"Dzieweczyna," he said pointing to the page.
"Dizwezna?" Anne repeated.
Close enough, thought Waclaw. Dzieweczyna. He didn't know the English word "girlfriend," but her name was in Alvin's journal. Well, not her name exactly, but the name he had given her in Polish. He pointed to the name.
Nogi.
"Her name is Nogi?" asked Anne.
"Niech pomysle."
Waclaw pointed to his legs, then ran a hand down each of them.
"Legs?" Anne asked. "Nogi? Legs?"
Waclaw shook his head "yes" and sat back exhausted by his effort. "Legs."
Annette Heights was the first student through the door of the conference room. A tall man with hair as dark as hers stood behind her. She was still cute. He wasn't. He wore a blue suit, carried a briefcase and had a face that did not promise a smile.
It wasn't Robert Heights, the concert pianist, who Danny would have been happy to meet. This man was all lawyer and no more than thirty years old.
"John Rothwell," he said, pulling out a chair for the girl who smiled up at him.
Danny wondered if she thought Rothwell was cute too.
No one shook hands. Rothwell and Annette Heights sat at the table. She looked at the metal box with the black cable and the orange goggles. Rothwell didn't look. He had a very good idea of what they were.
"What are you looking for?" Rothwell asked.
"Glass," said Danny.
"Glass?"
"Glass," Danny repeated.
"Why?"
The girl seemed to be amused. Her lawyer wasn't.
"Evidence that would go a long way toward removing your client from any possible suspicion," said Danny.
"Clients. I represent all of the students on behalf of Wallen School. And if we say 'no'?"
"We ask a judge to step in," said Danny. "Won't look good. Could get out to the press."
"Cut it out, John," Annette said with a sigh. "Let them do it and let's get out of here. Where are you looking for the glass? You want me to undress?"
"Not necessary," said Lindsay. "Just your hands."
"All right," said Rothwell. "But they'll answer no questions."
And they didn't, nor did Lindsay and Danny ask them any.
It went faster with the other students in Alvin Havel's chemistry class, James Tuvekian, Karen Reynolds, Cynthia Parrish. No trace of glass on any of their palms.
"Let's check the boyfriends," said Lindsay after the students and their lawyer had left. "Someone was in that closet. Someone watched for security to come back when the tapes were being altered. Someone's got glass in their palm."
Jim Park sat propped up in bed. A pretty woman with an Irish face and red hair, his wife, stood on one side of the bed. Stella and Mac stood on the other side. Park's wife touched her husband's shoulder. He winced.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot."
"I wasn't going to hurt anyone," Park said. "I didn't even know the knife was in my pocket."
"We believe you," said Mac.
"They believe you," Park's wife said reassuringly.
"Good, then they can be witnesses," Park said. "I'm suing the man who shot me. Sioban, get me a lawyer."
"What kind of lawyer?" she asked.
"A mean one," he said.
"Mr. Park," Mac said. "We've got a few more questions."
"I did not have a good morning," Park explained.
"We know," said Mac.
"Ask your questions."
"Any idea when the knife was put in your pocket?" asked Mac.
"Yes, between nine-thirty and ten-seventeen. I was late for work. I reached into my pocket to check my cell phone messages at nine-thirty. I was on the train platform. The next time I checked was ten-seventeen in the elevator. That's when I found the knife in my pocket."
"See anyone suspicious near you?" asked Mac. "Anyone bump into you?"
"Everyone was suspicious-looking, even me, and everyone bumped into me. No one says 'I'm sorry' or 'Pardon me.' Wait, one man on the platform who bumped into me did say 'Sorry.'"
"What did he look like?" asked Mac.
"What did he look like?" Park's wife prompted.
Park looked at her with mild exasperation.
"I don't know," he said. "Just bumped into me, said 'sorry' and limped into the crowd."
"Which train stop was it?" Mac asked, looking at Stella who rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
"Gun Hill Road, the Bronx," Park said.
"Gun Hill Road, Bronx," his wife repeated.
"Where's your jacket?" asked Mac.
"Over there," said Park, gesturing at the closet a few feet away.
"I'll need it," said Mac.
"Keep it," said Park. "It's got a hole in it where that guy shot me."
"Blood too," said Park's wife.
Mac nodded.
Gary House was, more or less, Annette Heights's boyfriend. He was, like her, a junior. According to Annette, Gary was her best friend.
"He's smart," she said. "He's quiet, except when he gets excited about computers, and he likes to be bossed around."
"And you like bossing?" asked Lindsay.
"Love it," she said.
Gary House was pudgy, pink cheeked and straw haired. He was quite willing to put his hand out to be checked.
"There's a newer model," he said, looking at the metal box. "Detects a dozen substances."
"Too expensive," said Danny.
"Technology is always ahead of forensic economics," said Gary House.
"Okay," said Lindsay.
He pulled his hand back and placed it in his lap.
"You have chemistry with Mr. Havel?" asked Danny.
"Everyone has chemistry with Mr. Havel. There's only one chemistry teacher in the Wallen School. He had the market cornered."
"That all he had cornered?" asked Danny.
"Gary," John Rothwell warned.
Gary House looked at Danny blankly and then at Lindsay, who said, "He corner any of the girls? Annette, for example?"
"No," he said emphatically. "She would have liked it if he tried though. She likes to flirt."
"I noticed," said Danny.
"Gary," the lawyer said. "No more talking."
"Can I go now?" the boy asked.
Lindsay nodded. Gary had no trace of glass in either palm.
Karen Reynolds's boyfriend, Terry Rucker, was not a nerd. He wasn't a fool either. It took a little persuasion by Headmaster Brightman to get him into the conference room.
"Hands," said Lindsay.
Terry reluctantly put out both hands. He was several inches over six feet tall and well built. His shirt was about half a size too small to show off his upper torso.
"Palms up," Lindsay said.
He complied.
Lindsay turned the light on his hands.
"Is this dangerous?" Terry said.
"No," said Danny. "Where were you at ten yesterday morning?"
"When Mr. Havel was killed, right?"
"Right."
"Terry, you don't have to answer any questions," Rothwell said with a hint of resignation.
"In Ithaca, at a basketball game."
Lindsay could see no sign of glass, but there was the residue of something on his palms.
Cynthia Parrish did not have a boyfriend. She did, however, have a close friend, a very close friend, on the cross-country team. Jean Withrow was black, model lean and pretty. Her hair was pulled back and tied tightly. She wore a blouse and a skirt that revealed lean, powerful legs.
"I'm not telling you anything," she said, sitting and folding her arms across her chest.
"We haven't asked you anything," said Danny. "But I am now. Please hold out your hands."
The girl looked from Danny to Lindsay, then at Rothwell, who nodded to show that it was all right. She shook her head and held out her hands.
"You hurt me, my father sues," she said.
"Painless," said Lindsay.
"I know why you had me brought in here," Jean said. "You think Cyn and I are suspects because we're gay and Havel hit on me."