“I’ve got to go.”
“Right.”
He hung up.
I put the phone down.
Don’t think about it, I told myself. You’ve got much bigger problems than that.
If my position had been precarious before, it was all the more perilous following a
police raid. Like all good sales people, Garibaldi believed in his product, and he had believed
that I was in the market for that product; he had been sincere during our conversation. But
now…I could always plead that I had, all unknowing, led the cops to their hangout, but I
was pretty sure any doubts Garibaldi and/or the Fifty-sixth Duke of Hell may have had about
my dishonorable intentions were gone.
I could come clean to the police, tell everything I knew, but it was so pitifully little. I
had zero proof of anything. The proof I had been counting on hadn’t turned up.
Did it even exist? Maybe I was letting my imagination run wild, reading threats into
innocuous conversations, jumping to the same bigoted conclusions about what I didn’t
understand, what didn’t fit into my preconceived notions of religion and spirituality.
The phone rang again. I ignored it and went into the kitchen. I hadn’t eaten all day. No
wonder I felt like something the cat dragged in. I opened the fridge.
The machine picked up.
Silence.
I felt a ripple of unease, but then Guy spoke, sounding reluctant. More. He sounded
grim. “Adrien, apparently I was wrong. Peter is not in Germany. I’d like to….” I missed the
next word or two. “Call me. Please.”
Dial tone.
Chapter Twenty-five
I called Guy. Unsurprisingly, he was out.
I tried him again in the morning. No answer. On impulse I called the university, and
was informed by an uncomfortable-sounding secretary that Professor Snowden was in his
office. She put me through.
“Snowden,” Guy said, sounding weary.
“It’s Adrien,” I said. “I tried to call you last night, but –”
“I was out last night.”
He sounded like that was my fault.
I said, “Well, one good thing. It looks like the university has cleared you of
wrongdoing.”
“Hardly. I’m here to clear out my desk.”
I didn’t know what to say. Into the silence that followed his words, he said, “Look, I’ve
reason to believe that Peter lied to me. I don’t know if that matters anymore. Angus has been
released.”
“Do you know where Peter lives?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know how to ask. I was aware that Guy was torn over this apparent defection
by Peter Verlane. Assuming that Guy was on the level.
Instead I said, “Did you need help?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
So I closed the shop and drove to UCLA. I found Guy in his office, surrounded by boxes
and stacks of books.
“Is this official?” I asked. “I thought you were on suspension?”
“It’s inevitable,” Guy said, tying string around a stack of books. “I prefer the dignity of
walking away as opposed to being put out to pasture.” He pointed to a stack of photos. “There
are several snaps of Peter in there.”
I sorted through the photos quickly. Most of them were of Guy and people I’d never
seen in places I did not recognize. But toward the bottom of the stack were a couple of
photos of a tall, thin, dark-haired boy of about Angus’s age. I recognized the flyaway dark
hair and round spectacles.
“This kid who looks like Harry Potter, is he Peter?”
“Yes,” Guy said without pausing to glance at a photograph of himself, his arm around
Peter’s slim shoulders. They were both laughing. I peered closer. There was a glint of silver
on Peter’s chest – a star on a silver chain?
“He was at Hell’s Kitchen that night.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t think he was involved?”
The green eyes held mine. “That club was packed with kids interested in the occult
who have absolutely nothing to do with this. Why would I instantly assume that Peter was
part of this…this madness?”
“He sent us there!”
“The girl – Betty Sansone – that you wanted to talk to was there. He didn’t lie.”
“He set us up.”
“No one could have known you were going to walk out into that alley. They just seized
the opportunity.”
Yeah, safe to say Guy’s feelings on the subject of Peter Verlane were mixed.
I said, “Guy, I’ve seen Peter with Betty Sansone a couple of times. He may not be
involved in murder, but I’m sure he took part in the abduction of Gabriel Savant.”
“Gabriel Savant!” Guy looked disgusted. “Please tell me you’re not a fan of that hack. If
Savant was kidnapped, it was by socially conscious literary critics.”
Literary snobbery, alive and well on the astral plane.
“Fine,” I said. “Why don’t we go ask Peter?”
He stared at me. “All right. Why don’t we.”
Neither of us moved. Guy reached out and touched my jaw. I blinked.
“Shaving cream,” he explained.
“Thanks.”
He looked past me. I glanced around. Detectives Rossini and Riordan stood in the
doorway of Guy’s office.
“Can I help you, detectives?” Guy asked frostily.
Rossini eyed me with open curiosity. Jake never looked my way. I could have been
invisible.
“Well, Mr. English, we meet again,” Rossini said cordially.
“Always a pleasure,” I said.
His smile was caustic. “We wanted to ask you a couple more questions, professor,” he
said, turning to Guy.
I said, “Why don’t I carry this out to my car?”
Guy nodded.
I lifted the nearest box, squeezed through the doorway past Rossini and Jake, who
barely moved out of my way.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, I watched Jake and Rossini walking through UCLA’s Sculpture
Garden, engrossed in animated discussion. They never noticed me sitting on the grassy hill.
When they were out of sight, I got up and returned to Guy’s office. He had made a lot