“Professor,” said Milo.
Seacrest's eyes were big, brown, two shades darker than those of his dead wife, soft as a child's. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Are we interrupting something, sir?”
The “we” made him notice me, but not for long.
“No.”
“May we come in?”
Seacrest hesitated for a second. “All right.” Saying it louder- warning the other man? He stayed in the doorway, then stepped aside.
No eye contact. I was already picking up the evasiveness that had alerted Milo.
Then he did look at us. But not with affection.
Sometimes cops and victims' families bond, but there was none of that here. Quite the opposite. A coldness.
Maybe it was because he didn't like being dropped in on.
Or because he'd been treated as a suspect from the beginning.
Maybe he deserved that.
He remained in the entry hall, licking his lips and touching his Adam's apple, then he looked over his shoulder at the staircase. The shorter man up there?
Milo stepped closer and Seacrest retreated a step. It took him nearer the convex mirror and he became a gray smear in the silvered glass.
“So,” he repeated. “What can I do for you?”
“Just checking in,” said Milo.
“No progress.”
“I'm afraid not, sir.”
Seacrest nodded, as if bad news were to be expected.
I took in the house. Center hall plan, the entry modest, floored in vinyl tiles that simulated white marble, the staircase carpeted in faded green.
Living room to the right, dining room to the left. More fusty furniture, not quite old enough to be antique. He'd inherited the house from his parents. Probably the stuff he'd grown up with. Disparate throw rugs spread limply over brown wall-to-wall plush. Beyond the stairs was a small pine-paneled room lined with books. Books on the floor, too. A plaid couch. The grandfather clock hadn't been set and its pendulum hung inertly.
Footsteps thumped from the second floor.
“One of Hope's students,” Seacrest said, fingering his beard. “Retrieving some research material Hope left behind. I finally had the gumption to go through Hope's things after the police took everything apart, and repack them. Those first two detectives just threw everything around- one second.”
He climbed halfway up the stairs. “Almost through?” he called. “The police are here.”
A voice from above said something. Seacrest came back down slowly, like an unwilling bride.
“Research material,” said Milo. “It belongs to the student?”
“They were working together. It's the norm at the doctoral level.”
I said, “How many students did she have?”
“I don't believe many.”
“Because of the book?” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“The time demands.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But also because Hope was particular.” Seacrest glanced toward the stairs. “It's still a mess- Hope's approach to things was… she wasn't overly… compulsive. Which is not to say her mind wasn't organized. It was. Exceptionally so. One of her many talents. Perhaps that was the point.”
“What was, Professor?”
Seacrest pointed up the stairs, as if at a chalkboard. “What I mean to say is I always wondered if the reason she could afford to work in disorder was because she was so internally tidy- so beautifully schematized- that she had no need for external order. Even as a graduate student she'd study with the radio on, the television. I found that unbelievable. I need absolute solitude.”
He sniffed. “She was much smarter than I.” His eyes got wet.
“You're not getting much solitude tonight,” said Milo.
Seacrest tried to smile. His mouth wouldn't go along and it came out a pig's-tail of ambivalence.
“So, no new ideas,” he said. “I wish I had some of my own. But madness is just madness. So banal.”
“Coming down,” said a voice from the stairs.
The shorter man descended, a cardboard box in both hands.
He was in his twenties with long, dark, straight hair slicked back from a face so angular it made James Dean's look pudgy. He had full, dark lips, hollow cheeks, smooth skin, and heavy black eyebrows. The long coat was a scuffed black leather trench and under the hem was an inch of blue denim cuff. Black boots with thick soles and heavy chrome buckles.
He blinked. Long, curving lashes over dark blue eyes. Upstairs, where the bedrooms were. I thought about Seacrest's possible warning and wondered about whether he'd come for something other than data.
Driving Hope's car… quite a privilege for someone else's student. But for a new friend…
I glanced over at Milo. He hadn't budged.
The young man reached the bottom, holding the box out in front of him like an offering. Neat writing in black marker on the side said SELF-CONTROL STUDY, BATCH 4, PRELIM. He put it down. Half-open flaps revealed computer printouts.
He had long, slender hands. On the right index finger was a big silver skull ring. Red glass for the skull's eyes. The kind of thing you get in a Hollywood Boulevard schlock shop.
“Hi, I'm Casey Locking.” His voice was deep and liquid, relaxed, like that of an all-night DJ.
Milo identified himself.
Locking said, “I spoke to two other detectives right after it happened.”
Milo's jaw twitched. Nothing about the interview in Paz and Fellows's files.
“Have you learned anything, yet?” said Locking.
“Not yet.”
“She was a great teacher and a fantastic person.”
Seacrest sighed.
“Sorry, Professor,” said Locking.
“Your name rings a bell,” said Milo. “Got it. You sat on the conduct committee, right?”
Locking's black eyebrows became tiny croquet wickets. “Yes, I did.”
Seacrest turned toward the conversation with sudden interest.
Locking touched a leather lapel and a crescent of white T-shirt became visible. “You're not thinking the committee had something to do with… what happened?”
“You don't think that's possible?”
Locking rolled his fingers. “God, I never really considered that.”
“Why not?”
“It just didn't seem- I guess to me all those guys seemed like cowards.”
“I'd say Professor Devane was killed in a cowardly manner.”
I tried to observe Seacrest without being obvious. Still looking at the floor, arms loose and limp.
“I guess so,” said Locking. “You're the detective, but… did you know that the dean sent down a directive? Everything associated with the committee is confidential. So I can't talk about it.”
“Things have changed,” said Milo.
“Yes, I guess they have. But that's really all I have to say.” Locking picked up the box. “Good luck.”
Milo edged closer to him. Milo's height and bulk often cause people to retreat. Locking didn't.
“So you did research with Professor Devane?”
“She was my dissertation advisor. We did some work together.”
“Have you found a new advisor yet?”
“Not yet.”
“How many other students was she supervising?”
“Just me and one other.”
“What's the other's name?”
“Mary Ann Gonsalvez. She's been in England for a year.” Locking turned to Seacrest. “The car's fine, Professor Seacrest. Just needed an oil change and a new air filter. I left the keys upstairs.”
“Thank you, Casey.”
Locking walked to the door, freed one hand to open it while keeping the box up against his chest.
“Nice ring,” said Milo.
Locking stopped, gave a slow abdominal laugh. “Oh, that. Tacky, isn't it? Someone gave it to me. I guess I should get rid of it.”
6
Milo closed the door after him.
“Nice of him to get your car fixed, Professor.”
“A barter,” said Seacrest. “I searched for his data and he took care of the car. Is there anything else, Mr. Sturgis?”