“Because you didn't trust her?”

“She was using all the right words but I'd had enough.”

“What about Kenny?”

“What about him?”

“Did she call him, too?”

“Not that I know. No, I'm sure she didn't because he would have told me. He-” She stopped herself.

“He what, Cindy?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. Just that he didn't mention her calling.”

“Were you going to say Kenny hated her?”

She looked away. “If you've read the transcripts, I guess that's no big shock. No, he didn't like her one bit. He said she was a- she was manipulative. And a radical feminist- Kenny's kind of conservative politically. And I can't blame him for feeling railroaded. He was already having a hard time at the U, thinking about transferring out. The committee was the final straw.”

“Did he blame Dr. Devane for having to transfer?”

“No, he was just generally down on everything.”

“Life, in general?” I said. “Or something specific?”

She looked up with alarm. “I know what you're getting at, but it's ridiculous. He'd never touch her. That's not Kenny. And he wasn't even in L.A. the night she was killed. He's in San Diego except on weekends when he drives in to see me. He's working hard to get his life together- he's only nineteen.”

“He comes in every weekend?” said Milo.

“Not every, most. And she was killed on a Monday. He's never in town on Monday.”

Milo looked down at her and smiled. “Sounds like you've been thinking about his schedule.”

“Only after you called. We were really surprised, then we figured you'd learned about the committee and we said, Oh my God, unreal. Because you know, the system. You can get caught up in it, people get abused. I mean, it's so absurd that anyone would connect us to what happened. We're kids, basically. The last time I had anything to do with the police was when that guy came to class and told us about parked cars.”

She smiled.

“He had a parrot, that policeman. A trained parrot that could talk. Like, “Stop, you're under arrest!' and “You have the right to remain silent.' I think he called him Officer Squawk, or something. Whatever. I really can take that bag.”

Milo handed it to her.

“I really need to forget all this, Detective Sturgis. I have to concentrate on my grades because my mom makes sacrifices for me. That's why I didn't go to private college. So, please.”

“Sure, Cindy. Thanks for your time.” He gave her a card.

“Robbery-homicide,” she said, shivering. “What's this for?”

“In case you think of something.”

“I won't, believe me.” Her small face puckered and I thought she'd cry again. Then she said, “Thanks,” and walked away.

“Cutie pie,” said Milo. “I just want to give her milk and cookies, tell her Prince Charming is coming soon and he doesn't have a rap sheet.”

“She feels she's found him already.”

He shook his head. “She's a little intrapunitive, wouldn't you say?”

“Very. Blaming herself for what happened between her and Kenny Storm, then for complaining.”

“Storm,” he said. “Smart kid like her hooking up with a dumb guy. What is it, low self-esteem?”

“More interested in Storm, now?”

“Why?”

“His academic career hasn't gone well. Meaning he never got to receive the U's concession money. Meaning he could still be angry and unresolved.”

“And maybe she's willing to lie for him. Maybe despite what she said, he stayed over one weekend.”

“He could have borrowed Cindy's bike,” I said. “Or he has one of his own.”

“Neither he nor his daddy have returned calls… selling real estate in La Jolla. Should be easy enough to find out which company, see if the alibi checks out.”

His eyes drifted upward. “Little Cindy. She looks like a fourteen-year-old but talks like an adult. Then again, the sweetheart who threw her baby to the dogs was pretty adorable, too.”

9

We drove out of the Village, hugging the eastern edge of the campus and cutting past Sorority Row. Students jogged and strolled and jaywalked with abandon. The spiked tops of the cactus in the Botanical Garden stuck over the iron fence like supplementary security.

I said, “A picture of Hope seems to be taking shape. Brilliant, charismatic, good with people. But able to bend the rules when it suits her, and from what Cindy said, to change faces pretty quickly. Consistent with the little boxes.”

A laughing couple around Kenny and Cindy's age darted across the street, holding hands, wrapped up in each other. Milo had to brake hard. They kept going, unaware.

“Ah, love,” I said.

“Or too many years on Walkmans and video games. Okay, I'll drop you at home.”

“Why don't you let me off here and I'll try to see Professor Steinberger.”

“The quiet one?”

“Sometimes the quiet ones have the most to say.”

“Okay.” He pulled over next to a bus bench. Two Hispanic women in domestic's uniforms were sitting there and they stared at us before looking away.

“Gonna walk home after that?”

“Sure, it's only a couple of miles.”

“What an aerobicon… listen, if you have time and inclination, I don't mind you talking to the other students involved in the committee, too. Maybe you won't scare them as much as I scared Cindy.”

“I thought you did fine with her.”

He frowned. “Maybe I shoulda brought a parrot. You up for student interviews?”

“How do I locate them?”

Reaching over to the backseat, he grabbed his briefcase and swung it onto his lap, took out a sheet of paper, and gave it to me.

Xeroxed photo-ID student cards and class schedules. The reproductions were dark and blurred, turning Cindy Vespucci into a brunette. Kenneth Storm had a full face, short hair, and a sad mouth, but that's about all you could say about him.

I folded and pocketed it. “Any rules about how I present myself?”

He thought. “Guess the truth would be fine. Anything that encourages them to talk. They'll probably relate to you better, professorial demeanor and all that.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Professors are the ones who fail them.”

The tall, white Psychology Tower was on the outer edge of the Science Quad- maybe more than architectural accident- and the brick cube that housed Chemistry was its next-door neighbor.

It had been a long time since I'd been inside the chem building and then only to take an advanced psychopathology course in borrowed classroom space; back when I'd been a grad student, psychology had been the U's most popular major and the lecture halls had overflowed with those seeking self-understanding. Twenty years later, fear of the future was the dominant motive and business administration was king.

Chemistry's halls still oozed the vinegary reek of acetic acid and the walls were toothpaste-green, maybe a bit grimier. No one was in sight but I could hear clinking and splashing behind doors marked LABORATORY.

The directory listed two Steinbergers, Gerald and Julia, both with offices on the third floor. I took the stairs and found Julia's.

The door was open. She was at her desk grading exams with radio soft-rock in the background, a nice-looking woman around thirty wearing a black scoop-necked sweater over a white blouse and gray wool slacks. An amber-and-old-silver necklace that looked Middle Eastern rested on her chest. She had square shoulders, an earnest face that surprised itself by bottoming out in a pointed chin, a serene mouth glossed pink, and shiny brown hair ending at her shoulders, the bangs clipped just above graceful eyebrows. Her eyes were gray, clear and unbothered as they looked up. Beautiful, really. They made her beautiful.

She marked a paper and put it aside. “Yes?”