The Knight

  A place to be real.

  Nice.

  Based on the date, Tessa realized that her mother had started the journal when she was seventeen—the same age that she was now.

  You were conceived two years later.

  She was tempted to jump around, skim over the entries, kind of like scrolling through someone’s blog to see if you really wanted to read the whole thing or not, but she already knew that she wanted to read every page, and, just like reading any book, you cheat yourself if you skip to the end. You miss all the surprises.

  “Hey, Tessa.” It was Patrick, calling from the first floor. “I left my laptop at home. I have a few things to check on and then I have a meeting at 1:00. You’ll be all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” she hollered through the door of her room.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon before I fly out. I’ve still got your cell, OK?”

  “Yeah. Just tell those two cops not to be quite so obtrusive.”

  A pause. “I will. Call me if you need me.”

  “OK.”

  Then Tessa turned to the diary’s second entry and began to read.

  71

  I had a quick and rather blunt word with the two officers who were supposed to be watching my parents’ house undercover, and then I drove home to pick up my laptop.

  Using Tessa’s cell I dialed in to my account and checked my voicemail, but my mailbox was empty. When I checked hers, I found a dozen text messages from her friends at school. I wanted her to be able to access them, so I programmed the phone to automatically forward all her messages to her email account.

  Then I called the warden from the Waupun Correctional Institution, the maximum security penitentiary in Wisconsin where Basque had spent most of the thirteen years of his incarceration.

  I caught Warden Schuler at home grilling steaks for his family, and he made sure he let me know how happy he was that I was disturbing him on a Sunday morning, but I told him it would only take a minute, and then asked if I could get a look at the letters Basque had received while he was in prison.

  “Sure, if we had ’em.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Basque ripped ’em up and flushed ’em.”

  “Well, you made copies, right?”

  “Privacy rights. We can open the mail, inspect it, but we can’t copy anything. ACLU would have a field day with that. Sorry.”

  “What about outgoing mail?”

  “Same deal.”

  For the second time that day, I cussed.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “All right, thanks. Have a good lunch.”

  “I wish I could be of more help.” As Warden Schuler said the words, his voice slipped from the annoyance I’d heard at the beginning of the call into a tense kind of uneasiness. “In sixteen years of doing this, Agent Bowers, he’s the worst I’ve seen. Put him away. At the trial, I mean. Don’t let him—”

  “I won’t,” I said and ended the call.

  With Basque’s letters destroyed, there was no way to verify that John had ever written to him, but still, Basque had known who I was talking about right away when I mentioned Renaissance literature so I figured that somehow, they’d been in touch.

  John.

  Giovanni.

  Since the murders were in Denver, and Kurt had told me that the only college in the region that offered medieval literature courses on The Decameron was DU, it seemed probable to me that John—or Giovanni, or whatever his name was—would have taken one of those classes.

  When I arrived home I went directly to my desk, tapped the spacebar, and woke up my laptop.

  According to our information, Dr. Bryant, the professor who taught the classes on Boccaccio, was in Phoenix yesterday. It’s tough living in the twenty-first century without leaving electronic footprints everywhere you go, so I accessed the Federal Digital Database, and surfed to the FAA’s flight manifest records. Then I checked the passenger lists from all the airlines that fly into or out of the Denver International Airport and the Colorado Springs Airport for yesterday and today, but I didn’t find the name Adrian Bryant on any of them.

  I expanded my search to include any arrivals or departures over the last twenty days.

  Still nothing.

  So unless Professor Bryant drove to Phoenix or flew under analias, it looked like our local Boccaccio expert never went to his conference.

  Interesting.

  It took me less than three minutes to do an online search and find out that Dr. Bryant wasn’t married, lived alone, and didn’t own a landline, so it was a good thing for me the National Security Agency keeps searchable records of all the cell numbers and subscriber names from the mobile phone companies operating in North America.

  The Bureau’s cybercrime division works closely with NSA, so I called them, and a few moments later, I had Bryant’s cell number and verification that the GPS location for both his phone and his 2009 BMW 328i sedan were currently at his home address. I told them to monitor the GPS locations and call me if either moved in the next thirty minutes.

  To confirm that Bryant was at home with his cell, I tapped in his number, and after he picked up I asked if he wanted to purchase a free vacation package—

  He hung up without even pointing out that I’d offered him a chance to buy something that was free.

  So, he was at the house. Good.

  Sometimes I wonder how crimes were ever solved before we had computers.

  A quick look at the clock—11:14 a.m. I needed to be at police headquarters by 1:00, so considering where Bryant lived in Littleton, it might be cutting it close, but I figured I’d have just enough time to drive over, meet with the professor, and make it back in time for Jake’s sure-to-be-scintillating briefing.

  I made one final call from behind the wheel of my car, and after Cheyenne answered I invited her to join me, and she agreed—as long as I could swing by and get her. “All right,” I said. “This time I’ll pick you up.” And then, realizing how I’d phrased that, I added, “In my car. For the case. To catch the bad guy.”

  “Right.” I heard a smile in her voice. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  Even though Tessa was a fast reader, she was taking her time working her way through her mother’s diary.

  In a way, reading the entries felt a little weird, like an invasion of her mom’s personal space, sort of like stepping into Patrick’s bedroom, but way more private. More intimate.

  In addition, her mom never used any last names in the diary. Maybe it was a way of protecting people’s privacy. Hard to know, but it added a cryptic touch to every entry, and Tessa liked that.

  Most of the early entries dealt with her mom’s struggles relating to her parents (whom Tessa had met when she was younger, but who’d died before she was six), her boy problems, and overcoming the loneliness and isolation she often felt as a senior in high school. Even her thoughts of suicide.

  Not a whole lot different than you.

  Tessa knew that sometimes girls reach a point in their relationships with their mothers where they become almost like sisters. She’d never had the chance to experience that with her mom when she was still alive, but now, reading these entries she found herself feeling close to her in a way she’d never felt before.

  And of course, with each entry she came closer and closer to the winter day of her mother’s sophomore year in college when she was conceived.

  She tried not to think too much about that, and to just take the entries one at a time, but with every page it was getting harder and harder not to wonder when her father’s real name might appear.

  As Cheyenne and I drove to Professor Bryant’s house, we reviewed everything that had gone down during the morning. Kurt had already told her about Bennett’s death and John’s phone call to me, so I focused instead on summarizing my conversation with Richard Basque.

  “It looks like you do have a fan, after all,” Cheyenne said. “Maybe two.”

  “How do you figure?”

&
nbsp; “It’s very possible Basque wrote Giovanni back—that they’re closely acquainted. And that would open up all sorts of interesting possibilities.”

  I had to think about that.

  And I did, all during the drive.

  In fact, her words were still cycling through my head when we arrived at Dr. Bryant’s subdivision on the outskirts of Littleton.

  72

  I parked across the street from Bryant’s red brick home.

  Cybercrime hadn’t called me back to tell me his cell’s location had moved, and since his BMW was still in his driveway, I figured he was probably still here as well.

  Cheyenne rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later a blond man wearing Chaco sport sandals, a gray T-shirt, and Patagonia shorts answered the door.

  “Dr. Bryant?” I said.

  “Yes?” Caucasian. Mid to late forties. Lean. Athletic. A tanned face, taut and wind-lashed. He looked like he’d spent the last twenty years backpacking and running marathons instead of lecturing at a university.

  I showed him my ID. “I’m Special Agent Bowers with the FBI, and this is Detective Warren with the Denver Police Department.

  We’re wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

  He let his eyes drift from me to Cheyenne. Then back to me.

  “What does this concern?”

  “An ongoing investigation,” Cheyenne said.

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  He looked like he might object but then said curtly, “Of course.”

  Once inside, I surveyed his living room. New furniture that looked like it had never been used. No television. A violin and music stand in the corner. The smell of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen, still percolating. Good coffee, the kind they serve at Rachel’s Café. A collection of medieval swords and daggers hung prominently on the wall.

  A sword had been used to kill Tatum Maroukas on Wednesday.

  “That’s an impressive sword collection,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  No, Pat, think about it. John would never have used a sword that could be linked to him. He’s too smart for that.

  I made note of the swords, tried not to assume too much. We could follow up on that later. I got right to the point. “I understand you teach several courses on the Renaissance humanists.”

  “I do.” He’d crossed the room and now stood protectively in the doorway to the hall, arms folded.

  On the other side of the living room, an empty Camelbak hydration pack lay draped over the seat of a mountain bike, a high-end 7 Point Freeride Iron Horse caked with dirt. This was a bike that had seen some miles. He saw me admiring it. “I’m meeting some friends to go mountain biking in fifteen minutes. I really don’t have time right now to chat.”

  “They’re calling for snow this afternoon,” Cheyenne said.

  “I’m an avid mountain biker.” His tone was turning more and more caustic, and I didn’t like it.

  “Dr. Bryant,” I said. “I understand you were scheduled to teach at a conference in Phoenix this weekend but didn’t make it. May I ask why?”

  “I had a personal issue come up. I was here at home the whole time. What exactly is this about?”

  “An ongoing investigation,” Cheyenne said again, less cordially than before. I could feel tension twisting through the air.

  “There’s a book,” I said, “The Decameron, by an Italian author named Boccaccio. You’re familiar with it?”

  “Yes, of course. I cover it in several of my classes.”

  “Can you think of any of your students who’ve shown unusual interest in it?”

  “Many of my students enjoy Boccaccio’s work.”

  “Avid interest,” Cheyenne specified.

  “No one comes to mind.” He answered the question too quickly to have given it any serious consideration.

  I was beginning to lose my world-famous patience. “Dr. Bryant, we are not—”

  “We’re not very familiar with the book,” Cheyenne said, interrupting me, in what I assumed was an attempt to calm me down and draw him out. I was glad she spoke up. The words I’d been planning to say weren’t quite as amenable as hers.

  “We’re told you’re the expert,” she went on. “Can you take just a moment to give us a quick rundown?”

  Dr. Bryant looked like he was about to object but must have thought better of it, or maybe her subtle compliment appealed to his ego. He let out a thin, aggravated sigh instead. “The Decameron: Prencipe Galeotto is about seven women and three men who are fleeing the Black Plague—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What did you just call it? You said something in Latin after ‘decameron.’”

  “It was Italian,” he said impatiently. “Prencipe Galeotto. Boc-caccio didn’t just name the book The Decameron. He also gave the book a secondary name, a subtitle: Prencipe Galeotto.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Galeotto is another rendering of Prince Galahalt, or Galehaut.”

  “You mean Galahad?” Cheyenne asked. “The knight?”

  “No. Galahalt.” He didn’t hide his condescension. “But yes, he was also one of the knights of the round table. Not one of the most common characters in Arthurian lore, although he does play a significant role in the story.”

  “And that is?” I asked.

  Dr. Bryant let his gaze climb to the clock on the wall, and he must have decided it would be best to just give us what we wanted and be done with it. He gestured toward the hallway. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  73

  Professor Bryant led us to his study.

  On the way past the kitchen I saw the coffee brewing. A full pot.

  And it got me thinking.

  We arrived at the office, and I saw that most if it was taken up by a large desk piled high with papers, notepads, and textbooks. The walls were lined with bookshelves. An iMac sat on his desk.

  Wondering if he might be the one who’d checked out the library’s five Decameron commentaries, I scanned his bookshelves for spines with an 853 Dewey decimal number but didn’t see any.

  He approached one of the shelves on the east wall. “The legends vary as to Galeotto’s origins, but in nearly all of the stories he’s the man credited with setting up Sir Lancelot and Queen Guine-vere.”

  Cheyenne was examining the room as well, taking everything in.

  “But Guinevere was married to King Arthur at the time, right?”

  “Exactly. Galeotto arranged for their licentious meeting and encouraged them to kiss.” Dr. Bryant studied the spines of the books on one of the top shelves. Based on the titles on that shelf, it appeared he was looking for a commentary on Dante, rather than a collection of Arthurian legends as I’d suspected.

  “However,” Dr. Bryant said, “as a result of Guinevere’s meeting with Lancelot, she consequently fell in love with him and they had an affair that destroyed the famed harmony of King Arthur’s court.” He pulled a dusty, leather-bound volume from the middle of a group of other dusty, leather-bound volumes. “Boccaccio took the reference to Galeotto from Dante’s Inferno, one of the three sections in his Divine Comedy. ”

  The Inferno.

  Great.

  The world’s most famous description of hell.

  “By the way, a bit of trivia.” Dr. Bryant was flipping through the pages of the well-worn copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy he’d chosen from his bookshelf. “Boccaccio was a big fan of Dante. He’s the one who gave this book the title ‘Divina.’ Dante had just named it ‘Commedia.’”

  Trivia or not, I made a note of it on my notepad.

  He stopped paging through the book. “By the time Dante wrote his masterpiece, Galeotto had come to signify unhappiness or disappointment in love . . .” His voice trailed off as he perused the page, then he nailed the center of it with his finger. “Here: Canto V, lines 137–138.” He tilted the book so that we could see the passage.

  Cheyenne had been standing across the room from me and now edged close
r to get a better look at the page.

  “See?” Dr. Bryant said. “Dante wrote, ‘Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein.’”

  “So what does that mean?” I asked. “Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it?”

  “Well, there are different interpretations, of course, but I would say that Dante means that Galeotto was both a part of the tale and a shaper of the tale. Some literary critics believe that by giving The Decameron the subtitle Prencipe Galeotto, Boccaccio was placing himself in the role of Galeotto.”

  “So you’re saying that Boccaccio saw himself as a matchmaker of a love affair?”

  “Yes.”

  I considered the implications. “Between whom?”

  “His book and his readers.”

  “But how does that follow?” Cheyenne said. “Lancelot’s love affair with Guinevere was illicit. There’s nothing illicit about reading a book.”

  “You have to remember,” Bryant said, “The Decameron was written in the fourteenth century. Boccaccio’s stories might not be controversial today, but in those days his book caused quite a stir.”

  Dr. Bryant was slipping into the familiar role of the professor—being the one with the answers, the one in charge, and that seemed to help him open up. He began to pace, although the cramped room gave him little space to do it. “Reading lurid tales was not considered a valuable use of one’s time in the 1300s.”

  “The soap operas of the middle ages,” Cheyenne said.

  “Something like that.” He gazed from Cheyenne to me. “Although I think it would be more accurate to say that the church of those days regarded The Decameron in much the same way as they would regard Internet pornography today. Thus, the reason it was condemned.”

  His eyes flicked, probably subconsciously, to his computer, and I decided that, taking into account his sword collection, his intimate knowledge of The Decameron, and his lack of an alibi for yesterday, it might not be a bad idea to have my friends in the Bureau’s cybercrime division do a little checking on the professor’s Internet surfing history. We should have enough probable cause to get the request cleared.