“Didn’t the possibility that the rapists wanted to silence her cross your mind?”

“It crossed my mind, yes. But these boys weren’t capable of—”

“Rapists,” Myron corrected. “ ‘Boys’ who gang-raped a young girl who never did them any harm. You didn’t think they had the capability to commit murder?”

“If they wanted her dead, they would never have let her go,” the dean countered steadily. “That’s what I thought.”

“So you kept your mouth shut.”

He nodded. “That was a mistake. I know that now. I was hoping she had just run away for a few days to straighten herself out. When a week passed, I realized it was too late to say anything.”

“You chose to live with the lie.”

“Yes.”

“She was just a student, after all. She came to you for help during the hardest time of her life. And you turned her away.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted. “Don’t you think this has been tearing me apart for the past year and a half?”

“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”

“What the hell do you want from me, Bolitar?”

Myron stood. “Resign. Immediately.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll drag you down, and it’ll be uglier than you ever imagined. First thing tomorrow morning. Turn in your letter of resignation.”

He looked up, his fingers supporting his chin. Time passed. His face began to soften as though from a masseur’s touch. His eyes closed, and his shoulders slumped. Then he nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”

“This isn’t penitence. You don’t get off that easy.”

“I understand.”

“One last thing: Did Kathy mention any names at all?”

“Names?”

“Of the rapists?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“But you have a guess?”

“It’s not based on anything concrete.”

“Go on.”

“A few days after she disappeared, I noticed a certain student was tossing around a lot of money. A troublemaker. He bought a new BMW convertible that came to my attention because he drove it across the commons. Ripped up a lot of grass.”

“Who?”

“An ex-football player. He was kicked off the team for selling drugs. His name was Junior Horton. They call him—”

“Horty.”

Myron left without another word, hurrying to get out of the building. It was a beautiful day. Warm but not humid, the sun weakening in the late afternoon but not quite ready to set. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming cherry blossom trees. Myron wanted to spread out a blanket. He wanted to lie down and think about Kathy Culver.

No time.

The phone in his Ford Taurus was ringing when he unlocked the door. It was Esperanza.

“Dead end with Lucy,” she said. “Adam Culver wasn’t the guy who bought the pictures.”

Another theory blown to hell. He was about to start his car when he heard Jake Courter’s voice.

“Thought I might find you here.”

Myron looked out the open window. “What’s up, Jake?”

“We’re about to release Nancy Serat’s name to the press.”

Myron nodded. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Myron did not like his tone.

“We also have a suspect,” Jake continued. “We’ve brought him in for questioning.”

“Who?”

“Your client,” Jake said. “Christian Steele.”

Chapter 34

“What about Christian?” Myron asked.

“Nancy Serat had just rented that house a week ago,” Jake replied, “a day or two before she left for Cancún. She hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

“So?”

“So how come Christian Steele’s fingerprints—clean, fresh prints—are all over the place? On the front doorknob. On a drinking glass. On the fireplace mantel.”

Myron tried not to looked stunned. “Come on, Jake. You can’t make an arrest on something like that. The press will eat him alive.”

“Like I give a flying shit.”

“You have nothing.”

“We can place him at the scene.”

“So what? You can place Jessica at the scene. Gonna arrest her too?”

Jake unbuttoned his jacket, allowing his belly to expand. He was wearing a brown suit, circa 1972. In a word: lapels. No slave to fashion, that Jake. “Okay, smart-boy,” he said, “you want to tell me what your client was doing at Nancy Serat’s house?”

“We’ll ask him. He’ll talk to you. Christian’s a good kid, Jake. Don’t ruin him on speculation.”

“Yeah. I’d hate to ruin your commissions.”

“Low blow, Jake.”

“You’re not objective, Bolitar. The kid’s your most valuable client, your ticket to the bigs. You don’t want him to be guilty.”

Myron looked at him but said nothing.

“Leave your car here,” Jake said. “I’ll drive you to the station.”

It was only a mile away. When they pulled into the lot, Jake said, “The new DA is here. Young hotshot named Roland.”

Uh-oh. “Cary Roland?” Myron asked. “Curly hair?”

“You know him?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a publicity hound,” Jake said. “Gets a hard-on watching himself on TV. He practically creamed when he heard Christian’s name.”

Myron could imagine. Old buddies, he and Cary Roland. This was not a good development. “Has he released Christian’s name?”

“Not yet,” Jake said. “Cary decided to put it off until eleven. Gets a live feed from all the networks that way.”

“And plenty of time to tighten the perm.”

“That too.”

Christian was sitting in a small room, no bigger than eight by eight. He sat in a chair behind a desk. No hot lights. No one else was in the room.

“Where’s Roland?” Myron asked.

“Behind the mirror.”

One-way glass, even in a rinky-dink station like this. Myron stepped into the room, looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie, and refrained from giving Roland the finger. Mr. Mature strikes again.

“Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron turned. Christian waved to him as if he’d spotted a familiar face in the stands.