out of the kitchen and embraced her. “How about extending a perfect day on the Potomac? Just the two of us.” He nuzzled her ear with his nose and attempted to kiss her neck. She disengaged. “Let’s save your ardor for another day,” she said.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Call me in the morning.”
He stood in the kitchen and heard her go to the den and wind the sterling music box—the tinkle of “Sailing, Sailing, over the Bounding Main …” drifted from the room—and then to the bedroom, where she had a small desk. She closed the door behind her.
Smith sat at the kitchen table and glanced at mail they’d brought in. Rufus placed his oversized gray head on his master’s lap and looked up with wet, soulfuleyes. Smith scratched behind the dog’s ears. “I think the lady of the house is upset, my hairy friend, because she thinks I’m going to end up in the middle of another murder. She’s wrong, Rufus. Not Guilty.” He cocked his head and said, “You look skeptical, Rufus. Careful. Remember what they say about biting the hand that feeds you.”
Rufus continued to stare at him.
Smith sighed. “All right. All right. I change my plea, Your Honor. Guilty—but with an explanation.” He took a leash from where it hung from a wooden peg and slipped it over the dog’s head. “Walk time,” he said.
15
Monday Morning
“Professor Smith.”
Mac turned at the mention of his name. “Good morning,” he said. “What brings you to these hallowed halls?”
“A meeting. I’ve been named adjunct professor of economics,” Sun Ben Cheong said. He
sounded
pleased with his announcement. His face said nothing.
“Well, welcome. And congratulations.” They shook hands.
“Nothing like a real professor,” Cheong said. “Just one class a semester on investment banking.”
“I can’t think of a better person to teach it. And anyone who can teach well is real—and rare. Missed you on the cruise Saturday.”
“Couldn’t make it, Professor Smith. I was out oftown on business. I understand it was a typically pleasant day on the
Marilyn
.”
“Extremely.”
“Well, nice to see you. I’m honored to be on the same faculty.”
“The honor is all mine.”
Smith caught up on an hour’s worth of routine administrative details in his office before leaving Lerner Hall and heading for Twenty-fifth Street. He was early for his lunch date at the Foggy Bottom Cafe and considered taking a walk to kill the minutes. Instead, he entered the restaurant, sat at the bar, and had a Bloody Shame, a Virgin Mary renamed and disarmed—in England, he seemed to remember—to appease Catholic waiters who balked at placing the more familiar order.
Smith sipped the spicy, reinforced tomato juice and thought about bumping into Sun Ben Cheong at the university. From everything Smith had heard, Cheong was a financial genius. Which didn’t, of course, necessarily translate into being a good teacher. Time would tell.
The pretty young barmaid was in the middle of a story about how her car died the previous night when someone tapped Smith on the shoulder. “Am I late?” Darcy Eikenberg asked.
Smith glanced at his watch. “Right on time,” he said. “The punctual detective.”
“And the early professor.”
“Preferable to being the late professor. Drink?”
“I may not look it, but I am on duty. A rain check? Sometime when I’m off duty?” She wore a properly fitted beige sweater and knee-length brown leather skirt.
Smith tossed a few bills on the bar and indicated to the host they were ready to be seated.
A club soda with lime in front of her, Smith’s mild Mary in front of him, they bantered about the weather, sports, the day’s political headlines.
“… I really think he’ll win in November,” she said. “And I’m delighted you took me up on my offer to have lunch.”
“At first, I didn’t think I could. Have lunch. No, I don’t think he’ll win.”
“Small bet?”
“Sure. Then I realized a
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Call me in the morning.”
He stood in the kitchen and heard her go to the den and wind the sterling music box—the tinkle of “Sailing, Sailing, over the Bounding Main …” drifted from the room—and then to the bedroom, where she had a small desk. She closed the door behind her.
Smith sat at the kitchen table and glanced at mail they’d brought in. Rufus placed his oversized gray head on his master’s lap and looked up with wet, soulfuleyes. Smith scratched behind the dog’s ears. “I think the lady of the house is upset, my hairy friend, because she thinks I’m going to end up in the middle of another murder. She’s wrong, Rufus. Not Guilty.” He cocked his head and said, “You look skeptical, Rufus. Careful. Remember what they say about biting the hand that feeds you.”
Rufus continued to stare at him.
Smith sighed. “All right. All right. I change my plea, Your Honor. Guilty—but with an explanation.” He took a leash from where it hung from a wooden peg and slipped it over the dog’s head. “Walk time,” he said.
15
Monday Morning
“Professor Smith.”
Mac turned at the mention of his name. “Good morning,” he said. “What brings you to these hallowed halls?”
“A meeting. I’ve been named adjunct professor of economics,” Sun Ben Cheong said. He
sounded
pleased with his announcement. His face said nothing.
“Well, welcome. And congratulations.” They shook hands.
“Nothing like a real professor,” Cheong said. “Just one class a semester on investment banking.”
“I can’t think of a better person to teach it. And anyone who can teach well is real—and rare. Missed you on the cruise Saturday.”
“Couldn’t make it, Professor Smith. I was out oftown on business. I understand it was a typically pleasant day on the
Marilyn
.”
“Extremely.”
“Well, nice to see you. I’m honored to be on the same faculty.”
“The honor is all mine.”
Smith caught up on an hour’s worth of routine administrative details in his office before leaving Lerner Hall and heading for Twenty-fifth Street. He was early for his lunch date at the Foggy Bottom Cafe and considered taking a walk to kill the minutes. Instead, he entered the restaurant, sat at the bar, and had a Bloody Shame, a Virgin Mary renamed and disarmed—in England, he seemed to remember—to appease Catholic waiters who balked at placing the more familiar order.
Smith sipped the spicy, reinforced tomato juice and thought about bumping into Sun Ben Cheong at the university. From everything Smith had heard, Cheong was a financial genius. Which didn’t, of course, necessarily translate into being a good teacher. Time would tell.
The pretty young barmaid was in the middle of a story about how her car died the previous night when someone tapped Smith on the shoulder. “Am I late?” Darcy Eikenberg asked.
Smith glanced at his watch. “Right on time,” he said. “The punctual detective.”
“And the early professor.”
“Preferable to being the late professor. Drink?”
“I may not look it, but I am on duty. A rain check? Sometime when I’m off duty?” She wore a properly fitted beige sweater and knee-length brown leather skirt.
Smith tossed a few bills on the bar and indicated to the host they were ready to be seated.
A club soda with lime in front of her, Smith’s mild Mary in front of him, they bantered about the weather, sports, the day’s political headlines.
“… I really think he’ll win in November,” she said. “And I’m delighted you took me up on my offer to have lunch.”
“At first, I didn’t think I could. Have lunch. No, I don’t think he’ll win.”
“Small bet?”
“Sure. Then I realized a
Similar Books
