“Oh, yeah?”
Slidel leaned over me, breathing cigarette breath.
“The Lancaster report isn’t with the others.”
“Suppose Wal y-boy misplaced it?” Slidel asked.
“Doesn’t seem likely, but keep looking.”
Slidel went back to banging drawers.
I returned to the desk and surveyed the bul etin board. Like Mrs. Flowers, Wal y Cagle insisted on equidistant spacing and ninety-degree angles.
A postcard sent by someone named Gene. Polaroids taken at an archaeological dig. Three pictures of a cat. A printout of names fol owed by four-digit university extensions.
The center of the board held a handwritten list of tasks fol owed by a column of dates. Those up through Thursday had been crossed out.
“Look at this,” I said.
Slidel joined me at the desk.
I pointed to an item among Cagle’s uncompleted tasks:Pul photos and report for Brennan.
“He uses a ruler to cross things out? Jesus, this guy’s one tight spitter.”
“That’s not the point. Even though the secretary didn’t see him, Cagle’s been here as recently as last Thursday. Does the fact the item isnotcrossed off mean he never pul ed the file? Or did he pul it, then forget?”
“Looks like Wal y-boy never took a dump without itemizing and crossing it off.”
“Maybe he was interrupted.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe someone else took the file.”
“Who?” Slidel ’s voice dripped skepticism.
“I don’t know.”
“Who even knew the damn thing existed?”
“Cagle’s graduate student,” I snapped. Slidel ’s attitude was making me churlish. “He read parts to Cagle over the phone.”
“Maybe Cagle took the stuff to a home computer.”
“Maybe.”
“But he never sent you the report.”
Good, Skinny. State the obvious.
“Or the photos.”
“Nothing.”
Slidel hitched his belt. It slid back into the groove below his spare tire.
“So where the hel are they?”
“An astute question.”
“And where the hel is the good professor?”
“And another.”
I was starting to get a bad feeling about Cagle’s safety.
My gaze fel on the computer and its flatbed scanner. The setup looked like it might have been purchased when the Monkees were big.
Slidel watched me walk over and press the “on” button. As the CPU dragged through a boot, the Texas deb receptionist appeared in the doorway.
“What is it you think you’re doing?”
“I located Dr. Cagle’s case files, but the one in question is missing.”
“So you think you’re going to use his computer?”
“It might tel us if the photos were ever scanned.”
As if on cue, the CPU beeped and the monitor flashed a password request.
“Do you have it?” I asked the deb.
“I could never give out a password.” She sounded as though I’d asked for her bank card PIN. “Besides, I don’t know it.”
“Does anyone else use this computer?”
“Gene Rudin.”
“Dr. Cagle’s graduate student?”
The deb nodded. Not a hair moved.