“Any sign of the report?”
I shook my head.
Slidell moved on to the lower-counter drawers, and I began on the file cabinets to the left of the desk. One held class materials. The other was filled with forensic case reports.
Bingo!
Across the room, Slidell banged a drawer home.
“I’ve gotta get some air.”
“Fine.”
I said nothing about the files. Better to have Slidell outside smoking than breathing down my neck.
The dossiers were organized chronologically. Twenty-three dated to the year Cagle had examined the Lancaster skeleton. I found two for the proper month, but none for a headless body.
I checked the preceding and following years, then scanned the tab on every folder.
The report wasn’t there.
Slidell returned after ten minutes, smelling of Camels, armpits, and sweaty hair cream.
“I found Cagle’s case files.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Slidell leaned over me, breathing cigarette breath.
“The Lancaster report isn’t with the others.”
“Suppose Wally-boy misplaced it?” Slidell asked.
“Doesn’t seem likely, but keep looking.”
Slidell went back to banging drawers.
I returned to the desk and surveyed the bulletin board. Like Mrs. Flowers, Wally Cagle insisted on equidistant spacing and ninety-degree angles.
A postcard sent by someone named Gene. Polaroids taken at an archaeological dig. Three pictures of a cat. A printout of names followed by four-digit university extensions.
The center of the board held a handwritten list of tasks followed by a column of dates. Those up through Thursday had been crossed out.
“Look at this,” I said.
Slidell joined me at the desk.
I pointed to an item among Cagle’s uncompleted tasks: Pull photos and report for Brennan.
“He uses a ruler to cross things out? Jesus, this guy’s one tight spitter.”
“That’s not the point. Even though the secretary didn’t see him, Cagle’s been here as recently as last Thursday. Does the fact the item is not crossed off mean he never pulled the file? Or did he pull it, then forget?”
“Looks like Wally-boy never took a dump without itemizing and crossing it off.”
“Maybe he was interrupted.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe someone else took the file.”
“Who?” Slidell’s voice dripped skepticism.
“I don’t know.”
“Who even knew the damn thing existed?”
“Cagle’s graduate student,” I snapped. Slidell’s attitude was making me churlish. “He read parts to Cagle over the phone.”
“Maybe Cagle took the stuff to a home computer.”
“Maybe.”
“But he never sent you the report.”
Good, Skinny. State the obvious.
“Or the photos.”
“Nothing.”
Slidell hitched his belt. It slid back into the groove below his spare tire.
“So where the hell are they?”
“An astute question.”
“And where the hell is the good professor?”
“And another.”
I was starting to get a bad feeling about Cagle’s safety.
My gaze fell on the computer and its flatbed scanner. The setup looked like it might have been purchased when the Monkees were big.
Slidell watched me walk over and press the “on” button. As the CPU dragged through a boot, the Texas deb receptionist appeared in the doorway.
“What is it you think you’re doing?”
“I located Dr. Cagle’s case files, but the one in question is missing.”
“So you think you’re going to use his computer?”
“It might tell us if the photos were ever scanned.”
As if on cue, the CPU beeped and the monitor flashed a password request.
“Do you have it?” I asked the deb.
“I could never give out a password.” She sounded as though I’d asked for her bank card PIN. “Besides, I don’t know it.”
“Does anyone else use this computer?”
“Gene Rudin.”
“Dr. Cagle’s graduate student?”
The deb nodded. Not a hair moved.
“Gene’s off to Florida until the start of fall term. Left Friday.”
A long, lacquered finger pointed at the computer.
“But that scanner won’t run. I’ve had a work order in to computer services for at least two weeks now.”
Slidell and I exchanged glances. Now what?
“Did Dr. Cagle ask you to send any faxes last week?” I asked.
The lacquered hands vanished in an arm fold across her chest, a hip shifted, and one sandaled foot came forward. The toes were the same brilliant red as the fingers.
“I’ve already told you, I didn’t see Dr. Cagle last week. And besides, do you know how many faculty I’m responsible for? Or how many grads and undergrads and booksellers and visitors and whatever trail through my office?” I guessed Slidell and I fell under the “whatever” heading. “Hells bells, I do half the student advising around here.”
“That can’t be easy,” I said.
“Faculty faxing is not in my job description.”
“You must get a lot of visitors.”
“We get our share.”
“Did Dr. Cagle have any unusual callers last week?”
“That would not be for me to say.”
What the hell did that mean?
“Did Dr. Cagle have any visitors last week?”
There was a long pause as she chose her words.
“I may not agree with Dr. Cagle’s alternative lifestyle”—she pronounced it as two words: “alter native”—“but he’s a fine man, and I don’t question his associations.”
“Someone came to see Cagle?” Slidell asked gruffly.
One deb eyebrow shot up. “There’s no need to be a grumpy pants, Detective.”
Slidell opened his mouth. I cut him off.
“You were unfamiliar with Dr. Cagle’s visitor?”
The deb nodded.
“What did he want?”
“The man asked for Dr. Cagle. I informed him the professor was out of town.” The deb shrugged one freckled shoulder. “He left.”
“Can you describe the guy?” Slidell.
“Short. Had black hair. Lots of it. Real shiny and thick.”
“Age?”
“Wasn’t no spring chicken, I’ll tell you that.”
“Glasses? Facial hair?” Slidell’s tone was sharp.
“Don’t get snippy with me, Detective.”
The deb unfolded her arms and flicked at a nonexistent speck on her skirt, her way of allowing Slidell to cool his interrogatory heels.
“No mustache or beard, nothing like that.”
“Can you remember anything else about the man?” I asked.
“He wore funny sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes.”
“What did you see when you looked at his face?” Slidell glared at her.
“Myself.” The deb slapped a key on the desktop. “That’s for the wall cupboards. Check with me when you leave the building.”
Slidell and I spent the next forty minutes searching every remaining cabinet, drawer, and shelf in the place. We found nothing related to the Lancaster case, and nothing to indicate where Cagle had gone.
Frustrated, I returned to the desk and idly ran my fingertips under the blotter’s plastic edging.
Nothing.
I lifted a corner and peeked underneath.
A single card lay on the desktop under the blotter. I picked it up.
The logo resembled a police badge. I was about to read the printed information when the deb receptionist reappeared in the door, breathless from running up the stairs.
“I just talked with Dr. Cagle’s housemate.”
An agitated hand fann
ed the air in front of her face.
“Dr. Cagle’s in intensive care on life support.”
Laying both hands on her chest, the deb looked from me to Slidell and back, mascara-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.
“Sweet Lord Jesus. The doctors don’t think he’ll last out the day.”
CAGLE LIVED IN A SMALL BRICK BUNGALOW IN A NEIGHBORHOOD of small brick bungalows a short drive from Hamilton College. The trim was lilac, and four straight-backed lilac rockers sat in perfect alignment on the broad front porch. The lawn was mown, every border edged with military precision.
An ancient live oak shaded the right half of the property, its roots crawling below the earth’s surface like giant, serpentine fingers clinging for support. Jumbles of brightly colored annuals elbowed for room in beds along the walkway and porch foundation. As we approached the house, the odor of petunias, marigolds, and fresh paint sweetened the hot, humid air.
Climbing the steps, Slidell jabbed a thumb at a green metal holder attached to the house. Someone had coiled the garden hose in perfectly matched loops.
“Guess we got the right place.”
The bell was answered within seconds. The man was younger than I expected, with black hair that had been gelled, spiked, and gathered from his forehead with an elastic headband. I guessed his age as mid-thirties, his weight at 140.
“You are the officers from Charlotte?”
Not bothering to correct him, Slidell merely held up his badge.
“Lawrence Looper.” Looper stepped back. “Come in.”
We entered a small foyer with a covered radiator to the left, sliding wooden doors straight ahead, and an open archway to the right. Looper led us through the archway into a living room with throw rugs on a polished oak floor and Pottery Barn furnishings. A wood-bladed fan turned lazily overhead.
“Please.” Looper extended a manicured hand. “Do sit. Can I get either of you a cool beverage?”
Declining, Slidell and I seated ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa. The room smelled of artificial floral deodorizer from a plug-in-the-socket dispenser.
Looper lifted a footstool, placed it against the wall, considered the arrangement, repositioned the stool.
Beside me I heard Slidell puff air through his lips. I gave him a warning look. He rolled both eyes and his head.
Feng shui restored, Looper returned and took the chair opposite us.
“Wow. Dolores is really cross with me. I suppose she has a right to be.”
“That’d be Miss Southern Charm over at the university.” Slidell.
“Hmm. I should have called her after Wally’s collapse, but . . .” Looper flexed an ankle, causing his flip-flop to make small popping sounds “. . . I didn’t.”
“And why is that?” Slidell’s voice had that edge.
“I don’t like Dolores.”
“And why is that?”
Looper looked Slidell straight in the eye. “She doesn’t like me.”
The ankle flicked several times.
“And Wally never wants anyone to know when he isn’t feeling well. He has . . .” Looper hesitated “. . . complaints.” Pop. Pop. Pop. “The man likes to keep the state of his health private, so I didn’t broadcast that he’d taken ill. I thought he’d prefer it that way.”
Pop. Pop.
“But when you two showed up, and Dolores called, well, I couldn’t lie about it.” Looper put three extra I’s in the word “lie.” “That would have been pointless.”
“Please tell us what happened,” I said.
“There isn’t much to tell. I came home Thursday night and found Wally curled up on the bathroom floor.”
A hand came up, and a finger pointed through a second archway at right angles to the one through which we’d entered the living room.
“In there. He was having trouble breathing, and his face was flushed, and he could hardly speak, but I did get out of him that he felt tightness in his chest. That scared me to death. And I could see that he’d thrown up.”
The hand fluttered to Looper’s chest.
“I got him into the car, which, let me tell you, wasn’t easy with his legs all shaky and him moaning that he was going to die.”
I wondered why Looper hadn’t called for an ambulance, but I didn’t ask him.
“When we got to the ER, he just stopped breathing.”
We waited for Looper to go on. He didn’t.
“They placed him on a respirator?” I prompted.
“Hmm. Wally started breathing on his own, but he wouldn’t wake up. Still won’t.”
“Was it a heart attack?” I asked softly.
“I suppose so. The doctors don’t really want to tell me much.” Pop. Pop. “I’m not family, you know.”
Overhead, the fan hummed softly. The artificial bouquet was beginning to cloy.
“Wally and I have been together a long time. I really hope he’s going to pull through.” Looper’s eyes had reddened around the rims.
“I hope so, too. He’s a fine man.”
Brilliant, Brennan.
Looper laced his fingers, and one thumb began picking at the other.
“I suppose I should phone his sister, but they aren’t close. And I keep thinking that any minute he’s going to wake up and ask for his pipe and everything will be fine.”
Looper recrossed his legs, and gave the flip-flop a few flicks.
“Why is it you’re here?”
“I spoke to Dr. Cagle by phone on Thursday,” I said. “He promised to send me a case report and photos. I never received them, and Detective Slidell and I wondered if perhaps he’d brought the materials home, intending to work here.”
“He did sometimes work here on his laptop. But I haven’t noticed anything in the house.”
“A folder? An envelope?”
Looper shook his head.
“A briefcase?”
“Wally does usually carry a briefcase. That and his precious laptop.” Pop. Pop. “He doesn’t keep a desktop computer here.” Looper rose. “I’ll look around his room.”
Slidell lumbered to his feet and held out a hand.
“How ’bout I have a peek at the prof’s wheels while you two check out his crib.”
“Whatever.” Suit-yourself shrug.
Looper produced a set of keys, then turned and walked toward the back of the house. I followed. Slidell exited through the front door.
Cagle’s bedroom was ICU clean and OCD neat. Big surprise.
The search took five minutes. I saw no sign of a file or photos in Cagle’s dresser or desk drawers, closet, or under his bed. There was nowhere else to look. Frustrated, I trailed Looper back to the living room.
“Let me understand this,” Looper said, tucking one foot under him as he resumed his seat. “You spoke to Wally on Thursday?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He was in Beaufort.”
“Was he driving up just to send you this report thing?”
“He said he was heading home anyway.”
“Hmmm.”
Slidell rejoined us, shaking his head.
“Does that surprise you, Mr. Looper?” I asked.
“During the summer, Wally never returned to Columbia on Thursday. He always stayed at the dig until Friday. That’s why I was so surprised to find him here.”
“You have no idea why he might have been coming back early?”
Looper pulled the foot out, crossed his legs, and popped the flip-flop several times, the ankle-flexing more agitated than before.
“I was out of town all week, myself.”
“Why was that?” Slidell.
“I’m in sales.”
“What is it you sell, Mr. Looper?”
“Pumps. The hydraulic kind, not the ones you wear on your feet.”
If this was an attempt at humor, Looper’s delivery was beyond dry.
“I wasn’t supposed to get back until Friday, but my appointments wrapped up earlier than I’d expected.”
“Landed the big one?” Slidell
.
“Actually, no.”
“Do you have any guess as to why Wally might have cut short his workweek in Beaufort?” I asked.
Though one shoulder rose in a nonchalant shrug, Looper’s face tensed visibly.
“We’re here in regard to a murder investigation, Mr. Looper,” I prompted.
Deep sigh.
“Wally may have been planning a rendezvous.”
Deeper sigh.
“A tryst.” Shoulder. “Behind my back.”
There was a long silence. Even Slidell was shrewd enough not to break it.
“Wally met with someone. They didn’t know I saw them together, but I did. In a coffee shop near campus two Fridays ago.”
“And?” Slidell.
“There are certain things you just know.” Looper inspected his bare toes.
“Know?” Slidell’s voice was like razor wire.
Looper’s gaze came up and locked on Slidell’s.
“It didn’t look like a business meeting.”
“Were the two of them holdin—”
“Can you describe the man?” I cut Slidell off.
Looper sniffed, and his brows arced upward.
“Pretty.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Hunky build, salon tan.”
“Tall?”
“No.”
“Glasses? Facial hair? Tattoos?”
Continuous head shake.
“Hair?”
“Hugh Grant with a black dye job.” Sniff. “Looked like he was done up for a GQ shoot.”
Looper gave an eye roll that made Katy look like a tenderfoot, recrossed his legs, and went back to picking at his thumb.
“You didn’t know this person?”
Head shake.
“Have you and Dr. Cagle been having difficulties?” I asked gently.
Slidell sheeshed air through his lips. I ignored him.
Looper shrugged and popped the flip-flop. “Some. Nothing ghastly.”
“Is there any chance at all that Dr. Cagle might be able to speak to us? To communicate?”
Looper rose, walked to a credenza, picked up and dialed a phone. After a pause he asked about Cagle’s condition, listened, thanked the other party, said he’d be by shortly, and disconnected.
Keeping his back to Slidell, Looper ran his right palm across each cheek, and breathed deeply. Then he squared his shoulders, wiped his hand on his cutoffs, and turned.
“He’s still comatose.”
Slidell’s face registered nothing.