Long Knives (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

W
hen I reached my office, the door was open and George Skillings was still standing where I’d left him when I followed the gurney out of the door almost two hours earlier.

“You’re still here, George?”

“Actually, I just came back. For whatever reason, I’m suspicious of that coffee he drank.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just a gut feeling. Anyway, I was thinking I ought to preserve it, just in case.”

I thought to myself that I really ought to object to his having let himself back into my office without my consent. Then I thought better of it. Given the circumstances, this was a good situation in which to practice being nonconfrontational.

“Suit yourself, George.”

“Do you have any plastic bags around, Professor?”

“Sure. I have a small box of them in my desk drawer.” I walked around the desk, fished one out and handed it to him.

“Thanks. As a precaution, I’m going to bag his cup—there’s a little splash of coffee left in it. Just in case there’s something wrong with it. Did you make it from beans?”

“Yeah. I ground them yesterday before I left, and the pot went on automatically this morning, before I got here.”

“Are the beans old? I’ve heard that weird toxic molds can grow on old coffee beans.”

“Really? I’ve never heard that.”

“I read it somewhere.”

“George, do you really think it could have been the coffee? I’ve never heard of anyone getting sick from coffee. I read a lot of online coffee blogs, and no one’s ever even mentioned it. Not even the people most obsessed with quality.”

“Yeah, well, but are the beans old, Professor?”

I was beginning to think that George Skillings was some kind of nutcase, but I decided to answer his question anyway. “I don’t think they’re old. I just got them a couple of days ago from Coffee Chaos down in Manhattan Beach. This is the first coffee I’ve made from them. I brought the bag from home yesterday.”

George extracted a vinyl glove from his back pocket, slipped it on his right hand and picked up Primo’s cup. He dropped it into the plastic bag and sealed it shut.

“Maybe I should take some of the beans, too,” he said.

“Help yourself. The bag is on the bookshelf over there.”

“Got another plastic bag?”

“Sure.” I got it out and handed it to him.

He walked over to the shelf, opened the beans, which were still in their Coffee Chaos bag, and poured some into the second plastic bag.

“What about sugar?” he asked.

I pointed him to the drawer where I kept it, handed him another plastic bag and watched while he took a sample of the sugar.

“Professor, did you drink any yourself?”

“No. I got that call just as I was about to pour myself a cup.” I pointed to the empty coffee cup that was still on my desk, a supersized black one that says
JENNA
on it in big red letters. “So I hadn’t filled mine yet.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d toss whatever’s left in the pot, and the beans, too. It’s unlikely the coffee’s the problem, but you never know, and you don’t want to risk making anyone else sick.”

“Okay, I will. By the way, did you see a big red mailing tube around here, with white caps on the ends?”

“No, why?”

“The student had one with him when he got here, but I don’t see it anywhere.”

“No, didn’t see it.”

“Do you recall seeing it when we opened the door?”

“No. But I wasn’t really focused on looking around the office.”

“Me neither.”

“Well, I have to go fill out my report,” he said. “To be candid, though, Professor, you look a bit stressed out, which is hardly surprising. Maybe you ought to take the rest of the day off, huh? You don’t need to be a superhero about this.”

“I’m okay. And I’ve got work I’ve got to get done. But thank you for your concern.”

“Be sure to toss that coffee,” he said as he left.

After he was gone, I took the carafe out of its holder beneath the drip spout and sniffed it. It did smell a bit strange. It even seemed to make me a bit nauseated, but then, it was probably more from the situation than from the coffee. Looking at the coffee made me realize I had an intense need for still more. I left the office, locked the door and went over to Lu Valle Commons, the casual coffee-and-food place that sits between the law school and the public policy school. I drank down two big cups.

When I finished the second cup and set it down on the table, I noticed my hands were shaking slightly. Initially, I couldn’t figure out why. Sure, it had been unnerving to have Primo collapse in my office and then be dragooned into going to the hospital with him in the ambulance. That was over, though, and he was going to be all right. In the end I just passed it off as what happens to your body when an intense adrenaline rush fades. Like what used to happen to me on the track team in high school right after I won a close race. I decided not to worry about it. Everything was going to be fine.

CHAPTER 9

I
left Lu Valle Commons and walked back to the law school, unlocked my office and sat down at my desk. Then I tried to get back to work on my law review article, intending to make the small last-minute changes Stanford had requested. After maybe thirty minutes, I realized that instead of typing I was just staring at my hands on the keyboard. They were red all over, and rough. The thought that went through my head was that my hands had begun to look like they belonged to an old woman. Which was ridiculous, since I was only thirty-four. But still…Maybe I needed to get a manicure or something. Which was also ridiculous. I’d never had a manicure in my whole life. All I did to my nails was cut them. I didn’t even use nail polish.

After a few more minutes of staring at my hands, I realized I was rapidly becoming a basket case, even as I simultaneously chided myself for my reaction. There was no good reason for it. It certainly wasn’t my fault that Primo had collapsed in my office, and I had gone well beyond the call of duty in riding to the hospital with him. Really, George Skillings should have gone. That was his job. Maybe I was feeling the way I was because it was the first time I’d ever been the first person on the scene for something like that.

In the end, whatever the reason for my feelings, it was clear to me that I wasn’t going to get anything at all done that day, and I might as well go home. I got up, stepped out into the hallway, closed the door behind me and locked it. And I made special note of the fact that I had indeed locked it. Tomorrow, if it turned out to be open again, there wasn’t going to be any doubt in my mind about the locked state in which I had left it.

As I went by Aldous’s office, I stopped and knocked, thinking it might be good to talk again, but there was no answer. Nor was there any light coming out from under his door. He was probably off teaching a class.

Just then, I heard a voice behind me say, “Professor?” I turned to see Julie Gattner, an attractive brunette who’s a third-year student in my Sunken Treasure seminar. Julie had been one of the students hanging around in the hallway earlier in the morning, when I’d shut the door to block their view of the EMTs working on Primo. There were two other students with her, neither of whom I recognized.

“Professor,” Julie said, “what happened to Primo? We saw him being wheeled out by the emergency people.”

“I don’t really know, Julie. One minute he was okay, then he wasn’t. But I want to respect his privacy, so I think I’m just going to leave it at that, okay?”

“Oh, sure, I understand. Hope he’s all right. He’s a really nice guy.”

“Agreed. And I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but I need to get going.”

“Oh, sure,” she said again, turned away and headed down the hall in the direction from which I had come. As the group moved away, I heard one of the other students say to her, “Primo’s into stuff, isn’t he?” And then I heard another voice I didn’t know respond, more faintly and harder to make out, “Yeah, maybe he just went too hard last night.”

I stood for a moment and thought about that, then trotted down the stairs and out the door and headed over to my car, which was in Parking Lot 3. A pass for Lot 3—particularly a blue pass—was an important faculty perk. The lot’s only about a six-or seven-minute walk from the law school, at least at the speed at which I usually walk, and is especially handy when it rains or the weather turns cold, keeping in mind that most Angelenos regard anything under fifty degrees as positively arctic. Had I been less lucky, I might have had to park in Lot 2, which was farther away, not to mention rather dark and forbidding inside.

My trusty Land Cruiser was there, waiting for me. It was ten years old by now, but I still loved it, and it still served as my home away from home, although the backseat, with its books, discarded plastic water bottles and at least two old pizza boxes, had become something of a disgrace. I really needed to clean it out. Maybe today would be a good day to do it.

I got in, put the key in the ignition and started the engine. I was about to put it into gear and back out of the parking space when my cell rang. I picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was the dean. I thought seriously about ignoring his call, but given all that had happened, I supposed I owed it to him to answer, so I did.

“Jenna, it’s Matthew. Giordano died.”

I was poleaxed. I tried to say something in response but found I couldn’t speak.

“Jenna, are you there?”

It took me another second, but I finally found my voice. “Yes, I’m here. Did you say he died? That Primo died?”

“Yes. I got a call about ten minutes ago from the chief attending at the ER, a Dr. Nightingale.”

“The same doctor who told me that he’d probably be fine.”

“He told the associate dean the same thing. You were there when I got the call. I guess he got it wrong.”

“What did Primo die from?”

“Dr. Nightingale wouldn’t tell me anything. Medical privacy and all that crap. He just wanted to get information on next of kin.”

“I have no idea who they are.”

“I gave him what we have on file. Meanwhile, my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since they took him out of your office. A lot of people are saying he was a heavy partier. So maybe it was drugs.”

“I guess. I hardly knew him. But whatever, I’m in shock.”

“I can understand that. There’s one more thing, though.”

“What?”

“His brother, Quinto Giordano, just called me.”

“Quinto? That’s his brother’s name?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, Primo means ‘first’ in Italian. Quinto means ‘fifth.’ So does that mean there are three other brothers in between?”

“I have no idea. But he was calling about something in particular.”

“What?”

“He wanted to know, and I quote, ‘Where is the treasure map?’ What is he talking about?”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“When Primo came to see me, he told me he had a map marking where a supposed Spanish galleon had sunk. Filled with valuable stuff, he claimed.”

“Did he have it with him?”

“He said he did. He was carrying a red mailing tube, and he said the map was inside it. I never got to see it because right after he offered to show it to me, I went across the hall to take a call, and when I got back, he was already unconscious. I simply forgot about it.”

“Where is it now?”

“I don’t know. It disappeared at some point. I think it was already gone when the EMTs got to my office, but I only noticed it was gone when they were wheeling Primo out. In any case, it’s not there now.”

“How big was it?”

“Maybe three feet long.”

“How could you fail to notice immediately that something that big was missing?”

“Hey, Dean Blender, when I got back from the phone call, I was focused on Primo, you know? He was unconscious and drooling. And then the EMT guys arrived and all of that. I wasn’t exactly looking for the effing map.”

“Okay, okay. Are you in your office now?”

“No. I’m in my car in Lot 3, about to go home.”

“I think you should go back and look again for that map.”

“All right, but it’s not there.”

“Try the trash cans. And let me know if you find it. This guy seems a little unhinged.”

I turned off the car and jogged back to my office, thinking hard about the map. If it was really important—could it possibly be a real treasure map?—there had to be a logical explanation for what had happened to it. It was in my office for sure when I walked across the hall to take the phone call but apparently gone by the time I got back. Where could it have disappeared to in the few minutes I was away? I had no answer.

When I reached my office, my door was again wide open. This time there was a UCLA police officer standing inside, looking around. He turned as I walked in and said, “Could you identify yourself, please?”

“I’m Professor James. This is my office.”

“Ah, I see. I’m Detective Drady of the UCLA Police Department.” He handed me a card. “I’m doing an initial investigation of the death of a student.” He looked at a set of notes he had in his hand. “Student’s name was Primo Giordano. I understand this was the last place he was seen alive before they took him to the ER.”

“Uh, I guess that’s true. But how did you get in, Officer? I locked my office when I left.”

“Campus security let me in. Said I could have a look around, even though you weren’t here. Don’t need a search warrant since it’s university property. We don’t usually exercise that right, but in the case of a death, it’s different.”

“Oh.”

“Would now be a convenient time to interview you, Professor? It’s best when things are fresh in someone’s mind.”

“Sure. You know, Officer, you look vaguely familiar.”

“I was one of the LAPD officers who arrested Robert Tarza.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you do remember, don’t you, that Tarza tried to flee to Chicago when he was the target in a murder investigation? For murdering the managing partner of his law firm?” The sarcasm was so thick I could have cut it. And although it was tempting to respond in kind, I decided to stick to the facts because I had no idea where, exactly, this upsetting conversation was going.

“He wasn’t trying to flee, Detective. He was going to see a rare coin dealer to try to get to the bottom of things.”

“Well, whatever. When he got back, we arrested him. I was one of the arresting officers. I testified briefly at the preliminary hearing. You cross-examined me.”

Once he put it in context I did vaguely remember him. He had testified for something like two seconds. But I really didn’t want to get into a further discussion of the case with him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I still don’t recall your testimony.”

“Well, it’s a long time ago now. Six years, maybe?”

“Something like that.”

“Not long after that trial I left the LAPD and joined the UCLA force.”

“Well, welcome to UCLA School of Law, Officer. Let’s sit down, and you can ask me what you want to know, not that I know very much.”