Reilly 02 - Invasion of Privacy by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page A
Authors: Perri O'Shaughnessy
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be a nerd, though. Paul pondered the young Scott’s face for another minute or two. Well-defined lips, deep-set eyes, very light, could be green or blue. Some character there.
He had Scott memorized. Under the picture a heading said, Kurt G. Scott. Major, Music. Minor, German. Well, that fit with everything Harlan had told him.
As expected, the next page presented the University of Nevada’s orchestra. The dark-haired fellow at the grand piano, face shown in profile, was identified as Scott. Yes, the piano. The Chopin type, Paul thought. Sensitive, intellectual, attracted women like a goldfish attracts cats. Probably wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to go out for a pass....
Next page. Track and field. Kurt G. Scott, javelin. Well, that took shoulders. Scott stood on the college track, his javelin poised for a throw, his eyes whited out by glare. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, showing off a medium-size, rangy body with good muscle definition. Behind him a few others worked the long-jump pit and bleachers. Scott had picked up a distance-throwing record in his junior year.
Sissy stuff. Real men played real sports: football, baseball, and basketball, in that order. Hockey had the requisite vicious spirit, but unfortunately fell to the indignity of men wearing skates. And no self-respecting American man bounced a ball off his head to play soccer.
Javelin throwing was in the category of activities for guys that couldn’t cut it on any team at all.
Last page. The German Club consisted mostly of girls. Kurt G. Scott sat in the back row. And well he might. The club’s adviser, Frau Ingrid Sheets, a gray-haired lady in long skirts, stood to the right.
Paul tried to think charitably about the guy. Not all men could measure up to his standards of excellence. Not all men were all-man. Musicians, except jazz musicians, and language students were excluded by definition. Why did women fall in love with them so regularly? It was another mystery, like where he’d put his favorite comb, that he might never solve.
He didn’t like it, but he could see Bob in Scott. Black hair, the same. Chiseled chin, the same. Build, similar, if scaled up from age eleven. A complicated expression, maybe guile, maybe repressed feelings, played over the father’s face in the same way he’d seen it in the boy’s.
He called Frau Sheets at the University of Nevada. She had retired years ago, but someone in admissions dug around and found her number once Paul mentioned the large win she’d mistakenly left behind at Harrah’s.
When he got her on the phone, he explained about the inheritance Scott had coming to him from his distant Uncle Dieter.
He had to talk at top volume. The lady was quite elderly, although still compos mentis. She didn’t remember Kurt very well, she told him, but Paul kept her on the line, unwilling to let go of what might be his only direct link to Kurt Scott. A more impatient person would never have put up with Frau Sheets’s rambling, but he’d discovered that a small investment of his time often paid large dividends, and this time was no exception.
After reminiscing at some length about her years at the university and lingering conversationally over some favorite students, she recalled Scott’s mother, who had worked as a teaching assistant in the German program for years until the commuting from Tahoe proved too much. "She always wanted to go back to Germany. You know, they lived there briefly when Kurt was young. "
"Do you remember where they lived?"
"Hmm. Kurt’s father was in the military at the time, so they must have lived on a base."
"Frankfurt?"
"Wiesbaden," she said. "That’s it. Yes, I’m sure it was Wiesbaden."
"You’ve been a great help," said Paul.
"Auf Flügeln des Gesanges," she said. " ’On the wings of song.’ That was his motto, from Heine. All my students had to read the greats and select words to live by. Pretty good memory for an old biddy going on seventy-six," she
He had Scott memorized. Under the picture a heading said, Kurt G. Scott. Major, Music. Minor, German. Well, that fit with everything Harlan had told him.
As expected, the next page presented the University of Nevada’s orchestra. The dark-haired fellow at the grand piano, face shown in profile, was identified as Scott. Yes, the piano. The Chopin type, Paul thought. Sensitive, intellectual, attracted women like a goldfish attracts cats. Probably wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to go out for a pass....
Next page. Track and field. Kurt G. Scott, javelin. Well, that took shoulders. Scott stood on the college track, his javelin poised for a throw, his eyes whited out by glare. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, showing off a medium-size, rangy body with good muscle definition. Behind him a few others worked the long-jump pit and bleachers. Scott had picked up a distance-throwing record in his junior year.
Sissy stuff. Real men played real sports: football, baseball, and basketball, in that order. Hockey had the requisite vicious spirit, but unfortunately fell to the indignity of men wearing skates. And no self-respecting American man bounced a ball off his head to play soccer.
Javelin throwing was in the category of activities for guys that couldn’t cut it on any team at all.
Last page. The German Club consisted mostly of girls. Kurt G. Scott sat in the back row. And well he might. The club’s adviser, Frau Ingrid Sheets, a gray-haired lady in long skirts, stood to the right.
Paul tried to think charitably about the guy. Not all men could measure up to his standards of excellence. Not all men were all-man. Musicians, except jazz musicians, and language students were excluded by definition. Why did women fall in love with them so regularly? It was another mystery, like where he’d put his favorite comb, that he might never solve.
He didn’t like it, but he could see Bob in Scott. Black hair, the same. Chiseled chin, the same. Build, similar, if scaled up from age eleven. A complicated expression, maybe guile, maybe repressed feelings, played over the father’s face in the same way he’d seen it in the boy’s.
He called Frau Sheets at the University of Nevada. She had retired years ago, but someone in admissions dug around and found her number once Paul mentioned the large win she’d mistakenly left behind at Harrah’s.
When he got her on the phone, he explained about the inheritance Scott had coming to him from his distant Uncle Dieter.
He had to talk at top volume. The lady was quite elderly, although still compos mentis. She didn’t remember Kurt very well, she told him, but Paul kept her on the line, unwilling to let go of what might be his only direct link to Kurt Scott. A more impatient person would never have put up with Frau Sheets’s rambling, but he’d discovered that a small investment of his time often paid large dividends, and this time was no exception.
After reminiscing at some length about her years at the university and lingering conversationally over some favorite students, she recalled Scott’s mother, who had worked as a teaching assistant in the German program for years until the commuting from Tahoe proved too much. "She always wanted to go back to Germany. You know, they lived there briefly when Kurt was young. "
"Do you remember where they lived?"
"Hmm. Kurt’s father was in the military at the time, so they must have lived on a base."
"Frankfurt?"
"Wiesbaden," she said. "That’s it. Yes, I’m sure it was Wiesbaden."
"You’ve been a great help," said Paul.
"Auf Flügeln des Gesanges," she said. " ’On the wings of song.’ That was his motto, from Heine. All my students had to read the greats and select words to live by. Pretty good memory for an old biddy going on seventy-six," she
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