But she'd/noticed him taking a longer, more circuitous route home these days.
"They seem kind of childish now," Lisl said, worrying anew about the darkness she had discovered within herself.
"That's because they've served their purpose. They taught you that he does not have all the power, that you actually have power over him. You can make his life miserable when you choose and you can leave him alone when you choose. When you choose—that's the lesson. And now that you've learned it we can move on to other things, leaving Dr. Callahan lying awake at nights wondering who, wondering why, wondering what next?"
"I don't want to leave Ev like that."
"Don't worry. We're just going to do a little snooping on Professor Sanders. That's all. See what makes him tick."
"Nothing more. You promise?"
"I won't need anything more to prove to you that he's a phony."
"You're wrong this time, Rafe. I think Ev is one of those people where what you see is what you get."
"There is no such person," Rafe snapped. "And I'll prove it to you tonight when we search his apartment."
Lisl's stomach lurched. Wasn't that breaking and entering? And wasn't that going just a bit too far? But she couldn't back down. Not now. She couldn't surrender to Rafe's theory about Ev. Because she knew he was wrong.
"We can't do that. Not—not while he's there."
"He won't be," Rafe said. "It's Wednesday night. He goes out every Wednesday night."
"He does?" She had difficulty imagining Ev going out at all. "Where?"
"I don't know. Maybe we'll follow him sometime. But tonight we'll take advantage of his unfailing routine and check out his digs, see what makes him tick."
"Is this fair, Rafe?"
He laughed. "Fair? What's fair got to do with it? This is a leech posing as a Prime! We've got to set things right."
"Why do we have to—"
"In fact," Rafe went on, beginning to move about the office, slashing the air with his hand, "I've got a feeling Dr. Everett Sanders is a fag."
"Knock it off, Rafe."
"No. I'm serious. I mean, consider his name—Ev. What normal man lets himself be called £V? It's effeminate. And he's such a priss, so neat and particular. Like a maiden aunt. And have you ever seen him with a woman?"
"No. But I've never seen him with a man, either. Maybe he's just asexual."
"Maybe. But he's hiding something. You can count on that. Have you seen his CV?"
"No. Why would I—?"
"There's ten years missing. He graduated cum laude from Emory, worked for a few years, then entered the masters pro-gram at Duke, went on for his doctorate, then came here to Darnell."
"What's wrong with that? Lots of people work in the real world before going on for postgraduate degrees."
"Right. But there's a ten-year blank spot in his curriculum vitae."
"Ten years?"
Rafe nodded and placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers brushing the base of her neck, raising delicious gooseflesh along her arms.
"Like he dropped off the face of the earth. He's not telling anybody what he did with those years, which means he's hiding something. And we're going to find out what it is."
He began to knead the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders, magically relaxing them. She closed her eyes and reveled in the soothing sensations. As always, Rafe's touch caused her doubts to dwindle, her fears to fade. Nothing mattered more than keeping him by her side. As she listened to Rafe's soft voice, she found herself falling in line with his way of thinking. Her interest was piqued now.
What was Ev hiding?
Everett Sanders, Ph. D., where the fuck are you?
Renny sat and smoked a cigarette on the stoop outside the apartment house. Waiting. He'd been waiting here most of the day. This guy Sanders had to show up sooner or later. He hoped for sooner.
He was almost out of names. And just about out of hope. He'd checked out all but two of the people on Lisl Whitman's guest list. If he didn't hit pay dirt with this one or the final one, he'd be forced to write this whole trip off as a complete bust. No way. Too much time and money and goodwill back at Midtown North down the tubes for that. He needed to score here.
More than just a score—he needed to strike it rich. He needed Everett Sanders, Ph.D., aka Father William Ryan, S.J., to walk up the steps-, head bowed, lost in thought. Renny would recognize him in an instant and say, "Hey, Father Bill. How's Danny doing?" Then he'd land a right hook and knock him back to the sidewalk. And extradition be damned, he'd haul him back to Queens for arraignment.
A dream. A pipe dream.
As he was scuffing his latest cigarette butt into oblivion on the stone stoop, a bony guy in a tan raincoat started up the steps. At first glance he looked older, but close up Renny pegged him as somewhere in his mid-forties. This sallow, bifocaled ghost wasn't Ryan, that was for sure. And hopefully he wasn't Sanders, either. Because if he was, that left only one more name to check.
"Excuse me," Renny said, reaching for his badge. He'd been using his NYPD shield but not giving anyone a good enough look at it to realize that it had been issued a long way from North Carolina.
The man stopped abruptly and stared at him.
"Yes?" His voice was cool, dry—like the desert at night.
"Would you be Professor Sanders?" Please say no.
"Why, yes. Who are you?"
Damn! "I'm Detective Sergeant Augustino with the State Police"—a quick flash of his medal in midsentence—"and I'm investigating an incident at Dr. Lisl Whitman's party last month."
"Party? Incident?" The man's expression was genuinely confused for a moment, then it cleared. "Oh, you mean the Christmas party. Why would you be investigating her party?"
"There was a sort of obscene phone call and—"
"Oh, yes. I remember her mentioning that. It seemed to have upset her terribly. But I'm sorry—I can't help you."
Renny put on a smile. "You may be able to help more than you know. You see, lots of times—"
"I wasn't there, Sergeant."
Automatically, Renny looked down at the slip of paper in his hand.
"But your name's on the list."
"I was invited but I didn't go. I don't go to parties."
Renny gave Dr. Sanders's prim, fastidious exterior another quick up-and-down.
No, I guess you don't.
"Well then, maybe you can help this way." He pulled the Father Ryan photo from his inner pocket and held it out to Sanders. "Ever seen this guy before? Anywhere?"
Sanders started to shake his head, then stopped. He took the picture from Renny and stared at it, cocking his head this way and that.
"Strange…"
Renny felt his heart pick up its tempo.
"Strange? What's strange? You've seen him?"
"I'm not sure. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place him."
"Try."
He glanced at Renny through the upper half of his glasses.
"I'm doing just that, I assure you."
"Sorry." Twit.
Finally Sanders shook his head and handed the picture back.
"No. It won't come. I'm quite sure I've seen him somewhere but just when and just where I can't say."
Renny bit down on his impatience and pushed the picture back at him.
"Take your time. Take another look."
"I've looked quite enough, thank you. Never fear. I never forget a face. It will come to me. Give me your number and I'll call you when it does."
Out of habit, Renny reached for his wallet where he kept a supply of cards—New York City cards. He diverted his hand to his breast pocket for his pen and notebook.