one’s feelings had to be hurt.
He had acted that way with Edith Foster.
Dave stopped in his tracks in the corridor.
Had he angered the girl? Had his seeming indifference been translated in her mind into rejection, turning her hostile? He could no longer remember whether the girl’s demeanor had changed toward the end of the spring semester, and since she had not signed up for any of his classes this fall, he couldn’t recall even seeing her.
But what had she told Sheri Kuttner?
P REOCCUPIED , D AVE L INDSTROM stopped briefly at his office to leave his notes and gather up some student papers that had to be graded. Rarely did a teacher’s work end with the last class of the day, and today was no exception. He usually took home a couple hours work or more, not counting the reading and research that were part of his ongoing absorption in the subject of films and their impact on twentieth-century society. Even going to a movie—a passion since early childhood—was both business and pleasure. “Like Siskel and Ebert,” he would joke with Glenda, “only they get paid more.”
He walked to his car in the faculty parking lot behind the Liberal Arts building, thinking about Sheri Kuttner and the implications of her brief visit. Could he also expect a visit from Shed’s detective? The possibility was both intriguing and a little intimidating.
He unlocked the driver’s door of the Nissan Sentra, tossed his armload of books and papers onto the passenger seat and paused, not immediately knowing why. Something in his peripheral vision … but the parking lot was empty except for a few cars. No one else nearby. In the distance, students strolled across the campus, absorbed in animated discussions. About St. Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle? Wordsworth and Shelley? Radio isotopes? Girls and boys? The Raiders and the 49ers next Sunday? Or was everyone talking about Edie Foster, wondering, speculating?
Nothing out there to alert him. It was something he had seen when he opened the car, then. No, he suddenly realized. Something he
didn’t
see.
His yellow fireproof slicker. He had been assaulted that morning by the strong smell of stale smoke and ashes permeating the interior of the Sentra. Had he tossed the offending gear into the trunk? No, he would have remembered. But just to make sure, Dave opened the trunk to look. He found the spare tire, tools in a greasy pouch, his Ping Pal 2 putter and some golf balls. No fire equipment or clothing.
Walking back around the vehicle, frowning, he spotted deep scratches beside the lock on the passenger side door. The metal was actually indented slightly where someone had pried at the door.
Popped it open, Dave thought angrily. Stole his Nomex coat.
He drove straight to the campus security office, where he railed to Ed Willhite, the white-haired chief of security, about the stupidity of breaking into a car to steal something the thief couldn’t possible have any use for. “Hell, if he wants to fight fires, all he has to do is volunteer and the fire department will give him his own gear.”
“Prob’ly figured there might be somethin’ else more valuable when he broke in,” Whillhite said. He was a big, slow-moving man, a retired LAPD cop, with a garland of white hair surrounding a pink scalp. This afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after discovering that a girl from the college was the subject of a murder investigation, Willhite found it hard to get excited about a stolen slicker.
“And right in the faculty lot—in broad daylight!” Dave fumed. “What the hell are we coming to?”
“Tell me about it,” the security man said as he filled in the complaint form. “You sure nothin’ else was stolen?”
“There was nothing there to steal.”
“Prob’ly vandals. They’ll just dump the coat somewheres. If it turns up I’ll let you know. You wanta sign this right here by the X?”
Walking back to his car, Dave looked out across the campus, which appeared tranquil and
He had acted that way with Edith Foster.
Dave stopped in his tracks in the corridor.
Had he angered the girl? Had his seeming indifference been translated in her mind into rejection, turning her hostile? He could no longer remember whether the girl’s demeanor had changed toward the end of the spring semester, and since she had not signed up for any of his classes this fall, he couldn’t recall even seeing her.
But what had she told Sheri Kuttner?
P REOCCUPIED , D AVE L INDSTROM stopped briefly at his office to leave his notes and gather up some student papers that had to be graded. Rarely did a teacher’s work end with the last class of the day, and today was no exception. He usually took home a couple hours work or more, not counting the reading and research that were part of his ongoing absorption in the subject of films and their impact on twentieth-century society. Even going to a movie—a passion since early childhood—was both business and pleasure. “Like Siskel and Ebert,” he would joke with Glenda, “only they get paid more.”
He walked to his car in the faculty parking lot behind the Liberal Arts building, thinking about Sheri Kuttner and the implications of her brief visit. Could he also expect a visit from Shed’s detective? The possibility was both intriguing and a little intimidating.
He unlocked the driver’s door of the Nissan Sentra, tossed his armload of books and papers onto the passenger seat and paused, not immediately knowing why. Something in his peripheral vision … but the parking lot was empty except for a few cars. No one else nearby. In the distance, students strolled across the campus, absorbed in animated discussions. About St. Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle? Wordsworth and Shelley? Radio isotopes? Girls and boys? The Raiders and the 49ers next Sunday? Or was everyone talking about Edie Foster, wondering, speculating?
Nothing out there to alert him. It was something he had seen when he opened the car, then. No, he suddenly realized. Something he
didn’t
see.
His yellow fireproof slicker. He had been assaulted that morning by the strong smell of stale smoke and ashes permeating the interior of the Sentra. Had he tossed the offending gear into the trunk? No, he would have remembered. But just to make sure, Dave opened the trunk to look. He found the spare tire, tools in a greasy pouch, his Ping Pal 2 putter and some golf balls. No fire equipment or clothing.
Walking back around the vehicle, frowning, he spotted deep scratches beside the lock on the passenger side door. The metal was actually indented slightly where someone had pried at the door.
Popped it open, Dave thought angrily. Stole his Nomex coat.
He drove straight to the campus security office, where he railed to Ed Willhite, the white-haired chief of security, about the stupidity of breaking into a car to steal something the thief couldn’t possible have any use for. “Hell, if he wants to fight fires, all he has to do is volunteer and the fire department will give him his own gear.”
“Prob’ly figured there might be somethin’ else more valuable when he broke in,” Whillhite said. He was a big, slow-moving man, a retired LAPD cop, with a garland of white hair surrounding a pink scalp. This afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after discovering that a girl from the college was the subject of a murder investigation, Willhite found it hard to get excited about a stolen slicker.
“And right in the faculty lot—in broad daylight!” Dave fumed. “What the hell are we coming to?”
“Tell me about it,” the security man said as he filled in the complaint form. “You sure nothin’ else was stolen?”
“There was nothing there to steal.”
“Prob’ly vandals. They’ll just dump the coat somewheres. If it turns up I’ll let you know. You wanta sign this right here by the X?”
Walking back to his car, Dave looked out across the campus, which appeared tranquil and
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