Out in Five East, people were moving and talking, but I didn’t focus on them. I rode the elevator down to the basement. The cafeteria was closed. Wondering if Chip had a key to that, too, I bought coffee from a machine, found a pay phone, and sipped as I asked information for a number on a Jennifer Leavitt. Nothing.
Before the operator could break the connection, I had him check for any Leavitts in the Fairfax district. Two. One of them matched my vague memory of Jennifer’s parents’ home number.
My watch said 9:30. I knew Mr. Leavitt went to sleep early in order to make it to the bakery by 5:00 A.M. Hoping it wasn’t too late, I punched numbers.
“Hello.”
“Mrs. Leavitt? It’s Dr. Delaware.”
“Doctor. How are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Very good.”
“Am I calling too late?”
“Oh, no. We’re just watching television. But Jenny’s not here. She has her own apartment now — my daughter the doctor, very independent.”
“You must be proud of her.”
“What’s not to be proud of? She’s always made me proud. Do you want her new number?”
“Please.”
“Hold on... She’s in Westwood Village, right near the U. With another girl, a nice girl... Here it is. If she’s not there, she’s probably in her office — she’s got an office, too.” Chuckle.
“That’s great.” I copied down the numbers.
“An office,” she said. “You know, raising a child like that, it’s a privilege... I miss her. For my taste, the house is too quiet.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You were very helpful to her, Dr. Delaware. College at her age wasn’t so easy — you should be proud of yourself.”
No one answered at Jennifer’s apartment. But she picked up her office phone after one ring: “Leavitt.”
“Jennifer, it’s Alex Delaware.”
“Hi, Alex. Did you solve your Munchausen by proxy?”
“The whodunit,” I said. “But the whydunit’s not clear yet. It turned out to be the father.”
“Well, that’s a twist,” she said. “So it isn’t always the mother.”
“He was counting on our assuming it was. He set her up.”
“How Machiavellian.”
“He fancies himself an intellectual. He’s a professor.”
“Here?”
“No, at a junior college. But he does his serious research at the U, which is why I’m calling you. My bet is he read up exhaustively on the syndrome in order to create a textbook case. His first child died of SIDS. Another textbook case, so I’m wondering if he set that up too.”
“Oh, no — this sounds grotesque.”
“I was thinking about the SAP system,” I said. “If he’s got a faculty account, would there be some way to find out?”
“The library keeps a record of all users, for billing.”
“Do the bills list which articles were pulled?”
“Absolutely. What time is it? Nine forty-seven. The library’s open till ten. I could call down there and see if anyone I know is working. Give me the bastard’s name.”
“Jones, Charles L. Sociology, West Valley Community College.”
“Got it. I’m going to put you on hold and call them on the other line. Just in case we get cut off, give me your number.”
Five minutes later she clicked in.
“Voilà, Alex. The idiot left a beautiful paper trail. Pulled everything the system’s got on three topics — Munchausen, sudden infant death, and the sociological structure of hospitals. Plus a few isolated articles on two other topics: diazepam toxicity and — are you ready for this? — women’s fantasies about penis size. It’s all there: names, dates, exact hour. I’ll get a printout for you tomorrow.”
“Fantastic. I really appreciate it, Jennifer.”
“One more thing,” she said. “He’s not the only one who used the account. There’s another signature on some of the searches — a Kristie Kirkash. Know anyone by that name?”
“No,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s young, cute, and one of his students. Maybe even plays sorority softball.”
“Sleazy affair for the prof? How do you figure?”
“He’s a creature of habit.”
35
Hot morning and the Valley was frying. A big rig had overturned on the freeway, showering all lanes with eggs. Even the shoulder was blocked and Milo cursed until the highway patrolman waved us through.
We arrived at the junior college ten minutes behind schedule. Made it to class just as the last students were entering.
“Damn,” said Milo. “Improv time.” We climbed the stairs to the trailer. I remained in the doorway and he went up to the blackboard.
It was a small room — half the trailer, partitioned by an accordion wall and set up with a conference table and a dozen folding chairs.
Ten of the chairs were occupied. Eight women, two men. One of the women was in her sixties; the rest were girls. Both men were fortyish. One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other, Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried himself in a book.
Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. “Mr. Jones won’t be making it today. I’m Mr. Sturgis, your substitute.”
All eyes on him, except those of the reader.
One of the girls said, “Is he okay?” in a strained voice. She had very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic balls on nylon fishing line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth, tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of both.
Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.
Milo said, “Not really, Kristie.”
She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.
She said, “Hey, what’s going on?” and grabbed her purse.
Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.
“You tell me, Kristie.”
She froze. The other students gawked. The reader’s eyes floated above the pages of his book. Moving slowly.
I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.
Shoes.
Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn’t go with his silk shirt and his designer jeans.
Milo’s eyes narrowed. The reader’s fixed on mine, then sank out of view as he raised the book higher.
Theories of Organizations.
Kristie started to cry.
The other students were statues.
Milo said, “Yo Joe! Cavity check!”
The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was enough.
Bland face. Dick and Jane’s dad from a half-block distance. Up close, details destroyed the paternal image: five o’clock shadow, pockmarks on the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.
And the sweat — a coat of it, shiny as fresh lacquer.
He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.
He picked up his books and stepped away from the table while keeping his head down.
Milo said, “Hey, c’mon, stay. I’m an easy grader.”
The man stopped, began to lower himself, then he threw the books at Milo and made a rush for the door.
I stepped in front of him, locking my hands in a double-arm block.
He shouldered me full-force. The impact slammed me against the door and pushed it open.
I fell backward onto the cement, landing hard and feeling my tailbone hum. Reaching out, I grabbed two handfuls of silk. He was on top of me, clawing and punching and spraying sweat.
Milo pulled him off, hit him very fast in the face and the belly and shoved him hard against the bungalow. The man struggled. Milo kidney-punched him, hard, and cuffed him as he sank, groaning.