Myron nodded. He noticed that Jake was not reading or even consulting a file. This was coming from memory.

“Nancy Serat told the rent-a-cop that Kathy Culver hadn’t returned to her room for three days.”

“Why did Nancy wait so long to call?” Myron asked.

“Seems Kathy wasn’t spending too many nights in the sorority house anyhow. She slept in your client’s room most of the time. You know, the one who doesn’t like to curse.” Brief smile. “Anyhow, your boy and Nancy got to talking one day, both figuring Kathy had been spending all her time with the other. That’s when they realized she was missing and called campus security.

“Campus security told us about it, but no one got very excited at first. A co-ed missing for a few days is hardly an earth-shattering event. But then one of the rent-a-cops found the panties on top of a waste bin, and well, you know what happened then. The story spread like a grease stain on Elvis’s pillow.”

“I read there was blood on the panties,” Myron said.

“A media exaggeration. There was a bloodstain, dry, probably from a menstrual cycle. We typed it. B negative. Same type as Kathy Culver’s. But there was also semen. Enough antibodies for a DNA and blood test.”

“Did you have any suspects?”

“Only one,” Jake said. “Your boy, Christian Steele.”

“Why him?”

“Usual reasons. He was the boyfriend. She was on her way to see him when she vanished. Nothing very specific or damaging. But the DNA test on the semen cleared him.” He opened a small refrigerator behind him. “Want a Coke?”

“No, thanks.”

Jake grabbed a can and snapped it open. “Here’s what you probably read in the papers,” he continued. “Kathy is at a sorority cocktail party. She has a drink or two, nothing serious, leaves at ten P.M. to meet Christian, and disappears. End of story. But now let me fill it in a little.”

Myron leaned forward. Jake took a swig of Coke and wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak trunk.

“According to several of her sorority sisters,” he said, “Kathy was distracted. Not herself. We also know she got a phone call a few minutes before she left the house. She told Nancy Serat the call was from Christian and she was going to meet him. Christian denies making the call. These were all intracampus calls, so there is no way for us to tell. But the roommate says Kathy sounded strained on the phone, not like she was talking to her true love, Mr. Clean-Mouth.

“Kathy hung up the phone and went back downstairs with Nancy. Then she posed for the now-famous last photograph before leaving for good.”

He opened his desk drawer and handed Myron the photograph. Myron had, of course, seen it countless times before. Every media outlet in the country had run the photograph with morbid fascination. A picture of twelve sorority sisters. Kathy stood second from the left. She wore a blue sweater and skirt. Pearls adorned her neck. Very preppy. According to Kathy’s sorority sisters, Kathy left the house alone immediately after the picture was taken. She never returned.

“Okay,” Jake said, “so she leaves the cocktail party. Only one person saw her for sure after that.”

“Who?” Myron asked.

“Team trainer. Guy named Tony Gardola. He saw her, strangely enough, entering the team’s locker room around quarter after ten. The locker room was supposed to be empty at that hour. Only reason Tony was there was that he forgot something. He asked her what she was doing there, and she said she was meeting Christian. Tony figured what the hell, kids today. Might be having a kinky locker-room encounter. Tony decided it was in his best interest not to ask too many questions.

“That’s our last firm report on her whereabouts. We have a possible sighting of her on the western edge of campus at around eleven P.M. Someone saw a blond woman wearing a blue sweater and skirt. It was too dark to make a positive ID. The witness said he wouldn’t have even noticed, except she seemed in a rush. Not running but doing one of those quick-walks.”

“Where on the western edge of campus?” Myron asked.

Jake opened a file and took out a map, still studying Myron’s face as though it held a clue. He spread the map out and pointed. “Here,” he said. “In front of Miliken Hall.”

“What’s Miliken Hall?” Myron asked.

“Math building. Locked tight by nine o’clock. But the witness said she was moving west.”

Myron’s eyes traced a path to the west. There were four other buildings labeled FACULTY HOUSING. Myron remembered the spot.

It was where Dean Gordon lived.

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, Bolitar. You see something.”

“It’s nothing.”

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fine. You want to play it that way? Then get the fuck out. I still got my ace in the hole, and I ain’t showing it.”

Myron had planned for this. Jake Courter would have to be given something. That was fine, as long as Myron could turn it to his advantage.

“It seems to me,” Myron said slowly, “that Kathy was walking in the general direction of the dean’s house.”

“So?”

Myron said nothing.

“She worked for him,” Jake said.

Myron nodded.

“What’s the connection?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s completely innocent,” Myron said. “But you might want to ask him about it. You being so thorough and all.”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m not saying anything. I am merely making an observation.”

Again Jake studied him. Myron looked back coolly. A visit from Jake Courter would probably not crack Dean Gordon, but it should soften him a bit. “Now about that ace in the hole …?”

Jake hesitated. “Kathy Culver inherited money from her grandmother,” he said.

“Twenty-five grand,” Myron added. “All three kids got the same. They’re sitting in a trust account.”

“Not exactly,” Jake said. He stood, hitched his pants up. “You want to know why I said the evidence pointed to Kathy being a runaway?”

Myron nodded.

“The day Kathy Culver vanished, she visited the bank,” Jake continued. “She cleared out her inheritance. Every penny.”

Chapter 20

Myron started back toward New York. He flipped on the radio. Wham’s classic hit “Careless Whisper” was playing. George Michael was bemoaning the fact that he would never dance again because “guilty feet have got no rhythm.” Deep, Myron thought. Very deep.