“I want to warn him that I’m about to tell the cops that he’s a killer.”
Did I launch a surprise attack? Of course not. Like any sportsman I made quite sure he knew that I was coming.
Homage to Hammurabi, p. 311
28
I slept the sleep of the just and was on the freeway by nine the next morning—truth can be adequately communicated by telephone, but lies are most effectively transmitted face-to-face.
The trip was slow going—a trip anywhere in the Bay Area was slow going these days, though the bridge was due to be reopened in a week and most people were hoping the situation would instantly return to normal. A few of us were hoping the situation would be better than normal—that the staggered work schedules would be continued and the people who had reduced their contact with the home office to the fax machine and the modem would decide to keep doing it that way.
I abandoned the Bayshore at the University Avenue exit, which had apparently suffered some quake damage itself, and drove through Palo Alto toward the tree-lined drive that is the gateway to the Leland Stanford Junior University. Eucalyptus gave way to palms and the palms yielded to the carefully tended gardens and shrubs and lawns that served as the welcome mat to the tile and sandstone façades of Stanford’s timeless quad—the Romanesque rectangle of the original campus.
It is a special place, one of the handful of excellent universities in the country, perhaps even the best of them, but as I parked my car in the visitors’ lot and headed toward the quad on foot I remembered Betty Fontaine’s charge that the most prestigious schools lacked a sufficient commitment to eliminating the crush of inequality that has overwhelmed the country, that the elite colleges and universities were not part of the solution but part of the problem. I didn’t know if her assessment was fair, though I did know the percentage of blacks and Hispanics who went on to college had dropped dramatically over the past decade. And I had no answer to offer—the issue is complex, and without a child to raise, my need to confront higher education on a personal or emotional level had vanished when I got my own sheepskin a quarter century ago. The only thing I knew for certain was that problems of the sort Betty spoke of will never be solved unless places like Harvard and Stanford come to grips with them.
My original objective was the registrar, but halfway to the administration buildings I took a different tack. Three questions and a pointed finger later, I pushed through the heavy wooden door to the International Relations Department.
The chairman’s office was on the second floor, secreted behind a walnut door and an even more formidable barrier in the form of a stiff-backed secretary and her outsized breasts. I approached her desk with the trepidation of the marginal student I had been at every level of my illused education.
“Hi,” I began.
“Good morning.”
Once again I summoned a twang and syntax from my youth. “I’m not real sure I’m in the right place.” I hoped I looked hapless and displaced, in need of some mothering.
Her smile was off the cover of McGuffey’s. “In what place should you be?”
“International Studies or some such.”
“Graduate or undergraduate?”
“Graduate.”
“If it’s the International Policy Studies program you’re seeking, then you are there.” She became officially prim and personally antiseptic. “How may I help you?”
“Well, this girl—my niece—is out of the country on some sort of … what do you call it? It’s like winning the lottery.”
“A sabbatical, perhaps? But then she’s not a professor, is she?”
I shook my head. “She’s a student. A damned good one.”
“Not uncommon at Stanford.” Her smile was leaking patience. “You’ll have to do better.”
“She’s in Spain. That’s all I know.”
“Then perhaps she’s on a fellowship.”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one. A fellowship to Spain. That’s what she has.”
“A Fulbright?”
“Oh, she’s fully bright, all right. As bright as they come. What I need to know is how to reach her. On the telephone, I mean.”
“I’m afraid you should more properly take that up with the registrar.”
I tried to look befuddled; I accomplished it by thinking about the instructions to my VCR. “I believe that’s the folks that sent me over here.”
She gave her head a quick shake. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the authorization to—”
I switched to my somber look—the one that comes more naturally. “I’m not here for fun, ma’am. Her mother—that’s my sister—was visiting us at our place south of Kingsburg when she took sick. The local hospital sent her to the one up here at the school—they say it’s the best around and I hope they’re right because Sissy don’t look real good—and, well, I thought Carrie ought to know the situation. In case she wants to come home.”
My story merited empathy and a pitying pucker. “How unfortunate. But the registrar, or perhaps the dean of students—”
I manufactured righteousness. “I’ve come as far as I’m going. My wife’s half crazy with the commotion and I should be over there with her instead of bouncing around like a billiard ball trying to find out how I can tell some poor little gal her mother may be about to join her maker.” I pointed a finger. “I believe there’s someone behind that door that knows where Carrie is, and there’s nothing I see from where I sit that’s going to keep me from asking about it.”
I started toward the door, hoping it didn’t lead to the rest room.
“There’s no need to disturb the chairman,” the receptionist said quickly. “You seem distraught and, well … What was her name? Carol?”
“Carrie. Carrie Devlin.”
“I’ll just be a moment. Now you sit right there and wait for me.”
I followed instructions and she disappeared behind a thick partition. A moment later I heard a file drawer roll open. Some moments after that I heard some keyboard keys click rapidly, then again, and then once more. When she returned she was perspiring and perplexed.
“I’m not sure what’s going on here. What did you say your name was?”
“Tanner.”
“Well, Mr. Tanner, I have no record of a Carrie Devlin, or any other Devlin for that matter, currently enrolled in International Policy Studies. Nor has a Carrie Devlin ever been enrolled in any aspect of International Relations as far as I can tell.”
Now I was the one who was confused. “Are you sure about that?”
“Of course. I checked the electronic and paper files, both.” Her nose wrinkled above the nostrils. “I’d better consult the registrar. This is becoming very irregular.”
“I’m on my way there now,” I said to head her off, then hurried out the door. Along the way I stopped long enough to make a call.
“Anything more on Linton?”
“Not much,” Charley said. “We think the weapon was a forty-five automatic, GI issue.”
“O’Shea was ex-army.”
“I know.”
“Find him yet?”
“Nope. Got any suggestions where to look?”
“Afraid not.”
“Then why are we talking?”
“I was wondering what office Linton was trying to break into when O’Shea smacked him.”
“I don’t know, let me look.” The line fell silent. “Someone called Finney. Mean anything?”
“I’m about to find out.”
The minions of the registrar were not excited to see me, either. The inquiry by the young man at the front counter was pro forma because he and the rest of the staff had theirs ears tuned to a conversation taking place in the rear of the room, among a group of four men and a woman. Unless clothing styles were different at Stanford from anywhere else I had ever been, one of the men was a cop.
“I need to see the boss.” I had interrupted the young man’s eavesdropping and he didn’t appreciate it.
“Why
is that?”
“Why don’t you let me tell him about it?”
He looked at me long enough to decide I was out of his league, then joined his peers in the rear. He had to wait his turn to get a word in edgewise, but when he did, all eyes turned my way. I bowed to my audience and waited while the man in the whitest shirt and reddest tie detached himself and approached me. “Your name, please?”
“Tanner.”
The young man who’d helped me was standing right behind him. When he heard the name he piped up. “Spittle at Int Stud just called about him. He’s looking for his niece, or so he says. He claims he’s her uncle but Spittle says she looked him up and he’s really a private eye.” The young man couldn’t help himself. “Are you?” He would have been less surprised to encounter a swami.
“Guilty as charged.”
The white shirt retook control. “Of what student are you making inquiries?”
“Of Carrie Devlin.”
“What is the purpose of your questions?”
“To learn her status at the university.”
“Do you have proper authorization?”
“No.”
“Then that takes care of it, I’m afraid. I’m sure you understand—we can hardly give out information in our files willy-nilly. Even if we were so inclined, the Education Code is very strict about student confidentiality—we are subject to both civil and punitive damages. When you have obtained the necessary enabling documents, we will be happy to speak with you again.” He started to turn away.
“I can offer you a deal,” I said quietly.
He lingered. “What kind of deal could Stanford possibly need from you?”
“If that’s a cop back there, and if the reason you folks are a little tense this morning is you’ve been warned your records may have been breached, I think I can be of help.”
His face was trying to match his tie. “How do you know about these matters?”
I smiled. “It will cost you a quid pro quo to find out.”
The white shirt glanced back at the clan from which he’d come. “Perhaps you should talk with Sergeant Pinckney of the campus police.”
“If you bring the sergeant in on this I’ll be tied up for hours. I can’t afford the time and neither can you. Give me what I need, and I’ll give you some peace of mind.”
He still couldn’t decide, so I had to help him.
“You were warned about admissions records. The man who warned you is Marvin Gillis, the chief mucky-muck at the Sebastian School.”
He was a Stanford man, so he was trained to be conservative. “Even if that’s true, I still don’t see what you can do for me.”
“I can name the man who’s after your files and I can tell you where you can find him.”
At least he was decisive. “Agreed.”
“First, give me whatever you have on Carrie Devlin.”
“But I don’t—”
“I just want to know where she is. What she’s studying. And how I can get in touch with her.”
He glanced at the cop again. I was afraid he was going to dillydally so long even a campus cop would smell a rat, but Stanford cops aren’t Stanford grads and the white shirt had time to make his move. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and went through a door in the rear of the office.
When he returned he was relaxed, even affable. “Where is she?” I asked him.
“You haven’t completed your part of the bargain.”
“The man’s name is Wade Linton.”
“Is he an alumnus?”
I shook my head. “Princeton, as I understand.”
“Then what does he want from Stanford?”
“Evidence of a crime.”
“What kind of crime?”
“Fraud.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will if you read the morning paper.”
“Where is Linton now?” His brow narrowed. “You’re not him, are you?”
I shook my head. “Linton’s dead.”
“What?”
“Wade Linton is dead, as of last night. He won’t cause trouble for you, with records or anything else. Check with Gillis if you need to, though you should do it before noon. Now tell me about Carrie Devlin.”
The white shirt had gone tentative on me again. “This is all quite astonishing. I should—”
“We have a deal, Mr. Registrar.”
Apparently Stanford men are men of honor. “Ms. Devlin is not currently enrolled,” he recited formally. “She is not on fellowship, either, at least not under the auspices of Stanford. She left this institution in the spring of 1986.”
“Why?”
“For academic deficiencies.”
“She flunked out.”
“Yes.”
“Her sophomore year.”
“Correct.”
“No junior year at Stanford in Paris?”
“Hardly.”
“No transfer to another school?”
“There’s no request for transcripts in the file.”
“Speaking of which, could I see it?”
He stiffened. “I’m sorry. I’ve told you too much already.”
He was right, but I wanted one thing more. “Do you admit many Sebastian students to Stanford?”
“Of course. It’s the best secondary school in Northern California.”
“Have you ever made a study of how many of them flunk out?”
“No. Why should we?”
“Because if you don’t, some assistant DA is going to do it for you.”
He did not do nearly enough to elude me. In fact, as I pulled the trigger, it occurred to me that I might be doing him a favor.
Homage to Hammurabi, p. 327
29
The senior partner resides in the bowels of a law firm the way a pearl nestles within the clammy flesh of an oyster, and Marvin Gillis was no exception. As I made my way through the law offices of Gillis and Hookstratten, I wondered if the message I’d delivered by way of Christine White had been enough to flush him out, but as I rounded a final corner my question was quickly answered—the number of secretaries and file clerks and paralegals lingering within earshot of Christine’s office was proof that something strange was up. The something strange was me.
I tapped on the door and went inside. Appropriately, the setting was out of Sayers and Christie—elegantly appointed office, brocade drapes that cast the assembled faces in sinister shadow, nervous glances arcing across the room in furtive looks of dread, anxious sighs leaking like bursts of steam through aspects of assiduously injured innocence. As I crossed the room and took the only available seat, which was the one behind the desk, I began to have doubts that I made a respectable Poirot.
I bowed to the multitude and greeted Christine White by name. “Are you still representing Ms. Drayer?”
Christine nodded. I looked at her client and tried to indicate my support and sympathy, but since she still wasn’t convinced I was on her side, she was having none of it. Then I looked at the rest of them.
Marvin Gillis—three pieces of pin-striped armor cinched in place, flawlessly groomed from head to toe—followed my every move, his outrage was barely in check. Like a bull in his private pasture, he was snarling and snorting in readiness to do what he was bred for—charge the intruder and keep charging until he reestablished his supremacy or expired in the effort. There is a certain nobility in that, of course, but I couldn’t let it interfere with what I hoped was my own.
Seated next to Gillis was my old friend Jake Hattie, preeminent criminal counsel in San Francisco. “Are you representing Mr. Gillis, Jake, or did you just drop by to revise your will?”
“I never drop by, Tanner—I occur, something like a thunderstorm. Lightning included.”
I bowed. “Nice image.”
I’d worked for Jake, and drunk with him, had even lounged around the pool at his horse ranch in Sonoma County among the opulent charms of Jake’s usual entourage of bathing beauties, but now I was o
n the other side. As with all great lawyers, that made me his blood enemy until the job was done.
Jake fired the opening round. “You may assume Mr. Gillis is apprised of the rights he need be apprised of in this exceedingly specious matter.” Jake pulled out a stogie and lit it. “Frankly, you surprise me, Marshall.” Jake’s the only one who calls me that. “I’m afraid those rights may include defamation proceedings.” He paused and puffed. “If you’re not careful.”
“I’m seldom careful, Jake. But I’m often right.”
As Jake shook his head with what I was supposed to regard as paternal concern, I looked at the other men in the room. The elder of the two had a tumultuous mane of silver hair that was the most luxuriant object in sight, but that was the only thing about him that glowed—seated in a weary slump he was bent and asthmatic, his age draping him like a shawl. He was Rufus Finner, I presumed, Sebastian’s titular headmaster, but the tables were clearly turned. He was so frightened I began to feel sorry for him, until I remembered he had no doubt spent forty years instilling the same degree of terror in Sebastian students summoned to his office for discipline.
The man next to Finner was a lawyer who, from the pinch to his mouth and the cut of his clothes, was not used to the rough-and-tumble of criminal litigation. I expected him to defer to Jake in everything but his taste in cuffs.
After one last survey of my audience, I plunged ahead. “This whole thing started with a book,” I began, mouth dry, puke rapid. “It was a manuscript, more precisely. A manuscript that will become a book in a week or so.”
“Who will publish?” Jake asked.
“Periwinkle Press.”
“Mr. Chatterton.”
“Right.” I glanced at Gillis, then back to Jake. “Your client evidently forgot to tell you that he’s trying for an injunction against publication. In my judgment, he doesn’t have a prayer for a TRO, but here’s an irony you’ll like—without your client’s property settlement with his ex-wife, Periwinkle would be dead in a day.”
I swallowed to clear my throat, but had to try it again before I got it right.
“Let’s dispense with the editorials,” Gillis grumbled.
“Fine,” I said as Jake whispered a piece of advice to his client. ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut’ was what I thought he said.
Book Case Page 24