Beyond the parking area, a cluster of dun-colored, red-roofed Monterey Colonial buildings stood like chess pieces on a board of precision-mowed bluegrass. Monumental, perfectly positioned pines, floss trees, liquidambars, and redwoods were sculpted to symmetry. An adult female passed from one building to another. Then a male teacher in a tweed coat and khakis. A scatter of students studied on the lawn. No sound beyond breeze kissing leaves.

Off to the left, flags stood in barbered turf ringed by low white fencing. The nine-hole golf course.

"Poor darlings," said Milo. "They go to college, it's a step down."

All the buildings bore brass plaques. The largest was fronted by a cool, dim loggia and merited a double-wide slab: Administration.

Dr. Mary Jane Rollins's office was the prize beyond a hushed, green-carpeted, oak-paneled reception room overseen by a black woman in a red silk dress. Sheila McBough was stamped on her personal chunk of brass. The foundry loved this place.

Milo's card didn't impress her. "You don't have an appointment."

He said, "We have something better," and held out the warrant.

Before she finished scanning, he continued past her desk.

"You can't do that."

"That, madam, is an obvious misstatement."

Mary Jane Rollins's personal space was her secretary's office on steroids. The same honey-colored oak, green carpeting, enough carving and moldings to spell out Authority.

She was on the phone, said, "I'll have to call you back," and slammed down the receiver. "Now what?"

Milo told her.

Her initial reaction was the expected panic. Then she smirked. "Well, unfortunately for you, they're not here."

"Doctor--"

"It's a senior cut-day, Lieutenant. We have several, throughout the semester, prefer to bleed off tension on a regular basis rather than--"

"Where are their lockers, Doctor?"

"In the locker area."

"Show me. And bring your master key."

"What makes you think I have one?"

"You don't?"

"Your warrant says I need to answer personal questions?"

He showed her his badge. "This says if you don't cooperate, I'll cuff you and haul your educated but morally unschooled derriere off to jail."

She blanched. "I never--"

"Neither have I. Show me their lockers. Now."

"This will not go unreported."

"Mercy me, pass the defibrillator."

As we left, Rollins told McBough, "Sheila, phone Dr. Helfgott immediately. There's a situation."

Milo said, "Sheila, don't phone anyone. There's a situation."

The lockers lined two walls of a cavernous building labeled Repository. Oak, brass-fitted.

Milo said, "Open Wydette's and Glover's."

Rollins sniffed as she checked a list. "Calling me morally unschooled was unnecessary."

"I'm looking for two vicious murderers and all you care about is semantics."

"Not semantics," said Rollins. "I'm a good person. One day you may find yourself in special circumstances and react in a way that surprises you."

"Gee," he said. "That could never happen to me."

Both lockers were empty.

Rollins said, "So much for your evidence."

"Do you have any idea where I can find Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover?"

Silence.