“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it,” Pat said. “Good choice.” They both had the Dover sole and a good bottle of white burgundy. The only distraction was from a drunk at the other end of the restaurant who was singing, dancing, trying to disrobe, and, in general, making an ass of himself. Finally, the management came to his table and, apparently, requested his immediate absence; he was shepherded out of the restaurant by two men from his table, followed by the rest of his party.
“That’s a relief,” Stone said. “I feel sorry for the people at the adjacent tables.”
“I know the guy,” Pat said. “His name is Paul Reeves, and he’s the owner of the Mustang we’ve been seeing in our travels. I’m just glad he didn’t see me.”
“I’m glad, too.”
“I have another reason for being glad,” Pat said. “One of the two men who got him out of the restaurant was Kevin Keyes.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said.
“Who do we call about that?”
“Hang on a minute.” Stone got up and walked quickly from the restaurant. As he came out the front door a large, old Daimler limousine drove away from the curb, down the block, and turned a corner.
Stone went back inside and called Robert Miller.
“Miller.”
“It’s Stone Barrington, Bob. I’ve just seen Kevin Keyes.”
“Great! Where?”
“In Stratton Street, London.”
“London, Ontario?”
“London, England. He just drove away with a man named Paul Reeves, an American, who was roaring drunk and got thrown out of a restaurant.”
“This I hadn’t expected,” Miller said. “I haven’t issued any international bulletins.”
“Keyes may have arrived in England in Reeves’s Citation Mustang. They were flying the same route we were, but a little ahead of us. I’m afraid I don’t remember the tail number.”
“I’ll get on it right away. Thanks, Stone.” He hung up.
“That’s all we can do,” Stone said to Pat.
“At least he doesn’t know we’re in London,” she said.
“Maybe it’s time to get out of London,” Stone replied.
28
Quentin Phillips arrived at the San Francisco FBI office and was immediately admitted to the office of the agent in charge, who awaited him with two young agents.
“Welcome to San Francisco,” the AOC said. “These are special agents Peter Egan and Annie Rogers, who will be helping you. You’re booked into the Fairmont Hotel, a couple of blocks from here, and I’ve put a car at your disposal. Why don’t you go get checked in and have some lunch, then you can drive out to Berkeley.”
“Yes, sir,” Quentin replied.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“Yes, sir. You could have someone from the office telephone the head of the economics department over there and make an appointment for me to see him this afternoon.”
“Certainly. I’ll take care of that.”
Quentin showered and had a club sandwich from room service, then went downstairs and got into the backseat of his loaned Crown Victoria. Peter Egan was driving, and Annie Rogers was riding shotgun.
“Okay,” Quentin said, “anybody got any idea where the University of California at Berkeley is?”
“I got my law degree there,” Annie said. “We’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so, depending on traffic.”
Forty minutes later they parked in a campus lot and walked to Evans Hall and the Department of Economics. After a trip up in the elevator and a short wait, they were ushered into the office of the head of the department, Dr. David Schmidt.
Quentin introduced his group, and they all displayed their credentials.
“Please have a seat over here,” Schmidt said, waving them to a seating area, then joining them. “It’s been a long time since this department has had a visit from the FBI,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re seeking information on and the whereabouts of a Jacob Riis — no relation to the journalist — who we believe taught in this department some years back.”
“Ah, yes,” Schmidt said. “That was the last time we had a visit from the FBI.”
“Can you recall the circumstances?” Quentin asked.
“Only as a spectator,” Schmidt replied. “I was too junior to be directly involved. I was an assistant professor at the time, and I came back from my summer break and was introduced to Dr. Riis — or so he called himself. He had been hired as an adjunct professor to teach a class on the economics of Mideast crude oil production, I believe. No one had ever heard of him, but he looked good, especially on paper, and I assume his credentials had been checked, and he made friends easily. He was handsome, charming, well dressed, and seemed to know his subject. Our department head at the time, who is now deceased, was particularly taken with him, and it seemed that he had a future in this department, perhaps even in the university at large.”
“How long was he here?” Quentin asked.
“Until the middle of the spring semester,” Schmidt said. “Then one day he didn’t show up for his class.”
“Was he ill?”
“I don’t know, he just wasn’t here. Dr. Fineman, the department head, had his secretary make inquiries, and someone was sent to his home to see if he was all right. His apartment, in a seedy neighborhood, was uninhabited, and there was no sign that anyone had lived there recently. Dr. Fineman — I got all this from his secretary later — called the police, concerned that he might have come to harm. After a few days they reported back that Dr. Jacob Riis did not exist, at least under that name. The information on his employment application, his academic record and degrees, and his references were either fiction or just lies. Everyone was baffled.”
“Had some incident that might have disturbed Riis occurred? Had anyone come looking for him?”
“No, nothing. In fact, he had had dinner with Dr. Fineman at the faculty club the evening before, and they had parted on cordial terms.”
“To your knowledge, had anyone contacted Dr. Fineman concerning Riis, or had any information emerged about his background?”
“I don’t know,” Schmidt said. “His secretary still works here, though, as head of departmental personnel. She hires and supervises non-academic employees. Would you like to speak to her?”
“Very much so,” Quentin said.
“Give me a moment.” Schmidt went to his desk and made a phone call, then returned. “Her name is Margaret Shames. She’s just down the hall — she’ll be here momentarily.”
A middle-aged woman in a business suit entered the office carrying a file folder, was introduced, and took a chair.
“I’ve been wondering for years if and when someone from your office would turn up.”
“Didn’t the FBI visit the department after Dr. Riis disappeared?” Schmidt asked.
“For about five minutes. They said to file a missing persons report with the local police, and we did that, but nothing came of it.” She placed the file folder on the coffee table. “This is Dr. Riis’s personnel file,” she said. “I made a copy for you.”
Quentin opened the file and glanced through it.
“I know,” Shames said, “it seems perfectly straightforward, even mundane, but then, Dr. Riis didn’t have long to establish a record of working here.”
“Ms. Shames,” Quentin said, “who was in charge of vetting Dr. Riis after he applied for employment here?”
“I was,” she said. “I sent out requests for his academic records and letters to his references, and they all came back seeming authentic.” She paused for a moment, seeming to remember something. “There was something odd, though,” she said.
“What was that?”