The Fractal Murders Part 11

"She's a woman in a man's world, and she's got an att.i.tude about it." A Hispanic busboy came by, saw the lemon in my diet cola, and poured iced tea in it before I could stop him. Probably improved it, but I ordered a new one just to be safe. While waiting for my replacement drink, I told the reporter the FBI had investigated the matter and concluded the deaths were unrelated. "I knew the bureau was involved," she said, "but I didn't know about the other deaths." I folded my hands on the table and studied her face as she sipped espresso. "Now that you've put me onto what might be a good story, what do you want from me?"

"I want to know what you know about the Chang murder. I'm sure you've heard things you didn't print."

"There's a lot you're not telling me."

"I've told you almost everything," I said. I hadn't mentioned Thomas Tobias. "If you help me, I'll tell you more as things develop."

"And if I don't?"

"Ever read The Little Red Hen?" I asked. "You only get to eat the bread if you help bake it." She smiled.

"Okay," she said, "I can tell you a few things, but it may not help much. Just bits and pieces I've picked up from contacts in the department." We talked another thirty minutes, then exchanged cards and went our separate ways.

I plugged the meter and walked to the university's admissions office to get a catalog. "Ten dollars," said the clerk. I wanted a list of the math faculty, the schools they'd attended, and their academic specialties. I didn't know why I wanted it, but I did. I paid the ten bucks.

When I returned to the motel, the blondes had been replaced by three scruffy young men playing Frisbee. Their red 1967 Pontiac GTO was parked next to the pool, and heavy-metal music was blaring from the huge speakers mounted beneath its rear window. New Jersey plates.

I walked upstairs to find that Scott had beaten me back and changed into shorts. "Dogs need to go out?" I asked.

"Already done," he said. Wheat was resting on one of the double beds and Buck was on the other gnawing a Bible placed by the Gideons. "It was either that or the Book of Mormon," Scott explained.

"Tough call," I said.

"Mormons allow polygamy."

"Good point," I said. I removed my shirt, placed it on a hanger, then sat on the edge of Buck's bed and untied my shoes. "So," I said, "what's new at the courthouse?"

"Not much," he said. "Carolyn Chang had never been arrested or sued, at least not in this county. There was no probate file. She'd never been called for jury duty, and she was a registered Democrat."

"What about Amanda?" I asked. I took off my slacks and gave Buck a pat on the head.

"She went through a nasty divorce about four years ago. Lost custody of her two boys."

"Why'd she lose custody?"

"Husband claimed she was a workaholic and the judge bought it. You're the expert on this stuff, but from what I saw in the file, his lawyer was in a different league."

"What did the husband do?"

"He was selling real estate, but he moved the kids to Florida two years ago."

I found some khaki shorts in my backpack and put them on. "What about the police station?" I asked.

"You can forget that," he said. "The detectives are on the third floor. We'd never get past the lobby. There's a steel door with a magnetic lock. You can't get to the elevators or the stairs unless someone behind the gla.s.s buzzes you in."

"Could we get in at night?"

"No, the place is covered with cameras because the jail's in the same building. Wouldn't matter anyhow; there are detectives in there around the clock."

"I guess that answers that."

"What did you learn?" he asked.

"Couple of things." I put on a green polo shirt. "First, they didn't find any s.e.m.e.n, so whoever did it wore a condom. Second, when Carolyn left her office that day, she told a colleague she was going home. Her car was in the driveway, so they're working on the a.s.sumption she made it home. Third, there was no sign of a struggle or forced entry at her house." I found my loafers and put them on. "Oh yeah," I said, "she had a big white cat named s...o...b..ll, if you can believe that, and it was still in the house when the cops arrived."

"Maybe the guy just doesn't like cats."

"Good theory, but it won't fly. Fontaine owned a dog he kept on his parents' farm, and Underwood didn't have any pets."

"Oh." He went into the bathroom and closed the door. "Sounds like she might've gotten into a car with someone she knew," he yelled.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking." I heard a flush, then the sound of water running in the sink.

"Anything else?" he asked as he reentered the room.

"Yeah, they found a few unidentified pubic hairs on her body, but that doesn't do them any good until they have a suspect. And they still don't know where she was killed." It was almost four o'clock.

"This music is starting to bother me," Scott said. I sensed it was way past that point. Despite fifteen years in the martial arts, Scott sometimes has a quick temper.

"Forget it," I said, "let's get some pizza and check out that downtown mall."

Every city in America has a trendy area, and in Lincoln it's known as the Haymarket, a few square blocks of hundred-year-old buildings converted into restaurants, shops, and lofts. We browsed and enjoyed a meal that included deep-dish pizza, hot garlic rolls, and cold beer from a local microbrewery, but when we returned to the motel at six, the heavy metal was still blaring. I parked next to the GTO, handed my ca.s.sette case to Scott, and said, "Pick a tape." He thumbed through them, selected one, and held it up. I told him it was a good choice.

We went upstairs, took the dogs for a walk around the block, then changed into our trunks and with our ghetto blaster headed for the pool. We grabbed two chaise lounges and positioned ourselves at the deep end of the pool. By the time Tammy Wynette had finished belting out "Stand by Your Man," the riffraff had decided it was time for supper.

The rest of the night pa.s.sed without incident. No badgers. No blaring music. No blondes.

12.

TUESDAY. DAY TWO IN LINCOLN. We began the morning by taking the dogs for a run, then had breakfast at a pancake house across from the motel. Scott had bacon and eggs; I opted for a strawberry waffle.

"So what's the plan?" he asked.

"Figured I'd mosey over to the university and interview Carolyn's colleagues. Figured you'd drive over to her house and talk to her neighbors."

"I can do that," he said. We walked back to the motel. I put on a tie and suggested Scott do the same. As a private investigator, I don't have the authority of a police officer, so I depend on my ability to persuade. My experience had been that people were more cooperative when I dressed professionally.

The academic year having ended, the math department at the University of Nebraska wasn't a hotbed of activity. I found only two faculty members. The first, Gordon Schutt, was the department chairman.

He was in his early fifties and looked like he'd just stepped out of the 1950s. His thick, black hair was parted on the left and held in position with some kind of gel. He wore Buddy Holly gla.s.ses, the kind the military issues new recruits. His loose-fitting chinos were secured by a thin black belt. He was a pear-shaped man. Six feet tall, wide hips, not much muscle tone. I introduced myself and told him I was looking into the possibility that Carolyn Chang's death might be related to two others. He invited me in.

"I didn't know her that well," he said.

"Any particular reason for that?"

"No, we just had different interests and lifestyles. Didn't see each other much outside this building." He reminded me of my seventh-grade math teacher, Mr. Folvin. I had spent the bulk of that year sitting in the back of the cla.s.s perfecting a new paper airplane and shooting spitb.a.l.l.s at Lisa Lawlor through a hollow Bic pen. Which probably helps explain why I ended up in law rather than one of the sciences.

"Professor Chang had been here five years?"

"That sounds about right." He removed his gla.s.ses.

"I read some of her papers," I said. "They were well written."

"Carolyn had exceptional writing ability. I often used her papers as examples of what professional writing ought to be."

"Do you know whether she was working on anything at the time of her death?"

"No, but I'm sure she was researching or writing something. She always was." I continued down my mental checklist.

"Did Professor Chang have any enemies?"

"None that I know of."

"I saw some graffiti in the men's room that wasn't particularly complimentary." Juvenile stuff, most of it s.e.xual in nature.

"Carolyn could be abrupt with people," he said. "And she was quite willing to humiliate students who were unprepared. Her theory was that they'd either get with the program or drop the cla.s.s."

"Had she had problems with any male students?"

"She never mentioned any, but she would've tried to handle that sort of thing on her own. She was not a meek person."

"Problems with male colleagues?"

"No, Carolyn got along well with all of us. Outside cla.s.s, she was very personable."

"Was she dating anyone?"

He laughed. "I'd be the last to know," he said. "I've been married thirty years and don't pay much attention to that sort of thing. You might try speaking with Glenda; I think she's here, and she probably knew Carolyn better than anyone."

We talked for another twenty minutes. I thought about probing him for information about Finn, but I decided against it. He and Finn might still be in contact, and I didn't want to do anything that might make it easier to ascertain the ident.i.ty of my client. Nor did I want Finn to know the true nature of my business with Jayne Smyers.

Glenda Sarkasian's door was wide open and covered with cartoons. She wore jeans and a powder blue T-shirt she'd apparently earned by running a local 10K. Late thirties, dark brows, long brown hair with strands of gray, tight body, smooth olive skin. Armenian? She had her feet on her desk and was reading the morning paper. Given the cartoons, I figured it was safe to ham it up.

"Excuse me," I said, "that desk is government property. I'm going to have to ask you to remove your feet from it." She put the paper down, removed her feet from the desk, and looked at me.

"d.a.m.n," she said, "that's the second time I've been busted this year. One more and I lose my desk." She gave me a warm smile.

"Actually," I said, "my name is Pepper Keane. May I come in?"

"Please do." She motioned me in.

"I'd like to talk with you about Carolyn Chang." I handed her one of my cards and explained the nature of my investigation, then sat down opposite her.

"Yes," she said, "I spoke briefly with the FBI about this, but I was under the impression they had determined the deaths were unrelated."

"They did," I said, "but I get paid to make my own determination."

"Someone must think highly of you," she said.

I didn't comment. "Professor Schutt told me you and Carolyn were close."

"We were friends."

"Good friends?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far. We talked a lot, and went out occasionally, but she was a hard person to get close to." She was sitting up straight now, arms folded on her desk. Serious.

"Did you ever discuss her social life?"

"A little."

"Was she involved with anyone at the time of her death?"

She studied my face. "I told the police and the FBI, so I might as well tell you. For the past year or two, Carolyn had been seeing one of the professors in the business school, a man named Dale Hawkins."

"Do you know him?"

"I've met him a few times."

I detected something in her voice. "And?"

"I don't know. He's tall and good looking-"

"I hate him already."

"He's just so-" She paused. "I don't know, I can't put my finger on it, but there's something strange about him."

"Can you give me an example?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes," she said. "Sometime last fall we were at a party. Dale kept trying to impress me, telling me he'd been a CIA a.n.a.lyst and all sorts of ridiculous things. I felt he was coming on to me, but it only happened once, so I never mentioned it to Carolyn."

"Nothing unusual about a man trying to impress a woman," I said. "Had he been drinking?"

"No," she said, "he's not much of a drinker. Maybe I'm being unfair."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

"Not much," she said. "Like most economists, he thinks he knows everything."

I smiled. "Anything else?"

"It's just my opinion," she continued, "but I think he has a real need for recognition."