Deep Pockets (19 page)

“Maybe I’ll take a class some other time,” I said, “but right now, I want to know about Dr. Chaney’s enemies.”

“Yes. Excuse me, I got quite carried away. I don’t get into the classroom as much as I used to. Perhaps I should.”

“Chaney’s enemies?”

He held a finger momentarily to his lips. “Helene Etheridge, who used to be his secretary, has absolutely no use for him. He saw that she got transferred to another department, but I believe that now she actually likes it over there. In the past eight years, he has refused three doctoral theses. Normally, your doctoral candidate in education is not prone to hit-and-run revenge, but I can give you their names if you wish to waste time. Dr. Chaney is a very successful member of the faculty. He is on the cutting edge of what we do here, and perhaps some faculty who hold with more traditional approaches to educational theory and practice are resentful of his ascension. A medical credential is a very attractive one.”

“Do you know any of his colleagues at the Medical School?”

“Any who wish him harm? Certainly not.”

“And at the lab, the research facility?”

“Dr. Chaney is a prominent researcher. Other faculty members might envy the sort of financial rewards that can bring. He has a drug in clinical trials, human trials.”

“And those are progressing smoothly?”

“No clinical subject under the influence of Dr. Chaney’s therapeutic ministrations has yet taken up an AK-forty-seven and positioned himself on a rooftop. There has been no adversity in the clinical trials. Far from it.”

“Would you say that his research — I understand he’s developing some form of Ritalin substitute — would make him a lot of money?”

“Well, that depends, of course, on interpretation. What is a lot of money these days?”

“Millions.”

“I wouldn’t think so. There are a great many drugs similar to Ritalin, mixed salts of single-entity amphetamine products, Adderall and the like, and lately there are nonstimulants as well, like Strattera, which I believe is atomoxetine. I wouldn’t think so, because frankly, Chaney’s is not a revolutionary change. He is using a stimulant approach, but he hopes to develop a drug with far fewer side effects. All I can say is that I imagine there are those who are jealous of his success. There are even those who would tell you that I am Dr. Chaney’s enemy.”

“Really. Are you?”

“We have had our differences. He is more concerned perhaps with his individual reputation, while I am concerned for the reputation of this department and the ed school and the university. We are not temperamentally alike. I wish he would publish more scholarly articles, spend less time on his research.”

He grasped another pebble and clutched it tightly in his hand. “But make no mistake about it, young lady, his success reflects well upon me. I believe Wilson and I understand each other. As long as his work enhances this institution, I will protect him and intrigue for him, and make sure that he sits on the right committees. Loyalty for loyalty. Is that all?”

“Is there any particular reason you believe Dr. Chaney is having an affair?”

“Will you be speaking to Wilson today?”

“Probably.”

“Perhaps you could give him a message?”

“Certainly.”

“Give him my regards, first of all. Tell him I assume his innocence and am certain he will be back with us shortly. And you might tell him that I received a phone call from a friend of mine in Legal Services. Tell him Ms. Brinkman’s name has been dropped from the lawsuit.”

“Ms. Brinkman?” I kept my voice flat, pretended I’d never heard the name.

“A student, a former student. Her people were misguidedly suing this institution, but they’ve evidently seen the light.”

“How does that concern Dr. Chaney?”

“If he wishes to tell you, that’s his business entirely. Good day.”

He knew. He knew Chaney’d been sleeping with Denali Brinkman, and he wanted Chaney to know he knew it. He rose and I followed suit. I shook hands with him at the door. His skin was as cool as one of the pebbles in his glass bowl.

Did he also know about the blackmail? Damn, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t see him as Dowling’s accomplice. Working with Dowling, a commoner, a townie, an ex-con, would be impossible for such a flagrant elitist. Oh, he was a blackmailer all right, but not for cash, not for a piddling five thousand bucks. For power, for prestige. I bet he had the secrets of all his faculty indexed, filed, and memorized, ready to trot out when he needed them.

No wonder Chaney had described the little man as his enemy. No wonder Mrs. Chaney felt he’d do anything for her. The little man was as slippery as silk, as changeable as New England weather, as treacherous as a rocky cliff. Whether he supported Chaney or not would have little to do with Chaney and everything to do with what Fording perceived as being to his own advantage.

I wondered about his personal life, or lack thereof. Maybe he had no personal ties, no life outside the office. Like a puppet master, he seemed to enjoy being above it all.

So absorbed was I in my admiration of
Fording’s deviousness, I almost tripped over a man fixing the electrical socket on the ground floor of Thompson Hall. I mumbled an apology and was halfway down the corridor before I suddenly halted, turned, and stared back at him — an ordinary Joe wearing ordinary coveralls similar to the ones Leroy and I had worn to impersonate exterminators. The man didn’t react to my glare. He probably was exactly who he seemed to be, but how could I tell? I took a few more steps, recalled the coveralls hanging from the hook on the back of Dowling’s closet door.

The blackmailer didn’t need an accomplice within the ed school, be it department chair, student, professor, or secretary. Dowling could have gained entry to the ed school the same way Leroy and I had gained entry to his flat. Who’d think twice about a man in coveralls kneeling by Chaney’s office door?

Harvard has its own janitorial services, but what if one of the cleaners called in sick? Would they use a temp service for replacement help? Hadn’t Freddie Church said that his buddy Dowling was looking for cleaning work?

A huge SUV had parked nose to my bumper, so it took me longer to extricate my car from its slot than it would have taken me to walk home. Once I’d regained the street, home I went, eager to peel out of my suit and plan my next move. I’d have gotten out of the suit a lot sooner if I hadn’t been confronted with a visitor, Cambridge rookie cop Danny Burkett, smack on my living room sofa.

A cop on the doorstep is one thing, a cop in the living room another. You’re not required to open your door to a cop. You can pretend you’re not home, or openly refuse entry. Your house is your castle.

My house, alas, is also Roz’s castle. Did I mention that Danny Burkett was a very handsome and well-built man? Roz doesn’t care so much about the handsome. She doesn’t go by faces, and she certainly doesn’t care about such niceties as intellect or personality. A well-muscled body is all it takes. Music spilled out of the speakers, the same damn oldies radio station Leon had tuned to, the same Motown soul. The lights were dim. Should I mention that there was heavy breathing involved and that both sofa gropers quickly reacted to my presence and got vertical once I shut off the radio?

I didn’t make any hasty remarks like “I see you two know each other,” because with Roz, that’s not a given. She sees a dude she fancies on the street, she goes up to him and makes arrangements. Lucky her. I had a pretty good idea this one had walked right up to the door and rung the bell.

You ring my bell three times, you get Roz. From the dazed look on Burkett’s face, she was his vision of paradise. Me, I flat out don’t know how she manages it, juggling all those guys, not getting involved, not getting diseases. One way she manages, she neglects the goddamn housework.

“Uh,” Burkett began eloquently, patting his uniform into place, his face aflame.

“Glad you’re home,” Roz said cheerfully, although I knew she was anything but. “I let him in to wait. A cop, I figured, how much could he steal?”

“You came to see me?” I asked Burkett.

“Uh, yeah. I had a couple questions.”

“Did you happen to have a warrant?”

“Huh?”

“Just kidding. Roz?”

“Yeah?”

“Got anything to do? The dishes, maybe?”

“Very funny.” She was wearing — well, how shall I describe the look? Cheap and ready? It’s not the clothes, though, not the skimpy Day-Glo green tank or the black microskirt. It’s the body. I’ve tried to explain it to Paolina. There are clothes that some girls wear and they look fine, and then a Roz, with boobs, tattoos, and attitude, dons the same outfit and it’s the wrong side of porno. She made tracks for the stairs.

Burkett called after her, “Uh, can I call you?”

“Sure.”

I said, “I’ll give you her number. Scram, Roz.”

She gave me a look, but she stomped off.

“Wanna lie back down?” I asked the rookie. “Sorry. Hey, don’t worry, I won’t mention this to Kevin.” No way would I mention it, but I wanted to keep Burkett rattled.

“What do you mean?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just that it’s a novel way of questioning a witness. What was it you think she saw?”

“Hey, come on. I—”

“I know. But it’s been a long day and I think of this as my office.” To emphasize the point, I sat at my desk and did my impression of Paolina’s high school principal. “What can I do for you? You need a PI?”

“No. It’s just I’m working a little thing for myself. I noticed an odd thing.”

Damn
. “What’s that?”

“You came asking about that guy, Benjy Dowling, right before he got killed.”

“No,” I said. “Wrong. I came asking about the fire on Memorial Drive. You told me about Dowling. File it under coincidence.”

“Sure. But then I thought, What if it doesn’t belong there? What if the lady followed up on it?”

“Didn’t get around to it.”

“Why did you say you were checking on that fire?”

“I didn’t.”

From the look on his face, he’d run out of things to say, so I took a turn. “It would have been nice to know he was a con right off.”

“So you did follow up.” He looked like he thought he’d scored a point.

“Didn’t take much to find that out. You could have given it to me, but you didn’t.”

“Hey, why should I?”

“ ’Cause that’s how it works. You give; I give.”

“Hey, I gave you a lot, the whole load — the scene at the fire, the delay with all the fucking false alarms, the smell, the names of the witnesses.”

“You didn’t say anything about false alarms.”

“Sue me. I thought I mentioned it. We were late — I told you that — ’cause my fat partner hates to hustle. Well, the fire guys were late, too, ’cause they were all to hell and gone chasing their tails out to Somerville.”

He planted his feet and leaned back on my sofa, grinning, and I didn’t think he’d go away unless I tossed him some kind of bone. “Look, you were doing Kevin O’Shea a favor.”

“Yeah. And a lot it got me.”

“You could do yourself one.”

“Yeah?”

“You could find out about Dowling’s car. Black TransAm. Mass plates. I can give you the plate number.”

“I can find it.”

“I’m sure you can. If it turns up in a tow lot, I’d appreciate a call.”

“And then?” He licked his lips. He was trying to be serious, but he looked like a puppy who wanted to play.

“And then I might be able to give you another lead.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me
now
?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Watch out for Roz. She’ll break your heart.”

“It’s okay.” He gave me a wider grin. “I’m a cop. I don’t have one.”

“Call me if you find the car.”

“Call me if you want to have a little chat.”

I ushered him out the door, then kicked off my heels and peeled down my panty hose while still standing in the foyer.

“I’m a cop,” he’d said. “I don’t have one.” The words seemed to echo and reverberate in the small space. Did I still have a heart? I hadn’t called Leon, and I wondered if it was over already, over before it had really begun. I wondered what Sam Gianelli would be doing this evening while I changed into something more comfortable. More comfortable — unless I heard from the rookie cop that the TransAm had been found — for breaking into Dowling’s garage.

I considered wearing all black, top to toe,
face mask, the whole deal. I really did. Maybe if it had been winter, maybe if it had been New York. But for Somerville, I figured my best disguise was looking like a totally ordinary person on the street. I didn’t have to debate long. Jeans, sneakers, navy hoodie over navy T. My height’s not a problem; I don’t stick out on the street unless I want to. My hair can be a problem, so I brushed it straight, restrained it with a scrunchy, and plunked a Red Sox hat over it. The ultimate disguise.
Officer, stop that thief! What thief? The one in the Sox cap.
In Times Square, at La Guardia, a Sox cap might stand out. Near Davis Square, it’s camouflage.

It would have been better if I’d had a buddy to stroll with, a guy to walk with hand in hand. Who looks twice at strolling lovers? Well, I wasn’t going to invite an FBI agent to accompany me on the night’s prowl, so I shoved that regret to the back of the deck.

I parked my car about eight blocks from my destination, and lucky I was to find a legal slot so close. It was past midnight, but porch lights were still on to discourage burglars, occasional cars circled to find spaces, and the never-sleeping students passed in tight knots, bound for the Davis Square subway or one of the bars. I navigated my way toward the house where Benjy Dowling had lived, not too fast, not too slow. Walk too slow, you’re a potential victim; too fast, you draw the eye, as well. Walking too fast at night makes you look nervous, like you’re scared of the shadows, maybe like you’re carrying too much cash.

My chief worry was passing patrol cars. Drivers at night look straight ahead; it’s only cops who give the street the real once-over, who regularly swivel their eyes side to side to take in all the action. If Roz hadn’t pissed me off by trifling with the cop in my living room, I might have asked her to come along and watch my back. Too late now. What the hell, the street was lightly traveled; I’d treat all vehicles as though they might be cop cars. Better that way. Even Somerville has a few unmarked units.