Myron approached the mail window. A kid sat with his feet up. The music was coming from the kid’s ears. He was listening to one of those Walkman clones with the minispeakers that bypass the ears and plug directly into the cerebrum. His black high-tops rested on a desk, his baseball hat tipped down like a sombrero at siesta time. There was a book on his lap. Philip Roth’s Operation Shylock.

“Good book,” Myron said.

The kid did not look up.

“Good book,” Myron said again, this time yelling.

The kid pulled the speakers out of his ears with a sucking pop. He was pale and red-haired. When he took off his hat, his hair was Afro-wild. Bernie from Room 222.

“What?”

“I said, good book.”

“You read it?”

Myron nodded. “Without moving my lips.”

The kid stood. He was tall and lanky.

“You play basketball?” Myron asked.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “Just finished my freshman year. Didn’t play much.”

“I’m Myron Bolitar.”

The kid looked at him blankly.

“I played ball for Duke.”

Blink, blink.

“No autographs, please.”

“How long ago did you play?” the kid asked.

“Graduated ten years ago.”

“Oh,” the kid replied, as though that explained everything. Myron did some quick math in his head. The kid had been seven or eight when Myron won the national title. He suddenly felt very old.

“We used peach baskets back then.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”

The kid shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“How often are you on duty in the post office?”

“Five days a week in the summer, nine to five.”

“Is it always this quiet?”

“This time of year, yeah. No students, so there’s almost no mail.”

“Do you do the mail sorting?”

“Sure.”

“Do you do pick-ups?”

“Pick-ups?”

“Campus mail.”

“Yeah, but there’s only that slot by the front door.”

“That’s the only campus mailbox?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Been getting a lot of campus mail lately?”

“Next to none. Three, four letters a day.”

“Do you know Christian Steele?”

“Heard of him,” the kid said. “Who hasn’t?”

“He got a big manila envelope in his box a few days ago. There was no postmark, so it had to be mailed from campus.”

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“Did you see who mailed it?” Myron asked.

“No,” the kid said. “But they were the only pieces of mail I got that whole day.”

Myron cocked his head. “They?”

“What?”

“You said ‘they.’ They were the only pieces.’ ”

“Right. Two big envelopes. Exact same except for the address.”

“Do you remember who the other one was addressed to?”

“Sure,” the kid said. “Harrison Gordon. He’s the dean of students.”

Chapter 19

Nancy Serat dropped her suitcase on the floor and rewound the answering machine. The tape raced back, shrieking all the way. She had spent the weekend in Cancún, a final vacation before starting her fellowship at Reston University, her alma mater.

The first message was from her mother.

“I don’t want to disturb you on vacation, dear. But I thought you’d want to know that Kathy Culver’s father died yesterday. He was stabbed by a mugger. Awful. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. Give us a call when you get back in. Your father and I want to take you out to dinner for your birthday.”

Nancy’s legs felt weak. She collapsed into the chair, barely hearing the next two messages—one from her dentist’s office reminding her of a teeth cleaning on Friday, the other from a friend planning a party.

Adam Culver was dead. She couldn’t believe it. Her mother had said it was a mugger. Nancy wondered. Was it really random? Or did it have something to do with his visit on …?

She calculated the days.

Kathy’s father had visited on the day he died.

A voice on the machine jarred her back to the present.

“Hello, Nancy. This is Jessica Culver, Kathy’s sister. When you get in, please give me a call. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m staying with my mom. The number here is 555-1477. It’s kind of important. Thank you.”

Nancy suddenly felt very cold. She listened to the rest of the messages. Then she sat without moving for several minutes, debating her options. Kathy was dead—or so everyone believed. And now her father, hours after talking to Nancy, was dead too.

What did it mean?

She remained very still, the only sound her own breaths coming in short, hitching gasps. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jessica’s number.

The dean’s office was closed, so Myron proceeded straight to his house. It was an old Victorian with cedar shingles on the west end of the campus. He rang the doorbell. A very attractive woman opened the door. She smiled solicitously.

“May I help you?”

She wore a tailored cream suit. She was not young, but she had a grace and beauty and sex appeal that made Myron’s mouth a little dry. In front of such a lady Myron wanted to remove his hat, except he wasn’t wearing one.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m looking for Dean Gordon. My name is Myron Bolitar, and—”

“The basketball player?” she interrupted. “Of course. I should have recognized you right away.”

To grace, beauty, and sex appeal, add knowledge of basketball.

“I remember watching you in the NCAAs,” she continued. “I cheered you all the way.”

“Thank you—”

“When you got hurt—” She stopped, shook the head attached to the Audrey Hepburn neck. “I cried. I felt like a part of me was hurt too.”

Grace, beauty, sex appeal, basketball knowledge, and alas, sensitivity. She was also long-legged and curvy. All in all, a nice package.

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Myron.”

Even his first name sounded good coming from those lips. “And you must be Dean Gordon’s wife. The lovely dean-nessa.”

She laughed at the Woody Allen rip-off. “Yes, I’m Madelaine Gordon. And no, my husband is not home at the moment.”