Even though Tessa was a fast reader, she was taking her time working her way through her mother’s diary.
In a way, reading the entries felt a little weird, like an invasion of her mom’s personal space, sort of like stepping into Patrick’s bedroom, but way more private. More intimate.
In addition, her mom never used any last names in the diary. Maybe it was a way of protecting people’s privacy. Hard to know, but it added a cryptic touch to every entry, and Tessa liked that.
Most of the early entries dealt with her mom’s struggles relating to her parents (whom Tessa had met when she was younger, but who’d died before she was six), her boy problems, and overcoming the loneliness and isolation she often felt as a senior in high school. Even her thoughts of suicide.
Not a whole lot different than you.
Tessa knew that sometimes girls reach a point in their relationships with their mothers where they become almost like sisters. She’d never had the chance to experience that with her mom when she was still alive, but now, reading these entries she found herself feeling close to her in a way she’d never felt before.
And of course, with each entry she came closer and closer to the winter day of her mother’s sophomore year in college when she was conceived.
She tried not to think too much about that, and to just take the entries one at a time, but with every page it was getting harder and harder not to wonder when her father’s real name might appear.
As Cheyenne and I drove to Professor Bryant’s house, we reviewed everything that had gone down during the morning. Kurt had already told her about Bennett’s death and John’s phone call to me, so I focused instead on summarizing my conversation with Richard Basque.
“It looks like you do have a fan, after all,” Cheyenne said. “Maybe two.”
“How do you figure?”
“It’s very possible Basque wrote Giovanni back-that they’re closely acquainted. And that would open up all sorts of interesting possibilities.”
I had to think about that.
And I did, all during the drive.
In fact, her words were still cycling through my head when we arrived at Dr. Bryant’s subdivision on the outskirts of Littleton.
72
I parked across the street from Bryant’s red brick home.
Cybercrime hadn’t called me back to tell me his cell’s location had moved, and since his BMW was still in his driveway, I figured he was probably still here as well.
Cheyenne rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later a blond man wearing Chaco sport sandals, a gray T-shirt, and Patagonia shorts answered the door.
“Dr. Bryant?” I said.
“Yes?” Caucasian. Mid to late forties. Lean. Athletic. A tanned face, taut and wind-lashed. He looked like he’d spent the last twenty years backpacking and running marathons instead of lecturing at a university.
I showed him my ID. “I’m Special Agent Bowers with the FBI, and this is Detective Warren with the Denver Police Department.
We’re wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”
He let his eyes drift from me to Cheyenne. Then back to me.
“What does this concern?”
“An ongoing investigation,” Cheyenne said.
“May we come in?” I asked.
He looked like he might object but then said curtly, “Of course.”
Once inside, I surveyed his living room. New furniture that looked like it had never been used. No television. A violin and music stand in the corner. The smell of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen, still percolating. Good coffee, the kind they serve at Rachel’s Cafe. A collection of medieval swords and daggers hung prominently on the wall.
A sword had been used to kill Tatum Maroukas on Wednesday.
“That’s an impressive sword collection,” I said.
“Thank you.”
No, Pat, think about it. John would never have used a sword that could be linked to him. He’s too smart for that.
I made note of the swords, tried not to assume too much. We could follow up on that later. I got right to the point. “I understand you teach several courses on the Renaissance humanists.”
“I do.” He’d crossed the room and now stood protectively in the doorway to the hall, arms folded.
On the other side of the living room, an empty Camelbak hydration pack lay draped over the seat of a mountain bike, a high-end 7 Point Freeride Iron Horse caked with dirt. This was a bike that had seen some miles. He saw me admiring it. “I’m meeting some friends to go mountain biking in fifteen minutes. I really don’t have time right now to chat.”
“They’re calling for snow this afternoon,” Cheyenne said.
“I’m an avid mountain biker.” His tone was turning more and more caustic, and I didn’t like it.
“Dr. Bryant,” I said. “I understand you were scheduled to teach at a conference in Phoenix this weekend but didn’t make it. May I ask why?”
“I had a personal issue come up. I was here at home the whole time. What exactly is this about?”
“An ongoing investigation,” Cheyenne said again, less cordially than before. I could feel tension twisting through the air.
“There’s a book,” I said, “The Decameron, by an Italian author named Boccaccio. You’re familiar with it?”
“Yes, of course. I cover it in several of my classes.”
“Can you think of any of your students who’ve shown unusual interest in it?”
“Many of my students enjoy Boccaccio’s work.”
“Avid interest,” Cheyenne specified.
“No one comes to mind.” He answered the question too quickly to have given it any serious consideration.
I was beginning to lose my world-famous patience. “Dr. Bryant, we are not-”
“We’re not very familiar with the book,” Cheyenne said, interrupting me, in what I assumed was an attempt to calm me down and draw him out. I was glad she spoke up. The words I’d been planning to say weren’t quite as amenable as hers.
“We’re told you’re the expert,” she went on. “Can you take just a moment to give us a quick rundown?”
Dr. Bryant looked like he was about to object but must have thought better of it, or maybe her subtle compliment appealed to his ego. He let out a thin, aggravated sigh instead. “The Decameron: Prencipe Galeotto is about seven women and three men who are fleeing the Black Plague-”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What did you just call it? You said something in Latin after ‘decameron.’”
“It was Italian,” he said impatiently. “Prencipe Galeotto. Boc-caccio didn’t just name the book The Decameron. He also gave the book a secondary name, a subtitle: Prencipe Galeotto.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Galeotto is another rendering of Prince Galahalt, or Galehaut.”
“You mean Galahad?” Cheyenne asked. “The knight?”
“No. Galahalt.” He didn’t hide his condescension. “But yes, he was also one of the knights of the round table. Not one of the most common characters in Arthurian lore, although he does play a significant role in the story.”
“And that is?” I asked.
Dr. Bryant let his gaze climb to the clock on the wall, and he must have decided it would be best to just give us what we wanted and be done with it. He gestured toward the hallway. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
73
Professor Bryant led us to his study.
On the way past the kitchen I saw the coffee brewing. A full pot.
And it got me thinking.
We arrived at the office, and I saw that most if it was taken up by a large desk piled high with papers, notepads, and textbooks. The walls were lined with bookshelves. An iMac sat on his desk.
Wondering if he might be the one who’d checked out the library’s five Decameron commentaries, I scanned his bookshelves for spines with an 853 Dewey decimal number but didn’t see any.
He approached one of the shelves on the east wall. “The legends vary as to Galeotto’s origins, but in nearly all of the stories he’s the man credited with setting up Sir Lancelot and Queen Guine-vere.”