He grunted. “No clue, loverboy. Go look for yourself.” Then he grinned. “Or you want me to give her a note or something? See if she wants to meet you out behind the gym? Then I can come back and tell you and we can huddle together and figure out what to do next.” He clapped his hands together. “It’ll be fun. All sixth grade and shit.”
“When you were in sixth grade, were you big enough to sit in your own desk?” I asked. “Or did you have to sit on someone’s lap?”
“Get out,” he said, the smile disappearing from his face.
I left and walked down the hall toward Liz’s office. I heard voices coming through her doorway, hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the office.
Liz was leaning back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, laughing easily. Her hair was pulled back away from her face. Bright red blouse, silver bracelets on each wrist matching the big silver hoops in her ears.
Across the desk from her, Mike Berkley was laughing, too.
She looked up at me, surprised. “Hey.”
Mike turned toward me. He wore an expensive-looking navy suit, light blue collared shirt, and yellow tie. “Noah. What’s going on?”
Dumb fucking luck.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, trying to keep the tension that was running up my spine out of my voice.
“You’re not,” Liz said quickly, shaking her head for emphasis. “Mike was just leaving.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I was, in fact. Hey, I read about Peter Pluto in the Union-Tribune. Did you find Linc yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Still working on it.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in this crap. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m having the trust records pulled and some other paperwork put together for you,” he said. “Least I can do.”
“Great,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, then faced Liz. “I’ll call you later.”
“Fine,” Liz said, looking down at the desk.
I stepped out of the doorway.
Mike gave me a friendly punch in the arm as he passed. “I’ll call you when that stuff’s ready.”
I thought about punching him back, but was afraid I might knock him off his feet. “Yeah.”
I watched him walk down the hall, then stepped back into her office.
“He didn’t have to leave,” I said.
“Don’t,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t realize when you said to call you, you meant call first so I wouldn’t walk in on you two.”
“Fuck you, Noah. Seriously. Fuck you.” She shook her head, frowning, then just shrugged. “John told me about last night. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you meet the aunt?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I shared the conversation with Wellton.”
She shifted her eyes away from me, her jaw tightening.
I couldn’t help it. I had no real reason to be angry with her. Or Mike, for that matter. But I was, and I didn’t care anymore.
Her eyes came back at me. “Why are you here? Did you just stop by to be a dick?”
“No.”
She stood up. “Then why the fuck are you being one?”
“I didn’t know you two were so serious,” I said, ignoring the question.
“Like it’s any of your goddamned business what we are.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“No, but you seem really interested, so let me tell you what you wanna hear,” she said. “He’s great in bed. Unfuckingbelievable, really.”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said, her hands coiling into fists at her sides. “Are you nine years old? When do you break out the sticks-and-stones line?”
I felt the blood rush to my face, a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
And jealousy.
“I gotta go,” I said, turning to leave.
“No. Wait.”
I turned back around to face her.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she said. “You can’t keep getting angry with me over this.”
I stood there silently.
“I said to call me because I wanted you to,” she said, looking me right in the eye. “I started thinking that maybe I was wrong in bailing out on us last time. But now I’m not so sure. You act one way one minute and another the next. I have no idea what is going on with you and, honestly, it’s getting old.”
She grabbed a file off her desk and walked toward me. She stopped in the doorway, our faces inches apart. “If you want me back in your life, say it out loud.”
I swallowed hard, feeling claustrophobic under her gaze. “I want you back in my life.”
“Then quit acting like such an asshole.”
She turned and walked out of the office and down the hallway, leaving me to figure out how to do that.
Twenty-four
I left before I could embarrass myself any further.
Liz’s words echoed in my head as I walked to the Jeep. For all the yelling and swearing she’d done, she’d left the door open for something between us. Now I just needed to step through that door without getting it slammed in my face.
I called the number Wellton had given me for Professor Famazio and got a voice-mail message that told me he held daily office hours from two to three in the afternoon. That gave me just enough time to stop at Filipi’s on India for a slice of pizza and work my way over to USD.
While San Diego State was large and impersonal, USD was cozy and welcoming. The campus sat atop a bluff looking out over Mission Bay, the Pacific, and Sea World. White stucco Spanish-style buildings dotted the bright green lawns on top of the hill. The center of the Catholic university was the Immaculata, a cavernous church built in the shape of a cross and topped with a pale blue dome. San Diegans referred to the school as Notre Dame West.
The sociology department was located in Founder’s Hall just past the Immaculata and I found Professor Famazio’s office on the second floor at the end of a long hallway.
The door was closed halfway. I knocked lightly and a voice beckoned me in.
The small office looked larger than it actually was because everything in the room was precisely placed. The books on the pine bookshelves were lined up evenly and the papers on the desk were stacked so that not a single corner stood out. A small window on the far wall showcased a portion of the afternoon sunshine and brightened the already light room even more.
Professor Gerald Famazio sat in an oversized leather chair behind the desk. He was somewhere in his early forties, and the closely cropped black hair on his head was flecked with gray. Wire-rimmed glasses magnified small, intense brown eyes that matched the color of his skin. The navy polo shirt on his athletic frame and brown corduroy jacket hanging on the back of his chair were standard issue in academia.
“Can I help you?” he asked, pushing back a little from the desk, his deep voice filling the room.
“I hope so,” I said, handing him my card. “My name’s Noah Braddock. I’m an investigator. Detective John Wellton gave me your name.”
He glanced at the card, then back at me. “You work for the police department?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m private, but Detective Wellton and I are looking at some things that seem to overlap. He said you might be able to help me.”
He eyed me for a moment, not bothering to hide his apprehension. He set my card on his desk, stood, and offered his hand. “Gerald Famazio.” We shook hands and he gestured at a wooden straight-backed chair next to the desk. “Have a seat.”
I slid into the chair.
“John has been generous to me,” he said, lowering himself back into his chair. “Letting me rummage through his files and whatnot, answering numerous questions when I know he had other things to do.” He paused for a moment. “So I’ll repay the favor if I can.”
“I guess I’m mainly looking for a place to start,” I said. “With something called National Nation.”