She was never late. Nor could I think of many unexplained absences. Which narrowed it down to those two hours, or less, if you counted driving time.
Our apartment was a thirty-minute commute from the campus library, so for the affair to work, they must have been meeting somewhere near the university. Or on it.
Which meant her Apian might well be one of my colleagues. Perhaps even a friend... and for a split second I glimpsed the film fragment of that tattoo again — Damn it! I’d seen it somewhere before. I knew it! But couldn’t place where... Forget it. It would come in its own time. Or not.
Concentrate.
Linette’s lover was probably someone I knew. Which was logical, if not much comfort. Picking up a class schedule from my desk, I scanned through the names and thumbnail photos.
Found myself imagining each of them with Linette... God. Couldn’t handle that. Pushing the images away, I chose a different approach.
I tried to recall any suspicious comments she’d made about my colleagues. It wasn’t difficult. I have an excellent memory, especially where Linette is concerned. But I couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary, and none of them seemed likely candidates anyway. Most of my colleagues are as bookish as I am.
But I wasn’t looking for a real person, was I? Apian would have to seem larger than life, somehow. An idealized figure. Heroic. And busy as a bee.
I quickly reduced the directory to a short list of active, energetic types, athletic coaches, administrators, board members. Then I scanned through their bios, looking for some connection—
And there it was.
A powerful, very busy man. A self-made man. Who’d worked his way through college on the G.I. Bill after serving in the U.S. Navy during Operation Desert Storm, Gulf War I.
In a construction battalion, or C.B. More commonly known as the Seabees. Where he drove heavy equipment.
The Seabee emblem was an angry bee toting a rivet gun.
A tattoo I’d seen on the muscular bicep of Dean John Mackey. Head of the university Humanities Department.
My boss.
God. How could Linette...? No! Don’t think about that. Focus. Concentrate on the problem at hand.
Dean Mackey was definitely a man I knew, though not very well. Senior administrators seldom mix with lowly profs. But I did know a thing or two about Big John.
We’d played in the same racquetball league last term. I’d even played against him a few times.
And he cheated. He’d deliberately block your path to the ball with a shoulder or even his racquet. Hell, he’d drive you through the wall rather than concede a point.
These were just friendly pickup games, no money, no prestige, not even any spectators. No reason at all to cheat. And yet Mackey did. Regularly. He just couldn’t bear to lose. At anything.
Big John’s bully-boy tactics were an open joke around the locker room. But no one ever called him on it. Petty or not, Mackey was still head of the department.
Which was the second thing I knew about him. His position was political, not academic. His appointment came after a substantial donation to the school by his wife, Doreen. A Dodge Motors heiress.
Dory Mackey was a few years older than John. A good, gray wife. But a proud, wealthy woman, who’d drop her husband like a hot rock if she learned he was cheating.
And Linette had promised to do exactly that. Break off the affair and warn his wife. John Mackey was a powerful man with an ego and temper to match. He would not be discarded. Nor threatened.
So he lashed out. First with his fists, and then...
Sweet Jesus. Big John had been at the wheel of that truck. I knew it now, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The question was, what could I do about it?
Linette was drawn to Mackey because she saw him as a man of action. And I’m not. She was quite right about that. The little I know about violence generally involves Goths or Tartars, dead a thousand years before I was born.
Now I had to deal with real violence. A brutal killing committed by a man of wealth and influence. Who might well be beyond the reach of the law.
I could almost picture his attorneys scanning Linette’s lyrics. And laughing. Her gossamer verses weren’t proof of anything, and John’s tattoo only confirmed his honorable military service.
If I accused the dean of the Humanities Department of murder on the strength of a few murky poems and a partial tattoo glimpsed on a grainy security-camera playback, I’d be fired and my claims would be dismissed as the ravings of a grief-stricken cuckold.
And yet...
I could not let this pass. God knows, without Linette, I had little enough to live for anyway. Somehow I would have to settle up with Mackey. Or die trying.
Famous last words.
The funeral-home chapel was filled to capacity, standing room only with a train of mourners spilling out onto the steps, a testament to Linette’s vivacious spirit, the joie de vivre she’d shared with so many.
I thought Sergeant Kovacs might be there, but didn’t see her. I did see the man who mattered most, though. Dean John Mackey made an entrance just before the service began, accompanied by his wealthy gray wife.
I half expected some sign of guilt or concern, but there was nothing. Mackey was the picture of solicitude, greeting my colleagues and Linette’s friends like a senior member of our bereaved family. Which he was, I suppose.
But seeing him there, with Linette’s broken body boxed in a coffin awaiting delivery to the flames, it was all I could do to keep from charging into the crowd to get my hands around his bull neck.
But I didn’t. I kept my peace and my place at the edge of the dais, greeting the mourners, accepting condolences, making appropriate responses.
“Thanks for coming, I know how much Linette would appreciate it,” blah, blah, and so on. All the proper platitudes.
And all the time, waiting.
Then suddenly, he was in front of me. Dean John Mackey. Burly and sure of himself in an impeccably tailored dark suit. Offering his sympathy like an old friend. Or trying to.
Without thinking, I locked onto his hand with more force than I knew I owned. And met his eyes. Then leaned in to whisper, “I know what you did, you sonofabitch. Linette kept a diary and your name’s on every page. Once she’s laid to rest, I’m taking it straight to the police. Brace yourself, Big John, Armageddon’s coming!”
Any doubts I had were erased by the mix of shock and murderous rage in his eyes. And he wasn’t the only one. At his shoulder, his wife had gone pale as a ghost. She’d overheard every word.
“John, what on earth—?”
“Shut up!” he snapped. Seizing her arm, he practically dragged Dory past the startled line of mourners and out of the chapel.
Leaving me to deal with the curious stares of the crowd. I didn’t care. Confronting Mackey had been my last duty to Linette. Only the final words remained now. Her eulogy.
I began with one of Linette’s verses, then went on, speaking from my heart. I shared my pain at her terrible loss, but shared my gratitude as well. That I had been lucky enough to know this marvelous woman at all, let alone share her love. Even for a little while.
It was probably the single best address I’ve ever given. And it wasn’t even necessary. When I finished, others rose to express their grief and mourn their fallen friend. Dozens of them. The ceremony continued long past its allotted hour. As powerful and moving a time as I’ve ever known.
But eventually, it drew to an end. The organist played “Amazing Grace,” and everyone sang. And that was it.