment, then it cleared. "Oh, you mean the Christmas party. Why would you be investigating her party?"
"There was a sort of obscene phone call and—"
"Oh, yes. I remember her mentioning that. It seemed to have upset her terribly. But I'm sorry—I can't help you."
Renny put on a smile. "You may be able to help more than you know. You see, lots of times—"
"I wasn't there, Sergeant."
Automatically, Renny looked down at the slip of paper in his hand.
"But your name's on the list."
"I was invited but I didn't go. I don't go to parties."
Renny gave Dr. Sanders's prim, fastidious exterior another quick up-and-down.
No, I guess you don't.
"Well then, maybe you can help this way." He pulled the Father Ryan photo from his inner pocket and held it out to Sanders. "Ever seen this guy before? Anywhere?"
Sanders started to shake his head, then stopped. He took the picture from Renny and stared at it, cocking his head this way and that.
"Strange…"
Renny felt his heart pick up its tempo.
"Strange? What's strange? You've seen him?"
"I'm not sure. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place him."
"Try."
He glanced at Renny through the upper half of his glasses.
"I'm doing just that, I assure you."
"Sorry." Twit.
Finally Sanders shook his head and handed the picture back.
"No. It won't come. I'm quite sure I've seen him somewhere but just when and just where I can't say."
Renny bit down on his impatience and pushed the picture back at him.
"Take your time. Take another look."
"I've looked quite enough, thank you. Never fear. I never forget a face. It will come to me. Give me your number and I'll call you when it does."
Out of habit, Renny reached for his wallet where he kept a supply of cards—New York City cards. He diverted his hand to his breast pocket for his pen and notebook.
"I'm right here in town for the moment." He wrote down the number of the motel where he was staying. "If I'm not in, leave your number and I'll get back to you."
"Very well." He took the slip of notepaper and started up the steps toward the front door.
"Sure you don't want to take another look?"
"I've committed it to memory. I'll be in touch. Good day, Sergeant."
"Good day, Professor Sanders."
What a tight-ass.
But Renny didn't care if Sanders farted in C above high C, as long as he remembered the guy who reminded him of Father Ryan.
There was a new lightness to his step as he hopped down to the sidewalk and headed for the last name on his list—Professor Calvin Rogers. Too old, apparently, to be Ryan. A wasted trip, probably, but Renny wasn't leaving anything to chance. After all, look what a five-minute conversation with this Professor Sanders had turned up.
Yeah. Renny had a gut feeling Sanders was going to turn this trip around..«
"I don't believe we're doing this," Lisl said in a low voice as she followed Rafe into the vestibule of Ev's apartment building.
"Nothing to it," he said, and handed her a shiny new key, fresh cut from Ev's own this afternoon.
Reluctantly she took it. She had the jitters.
"I don't like this, Rafe."
"It's not as if we're going to steal anything. We're just going to look around. So let's get going. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we'll be out."
Unable to argue with the logic of that, and wanting very much to have this over and done with, Lisl unlocked the vestibule door. With Rafe in the lead, half dragging her up the narrow stairs, they climbed to the third floor. Outside apartment 3B, Rafe handed her another key. Her fingers were slippery with perspiration now.
"What if he's in there?"
"Put your ear to the door," Rafe said.
Lisl did. "The phone's ringing."
Rafe nodded, smiling. "Remember that call I made before we left?"
"When you left the phone off the hook?"
"Right. This is the number I called. There was no answer then, and if it's still ringing, it means he hasn't come back while we were in transit."
Wondering at the deviousness of Rafe's mind, Lisl checked the hall to make sure no one was watching, then unlocked Ev's apartment door and hurried inside. When the door was closed behind them, she allowed herself to relax—just a little.
Rafe found the light switch, then the phone; he lifted the receiver long enough to stop the ring, then replaced it.
Silence.
"Now," he said. "Where do we begin?"
Lisl looked around. Her immediate impression was that nobody lived here. The only personal item was the computer terminal, a duplicate of hers, with a dedicated line to Darnell's Cray II. Remove that and the apartment was like a hotel room after the cleaning crew had passed through—freshly spruced up and waiting for someone to rent it. It wasn't decorated like a hotel room, not with this motley collection of furniture, but it had that just-cleaned, everything-in-its-place look and feel. She wondered idly if there was a paper ribbon across the toilet seat.