Final Appeal (23 page)

Toni sighed. All right. She'd try it the other way around. Someone had probably made a typo, and the name was misspelled in the data bank. It happened all the time, sometimes with disastrous results when mistakes were made in entering credit information. She typed in the number and waited. There was always a way around a glitch if you knew what you were doing.

Aha! There it was! Toni leaned forward as a name appeared on the screen. The license number had been issued to Harriet B. Mathews in Akron, Ohio.

Toni frowned as she hit the print screen button and got the sheet on Harriet Mathews. She had a good notion to call the Ohio DMV and tell them that they needed someone to straighten out their computer. She'd try Michael's social security number and hope the Federal government had been more careful about inputting data.

Social Security was a more difficult bank to crack, but Toni managed to sneak in the back door. Their files were confidential, but they weren't guarded as rigorously as some of the other data banks. She typed in Mike's name and number and waited.

This one took a while. More entries to search. With the new IRS regulations, most parents applied for their children's social security numbers shortly after their birth. Finally, after what seemed like several hours but was probably less than a minute, a message appeared on her screen.

ENTRY UNMATCHED. INPUT FIRST PARAMETER ONLY Toni typed in Mike's name without the number. Another long wait, and then a list appeared. There were over forty entries under the name Michael Kruger, and they were from all over the United States. She printed it out and studied the list carefully. None of these birth dates were even close. If she couldn't find anything with the first parameter, she'd try the second.

She was very careful as she typed in the nine digit social security number that had been printed on Mike's card. The search began again, and eventually the information for that number appeared on the screen. Toni frowned as she scanned it, and then printed it out. Mike's social security number belonged to Harriet B. Mathews.

“Oh, brother!” Toni signed off and read the information she'd printed. According to the Ohio DMV, Miss Mathews was thirty-nine years old. Thirty-nine was about right for Mike, now that she thought about it. And Harriet was single, with brown hair and brown eyes. She was a big woman, one inch over six feet tall, and weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, according to her driver's license. Toni thought she probably weighed more. Most women lied about their weight on their driver's license. Harriet Mathews had received two parking tickets in the past year, one of them in Cleveland, and she'd paid promptly. She had no moving violations. That was nice.

Toni shrugged and turned her attention to the social security printout. Miss Mathews had begun working right out of high school. She hadn't earned enough to qualify for Social Security benefits during her first five years. Since her earnings had been so low during that period, she'd probably been attending class and working part-time.

There was a lot of information on Miss Mathews, and Toni scrolled through it. Then she noticed something interesting. For the past ten years, she had shown no regular withholding for social security. Instead she'd paid a lump sum that was a little over twelve percent of her applicable income. She had to be employed, because most people paid roughly half that and their employer paid the rest. It was another fact Harriet B. Mathews had in common with Mike. The only thing that seemed to set them apart was their sex.

“Oh my God!” Toni gasped as she had a terrible thought. Could Mike have had a sex change? She'd met a man who'd been turned into a woman, but she hadn't thought they could do it the other way around. Of course, with the miracles of modern medicine, there was no telling what they could transplant, or implant, or whatever.

“No way!” Toni spoke aloud. It was impossible. She'd slept with Mike, seen every inch of his body, and there was no way synthetic plastics could be that advanced!

Toni thought it over and there was only one sensible conclusion. Mike was using fake ID, and both numbers belonged to a woman in Ohio who had a lot in common with him. Could she be Mike's sister? Harriet B. Mathews was single, so the last name would probably be the same, barring divorce or name changes. She'd try a search for Michael Mathews and see where that got her.

Thirty minutes later, Toni gave up. She'd established Michael Mathiews didn't exist in any data bank she could access. Kruger was obviously an alias, but why was Mike using fake ID in the first place? Did he have a family somewhere that he was running away from? Was he in trouble with the mob? Or the law?

Toni used the number that Harry had given her, and plugged into the police data bank. There was no listing for Michael S. Kruger or Michael Mathews. Harry had told her that the names in the data bank were cross-referenced with known aliases, so that meant she'd struck out cold. For some reason, Mike was hiding his past, and she couldn't find out why unless she knew his real name. She supposed it was possible that he'd been a federal witness and the Feds had changed his identity. But they certainly wouldn't use numbers that belonged to someone else when they could give him a whole new identity and plug it right into the appropriate data banks.

What should she do? She didn't want to confront Mike with what she'd learned. He'd told her about sleepwalking and about his Aunt Alice. It was the first time he'd confided in her, and if she admitted she'd dug into his past, he'd never trust her again. There could be a very good reason why Mike was hiding his true identity, and she'd just have to wait until he trusted her enough to tell her.

Toni sighed. She knew what it was like to have the urge to confide in someone about her past. She'd gathered the nerve to try it once, but the other person had drawn away, shocked. And their relationship had never been the same again. Toni had learned her lesson. There were some things that were better left private. Mike might have had a similar experience. Wouldn't it be wonderful when they both felt safe enough to be completely honest with each other?

Professor James Zimmer pulled into his parking spot at Gateway University and shut off the engine of his car. A week in the lot at the Los Angeles airport didn't seem to have hurt the Mazda at all. The manufacturer's advertising had been quite accurate. It was a great little car.

It had been exactly 6:59 p.m. when Professor Zimmer's flight had landed at the airport, forty-four minutes behind schedule. He had been delayed another thirty minutes at the baggage carousel, and then he'd waited thirty-five minutes for the airport shuttle bus, which was scheduled to make a complete circuit of the airport every ten minutes. He'd finally arrived at Lot C to find his Mazda sandwiched in between a black Cadillac and a dusty yellow Winnebago, right where he left it.

The Mazda had started right up, and at a quarter to ten he was back where he belonged. If he were the type to indulge in anthropomorphism, he would have said that his Mazda was also glad to be back. It had seemed to purr like a kitten when he'd pulled into the entrance to the campus.

The professor locked his car and started to walk away before he remembered what was in his small travel bag on the passenger seat. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take it with him. His application for tenure would be processed soon, and if some crazy student broke into the Mazda and discovered what he had in his bag, the rumors would surely reach the University governing board. Vandalism wasn't a big problem on campus, but Gateway University still attracted some students who were a little off-center. Their parents hoped that sending them to religious college would straighten them out, and sometimes that did happen, but more often than not, it didn't.

When Professor Zimmer crossed the commons carrying his briefcase and his travel bag, he realized that he was very glad to be back. Things had not gone well in Washington. Morals and the Media had been an exciting and timely concept, but the structure of the conference had left much to be desired. The individual meetings had been held in separate buildings, and the directions the professor had been given at registration were sketchy at best. He'd almost missed an important panel because two digits had been reversed in the building number and the students he'd asked had known nothing about the conference or the buildings where it was being held.

There had been several other negative aspects, factors that were indicative of the degeneration of his profession. A shamefully large percentage of his colleagues had regarded the convention as an excuse to vacation on the honorarium given by the sponsoring institution and the per diem expenses they would receive from their home colleges.

Professor Zimmer had spoken to one immensely popular academician who had attended only the meeting at which he was scheduled to speak. The man had openly admitted that he'd spent the rest of the time in his hotel room with his mistress, who had been flown to Washington at the sponsoring institution's expense.

Professor Zimmer did not approve of such behavior, but he could empathize with his colleagues' hunger for some sort of remuneration. The life of an academic in today's world carried little in the way of compensation. Teaching was a life of quiet disillusion, and, for many, the only high spots were the honoraria they received for attending conventions, and the opportunity to taste the good life on someone else's expense account while enjoying the company of their peers.

A full professor's salary was laughably low compared with those for other fields that required terminal degrees. Medical doctors made over ten times a college professor's annual salary, and the length of their training was comparable. To Professor Zimmer's dismay, he had found several students in his classes this semester who had made more money than he did. And those students were working only part-time!

Why then, did anyone choose to enter a field with such low pay, long hours, little opportunity for advancement, and ridiculously rigid rules? To mold bright young minds, of course. That was the standard altruistic reason most dedicated teachers gave. Unfortunately, the bright young minds of today seemed to have lost all respect for the lowly academician. He'd heard one young student remark that if the professors had any real talent; they'd be pulling in a decent salary doing, rather than teaching. Students listened more attentively to their stereos and their televisions than they ever did to their teachers.

This was precisely the reason Professor Zimmer had gone to the governing board of Gateway University and petitioned to attend the Washington convention. The media had such a great impact on youth of today that they must be forced to recognize their moral obligation to act in a responsible manner.

The board had been astounded by his request. It was uncharacteristic for the professor to be so passionately vocal. They hadn't heard a peep out of James Zimmer since they had hired him.

There had been the standard objections, which Professor Zimmer had anticipated. Gateway University was a private religious institution that attempted to maintain a low public profile. Publicity was unseemly, and this conference would certainly be covered in the newspapers.

Professor Zimmer had argued eloquently. Wasn't a moral issue of this magnitude precisely the type of thing on which they should take a firm stand? Their image would surely suffer if other religious universities were represented and Gateway deemed it unnecessary to participate. He had read them a list of colleges who were participating and saved the best for last. Gateway University's arch rival, King's Hall, was sending three delegates.

This put a different light on things. They had hastened to assure him that they were favorably impressed with his staunch moral stand, but Professor Zimmer suspected that they'd been even more impressed with the fact that the convention's sponsoring institution had offered to pay him a small honorarium. It meant that they could send him to the convention without pulling out the college checkbook.

There had been a vote, during which he'd left the room, and when he was called back into the inner sanctum, they announced that they had unanimously decided to give him leave. Unfortunately, they didn't have the budget to provide per diem. Or travel expenses. But if the professor still thought it was his moral obligation to attend, they'd arrange to reschedule the classes he would miss during the week he'd be gone. The bells began to chime as Professor Zimmer walked past the cathedral. That meant it was almost ten o'clock.

The chimes were two minutes early. Everyone on campus knew that, and the reason the tower clock was set early, to make the students hurry to class, was effectively defeated. Professor Zimmer walked briskly to his office building, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the door to his office. It was getting late and he had some work to do.

When the professor pushed open his door and switched on the lights, he thought he was in the wrong office for a moment. Dorothy's desktop, which had always been immaculate, was now piled high with magazines and books.

He smiled as he walked closer to inspect the clutter. There was an untidy pile of magazines, the type one would find at supermarket checkout stands. “Popular Soap Star Claims Husband Dressed in Her Clothes” was the headline. He'd certainly never suspected that Dorothy read the celebrity scandal sheets!

There was a well-thumbed astrology paperback on the corner of the desk and a horoscope worksheet filled out in Dorothy's careful hand. Professor Zimmer was so shocked that he almost missed the ashtray filled with cigarette butts. He hadn't known that Dorothy smoked. Or wore lipstick, but the evidence was there on the cigarette butts. Or painted her nails with the Passionate Plum nail polish he spotted on the corner of her desk. He was certain the administration didn't know any of these things either, or they never would have hired Dorothy in the first place.

Professor Zimmer surveyed the evidence of his secretary's secret life and chuckled. Dorothy had always made such a point of being a paragon of virtue. There must be an unwritten code of conduct for secretaries as well as professors. Dorothy had certainly succeeded in fooling him until tonight!

Should he mention this to Dorothy and share a laugh with the secretary he'd occasionally suspected was a spy for the administration? No, that wouldn't be wise. He would only embarrass her, and it might actually hinder their working relationship. There was no reason for her to know that he'd taken an early flight. She could go on with her act, and he'd go on with his. But it made the professor feel good to know that at least one other person at Gateway University had a secret vice to hide.

Professor Zimmer went into his office and sat down at his desk to call a number that wasn't listed in his office phone list. He frowned when he got the answering machine, but he reminded himself that he had not been expected back until tomorrow. Was it safe to leave a message? Yes, as long as he was careful how he worded it.

“Hello, this is Jamie.” Professor Zimmer's voice took on a much younger tone. “I'm back early, darling. Its ten-fifteen, and I've got a little work to do at the office, but I'll call you when I get home. I brought you something. It's what we were talking about the last time we saw each other. And yes, I did have the nerve to buy it!”

Professor Zimmer hung up and patted the bag he'd carried in from the car. It had taken all the courage he'd possessed to walk into the store, even though he'd assured himself that no one could possibly recognize him. Perhaps he was much more risqué than he thought. And now he'd better think about other things or he'd never get ready to resume his classes.

There was one more call left to make. Professor Zimmer dialed the number and reached another answering machine. He'd anticipated that no one would be in this office. It was long past regular business hours. He left his message and immediately felt better. One more task accomplished. Then he picked up the folder his secretary had left on his desk and opened it.

Last week Dorothy had proctored the midterm he had written before his media class met on Monday. The papers had to be corrected, and he'd never finish at a reasonable hour unless he got started.

The exam was multiple-choice, with sixty questions. Since he had a template, it was no trouble to correct. The essay question at the end, however, would take some time. Professor Zimmer worked for an hour and he was over halfway through when he heard a cautious step in the outer office. Just as he was about to get up to see who was there, the campus security guard came barreling in.

“Aw, shucks! Sorry, professor. I thought you weren't going to be back until Monday.”

“I wasn't, George. But I managed to catch an early flight”

George, a well-built young man with a limited vocabulary, looked sheepish. “Sorry I crashed in here like that, professor, but I thought you were a burglar.”

He gave an understanding nod. “Of course you did. That's perfectly all right, George. It's good to know that you keep your eye on things. I'll be leaving in less than an hour, so if you spot anyone in here after that, it'll be a real burglar.”

“Okay, professor. I'll keep my eye out. You want me to bring you something? I got coffee out in the guard shack.”

“No thanks, George. Coffee would just keep me awake when I get home. I'll see you on Monday.”

George backed out, and Professor Zimmer shook his head. The campus security guard wasn't the brightest young man in the world, but he took his responsibilities seriously. If push came to shove, he'd rather have George around in an emergency than anyone else he could think of. The night guard was quick on his feet, and he seemed to have no fear at all. Professor Zimmer certainly wouldn't have had the courage to crash into an office, armed with nothing but a rubber gun, if he suspected a burglar was inside.

It was almost midnight by the time Professor Zimmer tallied the results of his exam. He tried the phone number once more, but no one answered. He left another message, shorter this time, saying he'd call again tomorrow. It was too late to see his lover anyway. He was exhausted, and he wanted to go straight home and climb into bed. Even though he knew there was only a three-hour difference in the time zones between Washington D.C. and Los Angeles, he suspected he had some type of jet lag.

Professor Zimmer put the folder with the exams into his briefcase. His media class hadn't done all that badly, considering what they'd had to work with. They certainly were not the brightest students he'd ever taught. Then he picked up his travel bag, doused the lights, locked the office door behind him as he left, and walked out into the quiet darkness.

As he exited the building, he smiled. Gateway University was beautiful at night without the throngs of noisy students. It was built on a section of land consisting of gentle rolling hills and ponderosa pines. The tract of land was so large, it was still partially undeveloped, and it had been donated to the Reverend Esmond Heath long before the turn of the century to house a university devoted to religious study. The original architect had done an excellent job of designing the buildings to blend with the surrounding countryside, and Professor Zimmer hoped that an architect of similar persuasion would be hired when Gateway started its projected expansion.

Rather than walk past the cathedral again—it always made him feel vaguely guilty—Professor Zimmer decided to take the long way around through Statuary Walk. This section of the campus belonged to the fine arts department, and it was always featured in the full-color brochures the college sent out to recruit new students in the fall.

If a student's artwork was deemed worthy, it was placed along the winding walk for future generations of students and professors to admire. Statuary Walk covered approximately two city blocks, and it was heavily wooded. It was designed so that walkers came upon the statues almost by accident as they followed the decorative flagstone path. Strategically placed spotlights enhanced the beauty of the sculptures as well as illuminating the walkway after dark.