by Ian Smith
“Was that it?” Sterling asked.
“That was the last I heard from him.”
“And about what time was that call?”
“Couldn't've been more than seven fifteen, seven thirty.”
“Did he say what type of truck it was—the color or make?”
“No, just that there were some guys who needed help, and he was going to lend a hand.”
“When did you start thinking something was wrong?”
“After about an hour I got a little worried. I called his cell phone to make sure everything was all right, but there was no answer. I figured he was still out of the car helping the men.”
Sterling nodded his head. His wheels spun. “When did you first place your call to the police?”
“At about nine, I think.” Kay looked in the direction of the officers.
“Eleven minutes after to be exact,” the Norwich officer confirmed. “Second call came in at twenty-three oh five.”
“Yes, but between the calls I drove down River Road to see if I could find him.”
“And?” Sterling asked.
“There was no sign of him or the two men he had mentioned. Nothing. It was pitch black, and the rain was coming down hard. I drove up and down the road three times, even went over to Hanover and traced the route that he would've taken from the Mortimers' house. Nothing.”
“What did you do when you got back home?”
“I searched the house, hoping that by some miracle he had made it home and was waiting to surprise me.” Her eyes started leaking again. “The house was empty, and I checked the answering machine to see if he had left a message.” She shook her head. “Nothing. That's when I placed the second call to the police.”
“And that's when we notified the guys in Hanover,” the Norwich officer interjected. “It was still too early to get up in arms. It's not uncommon to get calls from spouses saying their loved one hasn't made it home yet. The weather up here can be nasty, and the roads can get tricky.”
Sterling quickly reviewed his notes. Wilson was minutes away from home at approximately 7:15. He didn't answer his cell phone at about 8:15. Kay went looking for him at ten. So, between 7:15 and ten o'clock Wilson disappeared from River Road. Sterling stood up. He wanted to say something to the officers, but not in Kay's presence. “Kay looks beat, guys,” he announced. “Maybe we should give her some time and pick up a little later.”
The three men rose to their feet. “We'll be in touch,” Hanlon said to Kay before they left the den. Sterling followed them out the front door and closed it behind him.
“I know they're working on the record of Wilson's phone calls and the one that Kay made to him,” Sterling said. “But how long do you think that'll take?”
“All depends,” Hanlon said. “This isn't something they do every day. It might take several hours.”
“I'm getting beeped,” the Norwich officer said, looking down at his pager. “I'll be right back.”
Sterling took out his black book and asked some questions about procedure and the time line. He was also interested in the area's crime rate and any scandals that might have recently been exposed in the quiet college town. They were discussing the Mortimers' infamous parties at the president's mansion when the Norwich officer ran back to join them.
“They matched the tracks,” he announced breathlessly.
“Which tracks?” Sterling asked.
“Both sets. Professor Bledsoe's car and a truck. Both were at the medical school and down on River Road.”
“You guys have any dogs at the station?” Sterling asked.
“We don't have a canine unit,” Hanlon said.
“Neither do we,” the Norwich officer added before Sterling could ask.
“I think we sent some down,” the trooper said.
“Good. We're gonna need all the help we can get,” Sterling said.
A pain in Sterling's gut that had subsided to a dull ache now came roaring back. The more time that slipped away, the less chance they had of finding Wilson alive.
10
By two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, word of the mysterious disappearance of Professor Wilson Bledsoe had spread across the Dartmouth campus through frantic e-mails and whispered phone conversations. Everyone from the regulars in Lou's Diner on Main Street to the senior faculty had heard some part of the story. Like most other rumors, what news was passed on was largely the product of unrestrained imagination. Some stories had the Professor running off with another woman, while others had him skipping town because of gambling debts.
Sterling followed the campus map he had found in his car-rental packet and made a turn down Webster Avenue. Both sides of the street were lined with stately houses belonging to Dartmouth's famous sororities and fraternities. Most of the large brick buildings were badly in need of repair. The lopsided shutters barely clung to their hinges, and the beer cans strewn about the lawns offered evidence that the parties were hard and long. Toward the end of the street sat an enormous yellow mansion resting far back from the road, at least two hundred feet. A tall, black wrought-iron gate with an ornate pattern woven along the top protected the manicured lawn. A large circular driveway led visitors to the front of the house and then conveniently away when it was time to leave. This mansion was the largest, most elegant, and best-maintained house on the street, an appropriate distinction since it served as the official residence of President Wallace Mortimer.
While other schools tended to hide the opulence of their president's home, Mortimer lived like a king, and it was there in the open for everyone to see.
The gate to the driveway was open and two Volvos were parked quietly next to the house. The newer one was a black station wagon with the license plate WM III. The sedan, not more than a couple of years older, was dark green, with the license plate SM I. A Dartmouth Security cruiser was parked behind them. Sterling pulled in behind the cars.
It took a few moments for the door to open after Sterling rang the bell.
“Good afternoon,” a short woman said. She was wearing a black, neatly pressed dress at least a couple of sizes too big and a white apron that wrapped her small frame like a cocoon. Her jet-black hair fell down her back, a perfect complement to her deeply tanned skin and sharp features. She was beautiful, but what immediately struck Sterling were her eyes. They were ocean blue and unforgiving. It was the first time he had seen a Native American—or anyone, for that matter—with eyes that color. For a moment they paralyzed his voice.
“Afternoon,” he finally said, looking deep into her eyes. He could see the waves of the ocean. “Is President Mortimer home?”
“Who is it, Ahote?” a woman's voice reached out from somewhere deep in the house.
“Your name, sir?” the little princess asked. Her voice sounded like two pieces of silk blowing against each other in the wind.
“Sterling Bledsoe, from New York City.”
The door opened wider and Sterling looked into another woman's face. Austere. Gray-tinged blond hair pulled back severely behind a black headband, eyes cold. Sterling found her plain and unremarkable, completely forgettable.
“How can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was strong and to the point. There was a hint of condescension. Ahote took a long look at Sterling and disappeared into the house.
“Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” he said. “I was hoping to see President Mortimer.”
The woman lifted her eyebrows, then wrinkled her forehead. “Please come in, Mr. Bledsoe,” she said, stepping to the side to let Sterling pass. Her voice warmed, but it still wasn't friendly. “I'm Serena Mortimer, Wallace's wife. I just don't know what to say,” she lamented, shaking her head several times.
“It's caught all of us by surprise,” Sterling said. He stepped into the foyer and realized the house looked even bigger from inside. A grand staircase curved up to a mezzanine, then to the second floor. A massive chandelier sprinkled rainbows across the cream-colored walls. The pungent smell of cleaner immediately assaulted
his nose.
“Awful,” she said, leading him through a maze of large rooms, mostly decorated with dark, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Old paintings hung in gilded wooden frames. Heavily embroidered curtains shielded the windows from the sun. She spoke with the clipped New England accent of someone who had spent most of her childhood in country clubs. “Wallace is in the back.”
The house was quiet and cold, sending a chill through Sterling that made him shiver. But the coolness didn't seem to bother Serena, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and plaid skirt. In the minds of those accustomed to winter temperatures well below zero, a cool spring day was just as warm as the middle of summer.
Serena walked Sterling through a long back hallway wallpapered in a green print. This finally opened up to a spacious sunroom overlooking the expansive backyard. Long glass panels trapped the sunlight in the room, keeping the air warmer and cozier than in the rest of the house. Two men sat across from each other speaking in low voices. They stopped when Sterling and Serena entered.
“Sterling Bledsoe,” Serena announced. The two men got to their feet.
“I'm Wilson's brother,” Sterling said.
“President Wallace Mortimer,” the patrician man said. He shook Sterling's hand. His carefully combed black hair showed only traces of gray and a small amount of recession at the temples. He was quite a good-looking man, and in great shape for someone his age and in his position. He wore a forest green wool blazer with a white oxford shirt. His freshly ironed khaki pants had been meticulously tailored. His moccasins looked comfortable and expensive. Like most academics Sterling had met in the North, Mortimer didn't wear socks.
“This is Chief Nathaniel Gaylor,” Mortimer said, pointing to the other man. “He's the head of Dartmouth's Security Department.” Even the police officers have aristocratic names, Sterling thought. Gaylor extended a hand. He was a remarkably hairless man, with big ears and large bulbous eyes, exactly like an extraterrestrial in a cartoon. Sterling was fascinated by the perfect roundness of his bald dome.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Sterling said. “I apologize for just popping by like this.”
“Apology completely unnecessary,” President Mortimer said. There was that accent again, northern with a splash of haughtiness, perfect for an Ivy League president. “Please have a seat.” The three men sat down. Serena lingered for a moment, then disappeared through the door.
“I was getting briefed on all that's happened so far,” Mortimer said. He was just what Sterling had expected of the head of one of the most exclusive schools in the country. He spoke with a heavy and deliberate voice, going to great effort to articulate every vowel and consonant, comfortable in his superiority.
“I arrived this morning,” Sterling said. “I've spent all my time so far trying to figure out how Wilson could suddenly slip away on a night that was so special.”
“Yes, the party, of course,” President Mortimer said. “It was quite a successful affair.” He said that proudly. “The biggest scientists from all over the country showed up. Not an easy thing to pull off, I might add. Academics tend to be—well, shall we say, a little self-interested at times.”
“I've been told that Wilson left the party at approximately seven o'clock,” Sterling said.
“There were over two hundred people here, so I don't remember exactly when he left, but it was shortly after his address.” Mortimer looked at the well-appointed garden and squinted from the sun. “I'd say he spoke sometime around a quarter to seven or so.”
“Do you remember him behaving out of character at all? Maybe he said something strange, seemed anxious or nervous?”
“Not at all,” Mortimer said. He shifted his long body in the chair until he found a more comfortable position. Sterling couldn't get over how young he looked for a man approaching his seventies. “Serena and I spoke to him earlier in the evening and again right before he left,” Mortimer said. “He was anxious to get home to Kay. She had been sick, but was still preparing a special meal to commemorate the occasion.”
“Have things been going well here for Wilson?” Sterling asked. Mortimer raised his eyebrows as if the question surprised him. “Sometimes things aren't exactly how they seem. Maybe some tension in his department?”
Mortimer's answer was emphatic. “Wilson is one of our most beloved professors,” he said. “His scholarship has placed him among the giants, not only in our school's history but in the scientific community at large. No complaint or negative comment has ever come across my desk with Wilson's name on it. He was simply loved by all—faculty, student body, and support staff.”
Sterling turned to the chief. “You may or may not know this, but I'm a special agent with the FBI.” Gaylor nodded. “We've been called in to assist, and I'll be leading the investigation from our end.” Sterling allowed his words to register before continuing. “I was hoping you could tell me what kind of video surveillance has been installed in the different campus buildings.”
Chief Gaylor took a moment before responding. It was obvious that he wanted to say the right thing. “Some of our buildings have cameras, but most of them don't. We've been trying to upgrade our security detail over the last few years. To be honest, crime has not been a major concern here at Dartmouth. It's just not that kind of place.”
“I noticed there was some type of camera in the entrance of Burke,” Sterling said. “Where Wilson has his lab.”
Chief Gaylor cocked his perfectly bald head and tightened his thin lips. He reminded Sterling of a hairless sphinx. “There's a library in Burke. That means it would've been one of the first in line for video surveillance installation. We decided to start with all the buildings that had libraries. They have the greatest need since they're open longer and students tend to come and go late into the night.”
President Mortimer nodded approvingly, seemingly at the idea of his students putting the libraries to good use.
“Getting a copy of that tape might tell us something,” Sterling said.
“What are you thinking?” President Mortimer wanted to know. He sat a little straighter in his chair.
“Just trying to cover all the possible places Wilson could've visited that night,” Sterling said. “It probably won't turn up anything, but you never know.”
Mortimer nodded. He did that a lot. “We've already gotten a few inquiries from some of the local press, and the Boston Globe,” Mortimer said. “Someone in my office is working with Chief Gaylor's people to prepare a statement. I wanted the family to read it first before we release it.”
“Thanks for the consideration,” Sterling said. He knew the media would be sniffing around soon. There wasn't much in the way of crime in these small towns, so the disappearance of a popular professor was sure to stir some interest. After all of his years at the Bureau, Sterling had learned that the media could be your best friend or your worst enemy. The key was controlling them, before they controlled the investigation. When he moved to the special homicide division, he attended a two-week course on the media—how to speak with the press and how to use it to your advantage. While he was working on his first big case, one of the veterans had cautioned him that it was impossible to avoid ambitious reporters, and the minute it looked like that was what you were trying to do, the public relations game was lost. Go to the press before they come to you. As many crimes have been solved by well-placed leaks in the media as they have been by great detective work.
“One thing we've been discussing is a possible kidnapping,” Mortimer said. “It was no secret that Wilson had just won the Devonshire. Two million dollars is a lot of money, even around here.”
“And we've had a kidnapping in the past,” Gaylor added. “About ten years ago, someone grabbed Pam Dolan. Big oil executive's daughter. No harm, just a couple of scratches. And we got her back within three days.”
Sterling listened closely. He knew that a kidnapping was unlikely but was willing to hear them out. Everything had to be considered early in an investigation. O
f course, there had been no ransom demands as of yet.
“This might be an uncomfortable question,” Mortimer began. “But is it possible Wilson was having some type of personal trouble?”
“None that I know of,” Sterling said. “But I guess it's something that has to be considered along with everything else.”
“So many questions and no answers,” Mortimer said. “It's damn frustrating.” He was nodding his head again, and the habit was already bothering Sterling.
Ahote appeared at the entrance carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. When she stepped into the sunroom, the light penetrated the depths of her blue eyes. Sterling watched her movements—quick and efficient. He was captured by her beauty—simple but strong. He looked at his watch. It was almost three o'clock. Veronica was probably just pulling herself out of his bed—alone.
11
Solemn McKenzie Hall stood on the east side of the campus, directly opposite Memorial Field. Students didn't have much business there, since the facilities and operations personnel occupied most of its tiny offices. The dark building stood empty except for a couple of men sitting against the back wall of the lobby. They quickly stamped out their cigarettes as Sterling approached.
“We're closed today,” the old one said. Smoking had turned his teeth a putrid yellow.
“I'm Sterling Bledsoe,” Sterling said, ignoring the dismissive greeting. “I was hoping you could help me figure something out.”
“Try the best I can. But no promises.”
“Who's in charge of cleaning and maintaining the campus buildings?” Sterling asked.
“'Pends on which ones ya talking about,” the old man said. He started to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket but changed his mind. “We're part of the custodial services, but then you have maintenance and the grounds teams.”
“What are the functions of the custodial services?”
The two men looked at each other, then the old man stared hard at Sterling. “What exactly are you after, sir?” he said. His voice was starting to lose its friendliness.