“And I have work to do, too, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You’re excused,” I said. “Is there a place around here to get lunch?”
“We all use the faculty café,” one of the young women said. “In the basement of Sarkassian.”
“Unless you are faculty or staff,” Agnes said, “I don’t believe you’re allowed.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The younger women looked at me. I winked at them and left the office.
12
I found Sarkassian Hall on a circular drive opposite the library. I went to the basement and walked into the faculty cafeteria, trying to bear myself like a man thinking deeply about John Milton. No one paid any attention to me. I could have been thinking about Sarah Palin, for all they cared. It was eleven-thirty. I got a cup of coffee and a large corn muffin and sat at an empty table where I could see the door, and waited.
I had finished my coffee and my corn muffin by the time the two young women from the art office arrived at twelve-ten. They each got a salad and carried it to a table at the other end of the cafeteria. I got up and walked over to them.
“Could I buy you lunch?” I said.
“We already paid,” one of them said. “But you can sit if you want.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I sat.
“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “As you probably gathered, I’m trying to find out who killed Ashton Prince.”
“We heard you in the office,” one of them said. “My name’s Tracy. This is Carla.”
Tracy had shoulder-length dark hair and was a little heavy. Nothing a modest workout schedule wouldn’t fix. Carla was slimmer, with brown hair in a ponytail. Neither one was a stunner. But neither one was beyond the pale, either.
“Agnes minding the store?” I said.
“We have lunch while she covers the office,” Tracy said. “And then we cover the office while she has lunch.”
“Doesn’t trust either of you to do it alone?” I said.
“Big job,” Carla said.
“She tries to make it a big job,” Tracy said. “You know, making sure nobody uses the copy machine unless authorized. Important stuff like that.”
“She hard to work for?” I said.
Tracy shrugged.
“We don’t really work for her. But she’s the chairman’s secretary and we’re just department pool workers, so it sort of works out that way.”
“Actually,” Carla said, “she’s pathetic. You know? I mean, me and Tracy working here is just, you know, a step along the way. Pay’s good, benefits are great. My husband’s a carpenter in town, on his own, no benefits. Tracy’s hub is working on a Ph.D. here. We got lives.”
“And she’s got?”
“The job,” Carla said. “Period. So she makes it into a damn religion. The department is perfect. The professors walk on freaking water.”
“And,” Tracy said, “if she weren’t ever-vigilant, it would all go to hell.”
“So what didn’t she tell me?” I said.
“Why do you think she didn’t tell you something?” Carla said.
“I’m a trained detective,” I said.
“Wowie,” Tracy said.
“So tell me about Ashton Prince,” I said. “The part that made you two sort of giggle at each other.”
“Ash liked the ladies,” Tracy said.
“Especially the young ones,” Carla said.
“How young?” I said.
“Mostly younger than us,” Carla said.
“Not to say he didn’t give us a chance,” Tracy said.
“Which you declined?” I said.
“I like my husband a lot better than I liked Ash Prince,” Tracy said.
“Absolutely,” Carla said.
“Students?” I said.
“You betcha,” Tracy said.
“Any one in particular?”
“Changed from semester to semester,” Tracy said.
“But he usually got them from his seminar,” Carla said.
“He gave a seminar every semester, ‘Low-Country Realists, ’ ” Tracy said.
“Which is where he trolled for them,” Carla said. “He’s something of a legend among the women students.”
“What happened to his seminar?” I said.
“Kids will all get the grade they had on the midterm for a final grade. Ash was a notoriously easy grader. Nobody’s complaining.”
“You don’t happen to know who his current favorite was,” I said.
“Don’t have a name. But there was a blonde girl, tall, very artsy-looking in a sort of fake way,” Tracy said. “You know. Long, smooth hair; high boots; too-long cashmere sweaters; pre-torn designer jeans. She spent a lot of time in his office.”
“When does the seminar meet?” I said.
“Tuesdays, two to five, in the Fine Arts building,” Carla said. “Room Two-fifty-six.”
“Right on the tip of your tongue,” I said.
“I spent most of a day trying to schedule a replacement for Ash when he got killed,” she said. “It’s burned into my brain.”
I gave each of them my business card.
“Hey,” Tracy said. “You’re not a cop.”
“Private,” I said. “You think of anything, you could call me.”
“A private eye?” Carla said. “You carry a gun?”
“I do,” I said.
“You ever shoot anybody?”
“Mostly I use it to get a date,” I said.
13
I went over to the campus police station and sat with the chief, a tall, pleasant-looking guy with short sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His name was Crosby.
“Frank Belson said I should talk to you,” he said. “I started out in a cruiser with Frank back in the days when we were two to a car, working out of the old station house in Brighton.”
“Right across from Saint Elizabeth’s.”
“You got it,” Crosby said. “Met a lotta nurses from Saint Elizabeth’s in those days. Me and Frank both. We had some pretty wild times off-duty, and a few when we were on.”
“What do you know about Ashton Prince?” I said.
Crosby’s face got quiet, and he sucked on his cheeks for a moment.
“Belson tells me your word is good,” he said.
“It is,” I said.
“Belson and I grew up together in the cop business, until I took retirement after twenty, and came to work here.”
“Belson’s a lifer,” I said.
“For sure,” Crosby said. “Frank’s approval carries a lot of weight with me. And we got a guy murdered here, one of ours, even though he was pretty much of a jerkoff.”
“Lot of that going around in academe,” I said.
“Sweet Jesus,” Crosby said.
I waited. He sucked his cheeks for another moment.
“Okay,” Crosby said. “What I say in this room stays in this room.”
I nodded.
“Your word?”
“I’ll use the information, but I won’t say where I got it without your permission.”
“Okay,” Crosby said.
He sat back a little in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He was wearing cordovan shoes with a high shine.
“This is an easy job,” Crosby said. “Most of the time I don’t even carry a piece. We make sure that everyone parks in the right place. We keep the kids from setting fire to the place while drunk. We do routine patrol.”
“Keep the marauders at bay,” I said.
“Something like that,” Crosby said. “Now and then a rape. Now and then a robbery. But mostly it’s sort of housekeeping, you know, and, ah, covering up.”
“ ‘Covering up’?”
“University dislikes scandal,” Crosby said. “Made that clear when they hired me. Part of my job description is keeping a lid on anything that might harm enrollments, recruiting, or, God forbid, fund-raising and alumni support.”
“How you feel about that?” I sa
id.
Crosby smiled.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “But in a way it’s kind of motivational. We work extra hard to prevent a crime from happening so we don’t have to cover it up.”
“Then along came Prince?” I said.
Crosby nodded.
“He can’t stay away from the female students. You know, famous professor, handsome, good dresser in a fluty kind of way. Got that fake English accent that they used to teach movie stars in the thirties and forties. Lot of girls are happy to hook up with him. He’s scored a bunch of them. But he wants to score all of them. We have complaints of sexual harassment, sexual innuendo, inappropriate touching, stalking, offering to swap grades for sex.”
“And how does the university feel about that?”
“They don’t like it. But he’s a tenured professor and a well-known international expert on some kind of art.”
“Probably low-country realism,” I said.
“Sure,” Crosby said. “It’s how I got to know him. I was bringing him in and talking to him so often we got to know each other pretty well.”
“How did he behave when you spoke of his behavior?” I said.
“He was shocked—shocked, I tell you.”
“Denied it?”
“Denied it absolutely,” Crosby said. “Said the girls must be either vindictive that he spurned them—his words—or they were fantasizing and allowed the fantasy to overcome them.”
“All of them?”
“All,” Crosby said. “He absolutely rejected every complaint. Said he had an attorney, and if we brought charges he would sue the girls, sue the university, probably sue me, for all I know.”
“Do you know the name of the lawyer?”
“No, but the university counsel does.”
He swung his chair sideways and picked up a phone and punched in a number.
“George,” he said to the phone. “Mike Crosby. Who’s the lawyer that Ashton Prince used to threaten us with?”
He waited, then nodded and wrote down a name on the pad of yellow lined paper on his desk.
“Thanks, George,” he said. “No, nothing. Just sorting the case out for myself. Sure, George. Mum’s the word. Thanks.”
He looked at me.
“That’s the motto of our department. Lot of departments have like ‘to protect and serve’? We have ‘Mum’s the word.’ ”
He ripped the sheet of paper off the pad and handed it to me.
“Morton Lloyd,” he said. “In Boston.”
I folded it and put it in my pocket.
“So the university decided to do nothing about Prince,” I said.
“No, they decided to keep it quiet,” Crosby said. “That’s doing something.”
“In loco parentis,” I said.
Crosby nodded.
“Ain’t it something,” he said.
“Can you do me a favor?” I said.
“Long as mum’s the word,” Crosby said.
I smiled.
“Prince was teaching a seminar called ‘Low-Country Realists’ when he was killed,” I said. “A teaching assistant is finishing it up. Class meets from two to five on Tuesdays.”
“You want to sign up for it?” Crosby said.
“I want a list of the students,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “You got a fax?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m a high-tech sleuth.”
I gave him my card.
“I’ll fax it to you this afternoon,” Crosby said. “Why do you want it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just blundering around in the brush here, see what I kick up.”
Crosby grinned.
“That’s called police work,” he said.
14
I called Rita Fiore in the morning. Rita had once been a Norfolk County prosecutor. Now she was a litigator at Cone, Oakes.
“Tell me about a lawyer named Morton Lloyd,” I said.
“Mort the Tort,” she said. “Got his own firm, Lloyd and Leiter, offices downtown, Milk Street, maybe. What are you looking for.”
“Wish I knew,” I said. “What should I know about him?”
“He’s smart. He’s tough. I don’t think he tests out so good on ethics, but if I were going to sue somebody, Mort would be my guy. You want to sue somebody?”
“Nope. I’m just nosing around,” I said.
“I hear you’re involved in that art heist and murder,” Rita said.
“Who says?”
“I’m sort of friendly with Kate Quaggliosi,” Rita said.
“Isn’t she a blabbermouth,” I said.
“What are friends for?” Rita said. “She’s a pretty smart cupcake.”
“Smart as you?” I said.
“Of course not,” Rita said. “Not as hot, either.”
“Who is?” I said.
“How would you know,” Rita said.
“I am a skilled observer,” I said.
“You’re not ready to cheat on Susan, are you?” Rita said.
“When I am, you’ll be the first to know,” I said.
“How encouraging,” Rita said.
“I assume Lloyd charges a lot for his services,” I said.
“A lot,” Rita said.
“Ashton Prince, the guy that got blown up, claims that Lloyd was his attorney.”
“On a professor’s salary?” Rita said.
“Maybe pro bono?” I said.
“Mort doesn’t do pro bono,” Rita said. “You going to talk to him?”
“I suspect that he wouldn’t tell me which way east was, if I went in.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Rita said. “You want me to talk with him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything he’ll tell you. Did he have a professional relationship with Ashton Prince? If he did, what for? How was Prince planning to pay his fee? Stuff like that.”
“No problem,” Rita said. “Mort’s always lusted for me.”
“And you for him?”
“No,” Rita said. “But he doesn’t know that.”
“Is it ethical to use sex as a tool of exploitation?”
“ ‘Tool’ may be an unfortunate choice of words,” Rita said. “But the nice thing about Mort is you don’t have to sweat ethics or morality with him.”
“Makes it easier,” I said.
“Do you want your name mentioned?”
“Not unless you think you need to, and I can’t see why you would.”
“Me, either,” Rita said. “I assume this is pro bono.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I plan to reward you with a long lunch at Locke’s.”
“I accept,” Rita said. “And afterward?”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“Damn,” she said.
15
Susan and Pearl were spending the weekend. Pearl was sprawled on the couch with her head hanging off, snoring faintly. I was making some green-apple fritters. Susan stood at the living-room window, looking down toward the Public Garden.
“When I took her down there this morning,” Susan said, “Pearl kept snuffing around, and stopping and looking at me, and then snuffing around some more. I think she was looking for Otto.”
“Love alters not when it alteration finds,” I said.
“I’ve noticed that,” Susan said. “Especially when Rita Fiore is around.”
“I’m not sure that’s love,” I said. “And I’m not sure I’m its exclusive object.”
“Probably not,” Susan said. “Have you seen her lately?”
“Talked to her today on the phone.”
“About the art-theft murder?”
I was peeling an apple.
“Yep. She’s going to find some stuff out from a lawyer she knows,” I said, “whom she says lusts after her.”
“I’m sure he does,” Susan said. “She’s very attractive.”
“She is,” I said.
“Great
hair,” Susan said. “You don’t always see a redhead with hair that good.”
“That’s probably not why Morton Lloyd lusts after her,” I said.
Susan continued to look down toward the Public Garden.
“I’m going to take her to lunch at Locke’s,” I said. “As a payoff.”
Susan turned and looked at me.
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” she said.
“I’m sure I will,” I said. “Rita’s a lot of fun.”
“And she’s so good-looking,” Susan said.
“She is,” I said.
Susan was quiet. I peeled my apples. Pearl snored.
“Do you think she’s better-looking than moi?” Susan said.
What kind of idiot wouldn’t know the right answer to that? But in fact I did think she was better-looking than Rita, though the gap was maybe not as wide as I would imply.
“No,” I said.
“Do you think I’m better-looking than she?” Susan said.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Would you care to elaborate a bit?”
“Sure,” I said.
I tossed my sliced apples in a bowl with a little lemon juice to keep them from turning brown.
“You are the best-looking woman I’ve ever known,” I said. “Also, your hair is better than Rita’s.”
“Black hair is easier,” she said.
I measured some flour into another bowl.
“No doubt,” I said. “But it remains true. And if it didn’t, if none of it were true, would it really matter? We love each other, and we’re in it for the long haul.”
“Yes,” Susan said.
I sprinkled some nutmeg into the flour.
“So what difference does it make?” I said.
Susan nodded.
“You don’t think her ass is better than mine?” Susan said.
“No one’s is,” I said. “And I pay close attention.”
She nodded and turned back to the window. I broke a couple of eggs into my batter mix.
“What do you need to learn from this lawyer?” Susan said.
“I don’t know, really. It’s like what I do. I look into something and I get a name and I look into the name and it leads to another name, and I keep finding out whatever I can about whatever comes my way, and sometimes you find something that helps.”
Susan left the window and came and sat on a stool at my kitchen counter. She had on tight black jeans tucked into high black boots. On top she was wearing a loose aqua silk T-shirt, narrowed at the waist by a fancy belt.
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