She shakes her head. “We collected some fibers, but never matched them to anything. No prints, nothing like that.”
“And later on, when you heard about the sexual harassment case, what did you think about that?”
“I’d interviewed the professor and there was definitely something weird about her.”
“Why’d you interview her?”
“Ah,” she says. “Part of the story that didn’t make it into the papers: Shayna accused her teacher of putting out a hit on her.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“When the police got involved, the professor was spooked and decided to call it off. That’s what the call Shayna overheard was about. Why are you laughing? Crazier things have happened. Like I said, she did pass the lie detector.”
“Maybe she was crazy, though. You said she had problems.”
Cavallo nods stiffly. I can’t tell if she’s irritated with me or not. “According to the professor, Shayna had formed an unhealthy attachment to her. Dr. Hill saw herself as the victim in all this. All she’d done was turn in a cheater, and people were acting like she was responsible for this girl’s mental breakdown. I guess the lawsuit made her feel even more victimized. . but it was dropped, right?”
“Settled out of court.”
“And now you’re looking at the professor as a suspect in your homicide?”
“Honestly?” I give her a noncommittal shrug. “I’m just hoping to check her off my list.”
Rising from a sea of blacktop lots, the stadium at the University of Houston is surrounded by glistening commuter cars that mostly clear out by late afternoon. On a map of the city’s crime stats, this area is ground zero, colored bright red, the highest rating on the chart. At one point the campus briefing for incoming freshmen included advice on what to do when being chased through the parking lot-Pull a security phone off the hook and keep running! — but the ratings have more to do with the surrounding neighborhoods than the campus itself.
Cavallo guides me behind the stadium to a line of trees marking the transition from pavement to deeply rutted grass and gravel. Since classes ended last week and final exams are coming up, there aren’t many cars this far back. The muddy ground is crosshatched with tire tracks, pools of stagnant water standing in the potholes.
“This is where Shayna was abducted,” Cavallo says. “After a night class, she had to walk back here alone.”
“But there were no witnesses, right? Nobody saw her being taken, nobody saw her being returned.”
“No, but UH security did several sweeps after she was reported missing and didn’t locate her car. So we at least know it wasn’t here.”
“She could have driven anywhere, though.”
We get out of the car and walk around a bit, but there’s nothing to see. Cavallo checks her watch a couple of times as I work things out in my head. At the same time Dr. Hill was having trouble with Zachariassen, a former student of hers from Poland named Agnieszka was living in her home, carrying on with her husband. After the harassment suit, he and the girl moved out and eventually split up, leaving Hill on her own. And she turns around and invites another girl, Simone Walker, to move in. Six months later, Simone is dead.
“Where’s Shayna Zachariassen now?” I ask.
Cavallo shrugs. “Do you keep up with people after a case is closed?”
“Only the dead ones.”
I motion her back into the car and we drive around the stadium, crossing Cullen to enter the campus proper at University Park. I snag a metered space near the Agnes Arnold Building. Since Cavallo doesn’t know the territory, I have to guide her now, taking the cut-through behind the Science building past the placid waters of the man-made lake where, in sunnier weather, students are prone to congregate by the hundreds.
It’s been a while since I was on campus. The squared concrete buildings, the aging modernist landscape, used to remind me of fascist architecture-an ironic association for a university. Now it seems almost futuristic. A vision of the future from the late sixties, anyway.
We climb the steps to the Roy Cullen Building, home of the English Department, ascending to the second floor. Dr. Hill’s office is tucked at the end of a short corridor. The door is shut. I knock, but there’s no reply.
“The department office is just down there,” I say, pointing to the far end of the main hallway. A glass wall partitions administrators and their secretaries from the rest of the building. “The problem is, I’m supposed to keep my inquiry low-key. If I go in, flash my badge, and start asking a bunch of questions, that’ll get back to the professor. You, on the other hand, could walk right in without raising suspicion.”
“And do what?” she asks.
“Do nothing. Just grab some forms to fill out and sit in the waiting area. See what the secretaries are talking about.”
She shakes her head at the idea.
“Give them some time,” I say. “Let them get used to you being in there. Once you’ve got all you’re going to get, ask them if Dr. Hill is around. Say you had an appointment Saturday, but she wasn’t here. See how they answer.”
“Is this why you brought me? To do your legwork? All the sudden I’m remembering what it was like to work with you. And the memories aren’t pleasant.”
“You loved it, Cavallo. It was pure excitement.”
“Right. Getting shot was exciting.”
Getting shot. Last time around, we traded gunfire with a rogue officer named Tony Salazar and his accomplice. I put the sidekick down and wounded Salazar mortally. Cavallo and I came out unscathed, or so it seemed. Afterward, though, Bascombe dug a spent round out of Cavallo’s ballistic vest. It was a scary moment. No wonder she didn’t jump at the opportunity to transfer to Homicide.
“Don’t remind me,” I say. “Look, nobody’s gonna shoot at you in there. The worst that can happen is that they’ll use a thesaurus on you. You’re a tough cop. You can handle that.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“I’ll be outside by the fountain, soaking up some rays.”
Twenty minutes later, she comes outside with a stack of papers in her hand, striding toward the concrete bench where I’ve set up camp. Cavallo’s got a stride to her, a long-legged, intimidating walk that says she’d just as soon trample obstacles as cut around them. The same kind of confidence Charlotte had when I first met her, only with Cavallo being a cop, it’s more a physical than an intellectual thing. She stands over me, hands on hips, triumphant and challenging at the same time.
“How’d it go?”
She jabs the papers at me. “I signed up for a full load next semester.”
“Anything else?”
“Quite a bit, actually.” She sits next to me on the bench. “I did what you said and hung around for a bit. They picked up the conversation and sure enough, they were talking about the girl who got murdered at Dr. Joy’s house. That’s what they call her: Dr. Joy.” She smirks. “It sounds like there was some kind of job opening in the office, and Dr. Joy tried to get your victim the position, only she missed the interview. And apparently there was a scene earlier today.”
“What kind of scene?”
“Dr. Joy bawled out one of the secretaries, that’s all I know. I got the impression the departmental staff doesn’t like the professor all that much. I also got the impression she doesn’t usually keep office hours on Saturdays. When I asked, they looked surprised. They didn’t see her. . but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”
I nod slowly. “She could get into her office without them noticing. Still, that’s great work. Maybe it’s time to interview Dr. Hill again. What do you think about tagging along? I’d like a second opinion.”
“Don’t you have a partner, March?”
“Aguilar’s not the most talkative man, in case you don’t remember. Plus, you have some background with her. If she remembers you, that might shake her up.”
“I do actually have work of my own.”
“Tell you what,” I say. “Come with me to see Dr. Hill, and afterward we’ll grab some dinner with Charlotte. She’d love to see you again, and it’ll save you having to order pizza and veg out in front of the television.”