When film critic André Bazin described John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) as “the ideal example of the maturity of a style brought to classic perfection,” he employed a brilliant metaphor, that of a “wheel so perfectly made that it retains its equilibrium on any axis in any position.”
Ah. There it was. The first paragraph of Thomas Flanagan’s review for The New York Review of Books. Almost word perfect. What a pity Elliot didn’t have a dollar for every time this damn review popped up in student essays; he’d have a cushy retirement fund by now. He reached for his coffee and sipped it as he considered the best way to approach this with her.
Leslie, filling in the silence, said, “If you could just let me know if you think I’m on the right track…”
Andrew Corian’s voice echoed from down the hall. Elliot could pick out about one word in three. “Automatism…cretins…instinct…freshness…”
“Well, Flanagan is certainly a useful source.” The phone on his desk rang and he cravenly went with the diversion—Leslie looked like a crier to him.
“Mills.”
Too brusque as usual. Damn. He heard the disconcerted hesitation on the other end before a female voice said, “Professor Mills. This is Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant. The president would like to speak to you. Please hold.”
The president. Sandie sounded like she thought she was putting through the president rather than the top administrator of a university. Elliot shook his head and realized Leslie was watching him attentively.
“Elliot,” Charlotte Oppenheimer’s cool New England tones greeted him a few moments later. “How are you, my dear? We missed you at Monday’s fundraiser.”
Uh oh. Elliot didn’t do fundraisers. He didn’t do sports events. He didn’t do anything resembling a social affair if he could help it. He’d gotten out of the habit, which was probably just as well for everyone else. When you were in law enforcement your circle of acquaintanceship tended to narrow to other law enforcement.
“I was sorry to miss it,” he lied, as though he hadn’t entirely forgotten about it. “How did it go?”
“It went well. Very well. Your department raised fifteen hundred dollars to expand the celebration of Black History Month.”
“Terrific.” The month before that it had been the celebration of Women’s Studies and the month before that the celebration of Asian Studies. He was glad there was so much to celebrate. He was. But there were limits to his patience and nervous energy. Standing around chitchatting with parents pretty much exceeded them.
“It was. We’re all delighted. However, I was calling for another reason. I wondered if you were free for coffee?”
“Now?”
“I realize these are your office hours, but something has come up that’s rather urgent.”
Elliot’s eyes met Leslie’s shining, expectant ones. He said, “Yeah. Of course. No problem.”
“Wonderful. We’ll see you in, shall we say, fifteen minutes? I’m working at home rather than my office this morning.”
Elliot agreed, dropped the phone in its cradle. He ignored Leslie’s obvious disappointment, saying, “I apologize. Something’s come up.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll read this over the weekend and mark down my thoughts. I should have it for you Monday. How’s that?”
“I… Sure. Thank you, Professor.” A polite kid, she managed to summon a smile, though dimmer than her usually brilliant one.
Elliot ushered her out, locked his office and headed across the crowded campus. He overtook and passed Ray’s large, gray-uniformed figure pushing his eternal utility cart, brooms, mops and buckets rattling, as the small rubber wheels jounced over the rough cement walkway.
“Morning, Ray.”
Ray threw him a suspicious sideways look and grunted something that could have been anything from “morning” to “fuck you.”
Elliot’s inner ex-law enforcement officer wondered briefly what the story was with the maintenance man. Granted some people just had an aversion to cops and ex-cops, but Ray seemed to treat everyone to that same sparkling personality. Maybe he just hated his job. Mopping up other people’s shit was no picnic—as Elliot could testify.
The president’s house was one of the oldest buildings on the PSU campus, a brick mansion in the traditional Tudor-Gothic style surrounded by coral rose bushes.
Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant, opened the door to him and led him through to a long room with beautiful windows overlooking the roses. The furniture was all white, the furnishings a clever mix of navy-and-delft-blue florals and checks. The overall effect reminded him of Blue Willow pattern china.
“Elliot.” Charlotte came to meet him, offering both hands. She looked older than her fifty-seven years, but she was still what they used to call a “handsome” woman: a little heavy, a little matronly, but elegant and beautifully groomed in a gray silk pantsuit the exact same shade of her hair.
“How are you, my dear? How are you feeling these days? We get so little opportunity to see you.”
It wasn’t exactly a criticism, or if it was, it was the gentlest kind.
“I’m settling in,” Elliot replied, which was what he always said. “Still finding my way around.” If he was still finding his way around after seventeen months, he was permanently MIA, but Charlotte probably knew it was the geography of the heart he was struggling with and not finding the science building.
“And how’s Roland? Still working on the book?”
“That’s what I hear. I think it’s his way of getting out of helping me refinish my kitchen cabinets.” Totally bogus. Roland had done the cabinets all on his own before Elliot was even out of the hospital, but Elliot didn’t want to discuss that book, that memoir of Roland’s misspent youth as an outlaw radical. He loved his dad and admired the strength of his convictions, but his feelings were mixed about a book wherein Roland celebrated trying to bring down the institutions Elliot had sworn to protect and uphold.
“And how are you adjusting to island life?”
“I like it.” That at least was the truth. Elliot hadn’t cared for Seattle. He liked the quiet and solitude of Goose Island for all its inconveniences.
“No problem with the ferry?” She was smiling, but Elliot began to feel uneasy. Why exactly was he here? He sensed that under the gracious poise, Charlotte was worried—thus the stalling with small talk. She was not ordinarily a woman who beat around the bush. In fact, most of the time she reminded him of SAC Montgomery.
As though she read his mind, Charlotte said, “Elliot, the reason I dragged you over here this morning is we’ve had something come up and I thought perhaps I might consult you unofficially.”
“Consult me?”
Charlotte started to speak, but paused as Sandie brought coffee in on a tray. Charlotte thanked her assistant, reminded her to hold all calls, and Sandie departed. Next came the rigmarole of how much cream, how many lumps of sugar, would Elliot like a cookie, and then, finally, Charlotte seemed to steel herself.
“I don’t know if you’re aware that a few weeks ago one of our students disappeared from campus. A young man by the name of Terry Baker.”
Old habits died hard. Elliot raised his eyebrows in inquiry and waited to see where this was going before committing himself.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Terry was an excellent student and, by all accounts, very responsible, but kids are kids. It’s not that we didn’t take his departure seriously, but there was no evidence whatsoever of foul play.” She held Elliot’s gaze with what he felt was almost defiant steadiness. “However, another young man is now missing.”
Elliot set his cup down. “When you say ‘now missing’…?”
“Gordie’s aunt, with whom he lives, reported him missing to the police. Unlike the Baker boy, Gordie is the kind of young man who takes off at the drop of a hat, but his aunt seems to believe that his absence is different this time and we must respect that.”