He listened for a minute and pulled the phone away from his mouth, looking at me when he asked, “How sure are you of the time?”
“Very sure,” I said. “I looked at the clock.”
Agent Kelleher finished the call and closed the phone. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, something I would have never pictured this rigid man doing to anyone in his life.
He must have noticed my startled expression because he said, “Not me. It’s from Streeter. He told me to do that and to tell you you’re brilliant.”
SUNDAY MORNINGS WERE USUALLY his favorite time of the week. Not today. After Lisa Henry’s murder the day before and the marathon of interviews he’d conducted since, Streeter felt like he’d been back amid the angry mob that flooded the streets of Mogadishu during Operation Gothic Serpent—expecting an ambush, edgy and hyped, amped to unhealthy heightened awareness. Both missions had left Streeter feeling a complete failure, with similar horrific endings: eighteen dead comrades in Somalia, one important friend dead in Colorado. Streeter was seething about de Milo’s freedom as much as he had about Mohamed Farrah Aidid on that fateful mission in October. Three years as a Marine on a select military team had been wasted back then, but he was not about to waste any time now.
Streeter wasn’t accustomed to interviewing so many people at once. Having to change his method wasn’t helping his mind wrap around what was being said any faster than if he had interviewed each person individually. He felt pressured, trapped by the urgency of de Milo’s murders. They were coming more quickly, more frequently than even Lisa had predicted. She had warned him of this, and now Lisa was dead. Lisa’s murder had occurred in broad daylight within three days of Jill’s murder and at the very home where the FBI had established temporary headquarters. Was de Milo mocking them, taunting them, he wondered? And when did he start thinking of Agent Henry as Lisa? He admonished himself for getting too close to her in death and wondered why he hadn’t had the courage to in life. Streeter needed a break, but what he needed more was to make every precious minute count, pressing on with interviewing and investigating, with the pursuit of every angle. Lisa deserved at least that.
Buzzed on adrenaline and secretly worried about time running far too short, Streeter had asked Detective Brandt to join him last night, only to learn from Brandt’s wife that Douglas had taken three sleeping pills earlier that evening and was knocked out cold in a deep sleep. Warding off the nightmares, Streeter thought. Good luck.
So he had interviewed Jill’s circle of friends last night on his own. All nine of them. None of them ever having heard of a Jonah. And he had just finished interviewing Jill’s basketball teammates this morning, thanks to Coach Beck. All thirteen of them, along with the assistant coach and the team psychologist. None of them was named Jonah or had ever heard of Jonah. And no one’s expression changed much at the mention of the name.
Earlier that morning Streeter had also been able to reach two of the three professors he still needed to interview, including the infamous art professor, Dr. Jay, whose office he was on his way to now from the gym. Dr. Brian Miller, Jill’s computer science teacher, said he could meet with Streeter that afternoon. Dr. Helen Dixon, Jill’s journalism professor, hadn’t answered her phone. He would try later. And he definitely needed to conduct a one-on-one interview with Zack Rhodes to learn more about the wood carving, a direct connection to the crime scene.
As Streeter walked across the green, he dialed his cell phone. “Where are we on the print?”
“They only got a partial. Most of the toe from the left boot,” Kelleher answered.
“What did Linwood say?”
“He said we have a match from the shoreline at Horsetooth.”
Streeter sighed. “Thank God.”
“Jack also said he ran the tread through the database and found it’s consistent with a hiking boot that only Cabela’s and Jax sells.”
“Nearest stores?”
Kelleher paused. “Cabela’s would be Sidney, Nebraska, I think. Maybe three hundred miles. But Jax is a local store.”
“To Denver?”
“No, to Fort Collins.”
“De Milo’s a local,” Streeter concluded, piecing together the retailer for the boot, the hand-carved crutch, and his incredible intuition.
“Looks that way,” Kelleher agreed. “Jack moved on to the items we pulled out of Lisa’s room. I told him that was priority.”
“Thanks. How’s Liv?”
“Pretty shook,” Kelleher said. “But she’s hanging in there. She’s running right now. Good kid.”
“Smart kid,” Streeter added. “Without her we wouldn’t have found the boot print, figured out the probable murder weapon, or had the book from Jill’s locker or the letter from the mysterious Jonah that no one seems to know anything about.”
“She isn’t through yet,” Kelleher said.
“What do you mean?”
“She said there was something bugging her about the pomegranate we found under Lisa Henry’s bed. Miss Bergen said she hadn’t bought a pomegranate since her sister, a woman she referred to as Elizabeth, stayed with her a year ago. Said the pomegranate reminded her of something and she was going to run to get her mind wrapped around whatever was eluding her.”
“You think de Milo was after Liv?”
“Don’t know. Let’s see what she comes up with.”
“Kelleher, you shouldn’t have let her go alone,” Streeter fussed.
“I know, but it’s not like Miss Bergen gave me a choice.”
From Kelleher’s tight tone, Streeter could tell Liv Bergen had become a handful for him. “Her name’s Liv. Why so interminably proper, Kelleher?”
“Why do you call Miss Bergen by her first name, Streeter?”
Impasse. He decided to change the subject and give Kelleher a break. “Have you canvassed the neighbors about Friday night?”
Kelleher said, “One neighbor agreed with you about seeing a truck with a topper parked along the street, not in the cul-de-sac, just like you said. Another neighbor claimed he saw it parked in Liv’s driveway yesterday around noon.”
“Bingo,” Streeter said.
“Tim Gregory is working on it with Jack.”
“No, I agree with you that Linwood needs to stay focused on the evidence pulled from Henry’s room. We’re running out of time before de Milo kills again.”
“And Tim’s saying he won’t have much luck on the truck without the plates, or even a partial number.”
“It was too dark. It was late. I assumed it was a neighbor’s truck,”Streeter argued.
“Streeter, I wasn’t blaming you. What I’m saying is that the neighbors didn’t remember any numbers either. But we have the make, the model, the color, and the approximate year.”
“And the tire tread, once we find the truck. If it’s de Milo’s.”
Streeter was approaching the stairs to the College of Arts building.
Kelleher continued, “Chandler pulled some strings for you and he’s got someone from DMV coming in today to access some information for us. At least we can narrow it down. We’re going to get this guy, Streeter.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Streeter closed the cell phone and slipped it into his pocket, bounding up the stairs two at a time. The front door on the far left was unlocked for him, just as Dr. Jay Bravo had promised, and the only light on in the building was Dr. Bravo’s office on the second floor. Streeter’s even steps echoed down the long marble halls. Just as he was approaching the office, out stepped a tall figure.
Streeter immediately likened Dr. Bravo to a cartoon character, so exaggerated were his features. His tall frame and delicately long fingers were what he expected of an artist, but his handshake was strong and his chest looked oddly larger than his frame would suggest as natural. But nothing about Dr. Jay Bravo seemed natural, starting with the weird, ponderous pose he had assumed just as Streeter neared. The professor held his left hand lightly to his cheek, his right arm cros
sing his body and the back of his right hand holding up the elbow of his left arm. Streeter half expected the man to call him Rochester in his best Jack Benny impersonation.
“Agent Pierce?” the man asked, extending the right hand, his left still resting against his cheek.
“Dr. Bravo?”
“They call me Dr. Jay,”he said, his smile wide and bright next to his tan skin. He had dark eyes and an athlete’s body. His jet-black hair was shoulder length, perfectly trimmed and tucked neatly behind his ears. Must be an artist thing, particularly on this campus, Streeter mused. The pencil-thin mustache was fifties vintage and oddly timeless on this thirty-something gentleman. Dr. Bravo’s presence was somewhat off-putting, the way you’d feel meeting a model for romance novel covers, yet magnetic, as if he were everyone’s long-lost friend. “Just like the basketball star of yore. Only I know nothing about the game. Just how to model clay.”
He was as demonstrative and confident as Streeter would expect an American college professor to be, yet the slightest accent suggested his parents were not American, and his facial features hinted at classic Mediterranean.
“Come in, please.” Dr. Bravo waved the FBI agent into his small office.
Streeter stepped past him and sat in the only chair available, directly in front of Dr. Bravo’s desk. The bookshelves were filled with art books, and oversized books were stacked on the floor behind the professor’s desk. Every book appeared to be well used rather than simply for appearance’s sake. Dr. Bravo slipped around the edge of his desk and seated himself across from Streeter, angling his chair sideways to gaze out the window while they talked.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Jill Brannigan, as I mentioned on the phone,” Streeter said, amazed by Dr. Bravo’s peculiar behavior.
“Yes, yes, but how can I help you?”
Streeter studied Dr. Bravo’s hands as he flailed them impatiently in the air. Long, lean fingers, curiously strong. Maybe from endless hours of sculpting, he supposed.
“Tell me about her.”
Dr. Bravo leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “Jill was a wonderful student. She was earning an A in my class.”
“Intermediate sculpting?”
“Yes,” Dr. Bravo said. “And she had earned an A in the beginners class as well.”
“Spring semester?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Bravo said. “You must have her transcript?”
“Dr. Pembroke gave it to me,” Streeter answered.
“Ah, Rebecca. Sweet Rebecca,” Dr. Bravo said, twisting in his chair to gaze out his window toward the Administration Building, where she had her office.
“You two friends?” Streeter asked.
Dr. Bravo grinned. “Aren’t we all, Agent Pierce? Academia is quite the clique. A close-knit gaggle, if I may say so. All of us seeking to impart higher knowledge to today’s youth.”
“Higher knowledge?”
Dr. Bravo arched his brows and sighed. “Must I spell it out for you?”
“That’s what you call it these days?” Streeter said, resisting the urge to spring across the desk and wring this pretentious gigolo’s neck for all womankind’s sake.
Dr. Bravo turned to face Streeter and raised his hands in surrender. “I am nothing but a man and easy prey for the wiles of the lovelier sex. I love them all, and I choose not to discriminate.”
Streeter drew in a large breath. “Tell me about your relationship with Jill.”
“Ah, but alas, Jill was one of my serious students.”
“Serious?”
“Focused, goal oriented. She was not one to stop and smell the roses,”Dr. Bravo said. “You know the type. A go-getter, a type-A personality.”
“You say that as if it was a bad thing,” Streeter retorted, thinking of himself.
“Well, in the world of Art, in which I live, focus and goal setting are okay, but living life is more important.”Dr. Bravo leaned forward on his desk and held Streeter in his fierce gaze. “You look as if you don’t understand. Probably a type A yourself. Art comes from emotion, from life experiences. You must feel what you’re doing, not think about what you’re doing.”
Streeter noticed the scratch along Dr. Bravo’s jawbone and suddenly realized he’d just discovered the reason for the professor’s odd Jack Benny pose and seeming fixation on the views outside the window.
Dr. Bravo had closed his eyes and was rubbing his fingertips together as if sensing something Streeter couldn’t see. Streeter again used the opportunity to soak in every detail of Dr. Bravo’s office. His desk was neat and organized, with three piles equally spaced apart: graded papers in one, papers needing to be graded in another, a third pile that looked to be administrative memos or letters. His two pens lay parallel to the piles. His books, obviously well read, were stored on the shelves alphabetically by topic.
As to the professor himself, Streeter noted his hair, although long and below his ears and shirt collar, was washed, neatly combed, and perfectly cut. His fingernails were groomed, his open shirt ironed, and his silk pants custom cut to his strong body. Everything about him was immaculate—maybe psychotically so.
“When you feel what you are doing, the art is natural, not forced as it is when you think you’re way through it.” Dr. Bravo’s eyes fluttered open. “Jill’s sculpting was forced.”
“You said she was an A student?”
“She was,” Dr. Bravo said. He gave a shrug and a crooked smile. “I never said she couldn’t sculpt. I just said it was forced. She thought too much about what she was doing. She was good, but I would have liked to see her be great. If she could have felt her work, she could have been one of the greatest students I ever taught.”
“You liked Jill?”
“Very much so,” he said, twisting his body again to face the window. “Who didn’t? She was smart, talented, strong. A regular Venus. That combination is an aphrodisiac for most of us men, don’t you agree Agent Pierce?”
Something about the way he said his name bothered Streeter. “And was Jill one of the many students you’d slept with, Dr. Bravo?”
A smile slid across the professor’s lips. He lifted his hands in surrender once again. “Agent Pierce. As I told you, I avoid confrontation of any kind. Capitulate, not conquer. Kiss, not clash. Cuddle, not quarrel. So why do you choose to joust with me about something so personal?”
“Because it’s my job when someone is murdered,” Streeter said, measuring his words carefully.
Dr. Bravo chuckled. “I see. So, nothing is off-limits? Not even my love life? Well, normally I would say Jill Brannigan would be someone I was very interested in . . . sampling, shall we say? But she was an athlete and I have no interest in muscular women. A turnoff for me, I suppose you could say.”
The muscles in Streeter’s jaws were working double time. “You never hit on her? Pursued her?”
Dr. Bravo’s head bobbed from side to side. “Maybe a little, in the beginning. That was this past January. Before I knew she was an athlete.”
“Yet you hung out with her and other students from your class at the bars every weekend,” Streeter pressed.
“Of course,” Dr. Bravo admitted. “They are a wonderful lot. Full of life and wonder; brimming with energy.”
“And have you ‘sampled’ any of them?”
“Agent Pierce,”Dr. Bravo said with a cluck of his tongue. “You surprise me. A voyeur, are you? Interested in all that is so intimate, so personal? But if you insist, of course I have. Have you met the cute little cherub known as Alicia? Or the wild Christina? And that hot little Shelby . . . oh, what a man-eater!”
“You’re disgusting,” Streeter said.
“Maybe to you, but you’re a thinker. If you lived life like I do, you would understand why feeling is so much better than thinking.”
“You’re just a lecherous opportunist.” Streeter surprised himself with this uncharacteristic voicing of an opinion, warning him to regain control of his emotions.
“Lecherous?” Dr. Bravo mused. “So often that is coupled with old, Agent Pierce, and I am not old. Only a few years older than my students, as a matter of fact. They’re old enough to know what they’re doing—and to choose to do whatever they want with me, I might add. At least I treat them with the respect they deserve, as adults who have opinions and desires, unlike those of you who treat them as brainless tots needing parental advice at every turn. Your dismissive and pejorative treatment of these intelligent human beings is as useless as training wheels on a motorcycle.”
“Who scratched you?”Streeter suddenly shifted gears and then gauged Dr. Jay’s reaction.
“I told you, some of my lovers are a little wilder than others, like my little Christina. She likes it rough. As does Yolanda.”
“Yolanda Fischer, the statistics professor?”
“Does that shock you?”
In truth, it further disgusted him. Streeter wasn’t getting anywhere but angry during this interview. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Jill in any way?”
Dr. Bravo leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes once more. Streeter took the moment to scan Dr. Bravo’s office again. Books were everywhere, of course: on art, on artists, on the masters, on romance, on Italy and France. An empty champagne bottle and flute sat on the windowsill, together with a small glass replica of the globe and a romantic greeting card that was too far away for Streeter to make out the name of the sender, but he saw the heart drawn under the signature. Dr. Bravo had placed a tiny blue ceramic songbird, an agate with purple crystals, a heart-shaped piece of glass, and a rock formation of clear crystals next to a photograph of himself in a graduation gown standing with what looked like his mother, who was laying a kiss on his cheek.
“This is a difficult question you ask me, Agent Pierce, because of course you are looking for the murderer. But I am seeing it from my view as a friend,” Dr. Bravo said.
Streeter perked up. “Which friend?”
“My assistant.”
“Zack Rhodes,” Streeter said.
“Zachary was quite infatuated with our little Jill Brannigan. Enough so, that he would stalk her. In fact, on Monday night when I was dropping off some art books at the library, I saw him hiding behind a pillar in the library, watching Jill as she worked in a cubicle nearby.”
In the Belly of Jonah Page 17