Part 13 (1/2)
”Wouldn't have been a good idea,” I said.
”Why not?”
”Some variant of the incest taboo.”
”f.u.c.k the incest taboo,” he said. ”That's just the bureaucrats in Was.h.i.+ngton trying to run our lives again.”
I gave in to a smile. ”The other thing is-and this is going to sound really weird-but I would've felt like I was cheating on my client.”
”I knew that was coming.”
”How'd you know?” I asked.
”I've known you since the Cuban missile crisis. I can tell when you're stuck on a woman.”
”It's probably a moot point. I think she's got something going with this guy Finn.”
”What's he like?” Scott asked.
”I've only met him a few times,” I said. ”He's young, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. Competes in triathlons. A little high on himself, but I was too at that age.”
”You think?”
”Just a little,” I admitted.
”Ask her out,” he said. ”We can always kill him if we have to.” I laughed.
We continued running and I thought about Jayne Smyers. She was pretty, no doubt about that. And she was certainly smart. But some other quality was drawing me to her. She possessed a certain perky optimism-something I felt I lacked. I tried to put her out of my mind, but I kept hearing that Sam Cooke song. Maybe by being an A student, I could win her love for me.
Even at that hour it was warm and humid. I was covered with sweat, and it felt good. I estimated we'd gone six miles when the Best Western came into view. I sprinted for it and Scott took off after me, but I'd been a college sprinter and I've always been fast for a man my size. By the time he reached the parking lot, I had my hands above my head and was catching my breath. He did the same. Eventually we got control of our breathing and stopped walking.
”So, what's the plan for today?” he asked.
”We eat breakfast, visit Hawkins, and get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge.”
Parking at the college of business wasn't a problem; there were plenty of meters beside the faculty lot. We scanned the lobby directory, found what we needed, and went upstairs. His door was open, and he was reading a text placed flat on his desk.
”Professor Hawkins?”
”Yes.” He pushed the book to one side.
”Hi. My name is Pepper Keane and this is my a.s.sociate, Scott McCutcheon. We'd like to talk with you about Carolyn Chang.” He seemed neither surprised nor afraid.
”Come in,” he said as he rose from his chair and extended his hand. He stood six-two and weighed about one-seventy. Fiftyish. He was handsome and possessed the trim waist of a department store mannequin. His hair was mahogany, dark brown with a red tint. He wore gray slacks, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a maroon tie. A gold-plated pen graced his monogrammed pocket. A matching gray jacket hung on a hook behind his door. It was a conservative suit. We shared the same taste in clothes.
”Are you with the police or the FBI?” he asked. Lying was a felony. More to the point, it was an easy-to-prove felony.
”Neither,” I said. ”We're private investigators.” I handed him a card and he studied it. ”We're looking into the possibility that Professor Chang's death may have been related to several others.” He sat down and invited us to do likewise.
”The FBI mentioned that,” he said. I removed a clipboard and legal pad from my briefcase.
”We want to be as thorough as possible, so we're interviewing everyone who might have relevant information.” I surveyed the room. His many degrees and awards were double matted and proudly displayed in matching chrome frames on the wall behind him. An ego wall. One of Carolyn's watercolors hung on the wall to his left.
”You've come a long way,” he said. ”I'll do my best to answer your questions, but I've got to leave by noon. I'm speaking to the Chamber of Commerce.” I promised we'd be done long before then.
”We understand you'd been dating Professor Chang.”
”For about two years,” he said. I thought I noticed a trace of a Southern accent.
”How did you meet?” I asked.
”We met by chance, actually.” The memory made him smile. ”I had gone to a movie and noticed her as I was leaving. I knew she was a faculty member and asked her to join me for coffee.”
”I a.s.sume the police questioned you about your whereabouts on the night of her disappearance.”
”Yes, they did. I was at a faculty dinner.” I said nothing. ”They also requested saliva, blood, and pubic hair samples, if that's what you're wondering, and I provided those.”
”When did you learn of Professor Chang's death?”
”A detective contacted me. Amanda something. Carolyn disappeared on a Friday, I think, and the detective contacted me the following Monday.”
”Had you tried to call her between Friday and Monday?”
”No, we didn't talk every day. Carolyn valued her time alone, and I tried to respect that.” That seemed reasonable, but something bothered me.
”What did you know about Carolyn's work?” I try to ask open-ended questions-the kind that can't be answered with a yes or no.
”I knew what her field of expertise was, and that she loved teaching, but beyond that I can't tell you much.”
”What do you teach?” I asked.
”My doctorate is in economics, gross national product and things like that, but I teach finance and investments.”
”I read some of Carolyn's papers,” I said, ”and I'm told she liked to write. Was she working on anything at the time of her death?”
”Not that I know of, but we seldom talked about work.”
I continued down my mental checklist and when I'd run out of questions about Carolyn Chang, I asked him about himself. He'd spent his early years in North Carolina, but he'd grown up in Chicago. He'd been at Nebraska six years. He'd taught at a number of different schools and admitted liking the academic lifestyle. ”I could earn more in the private sector,” he said, ”but teaching offers greater freedom.” I stood up, ready to depart. Scott took the cue and did likewise. Then I thought of another question.
”You said you also spoke with the FBI?”
”Yes,” he replied.
”How many times?”
”Just once.”
”Local agents?”
”I think so,” he said.