Suddenly I looked at my watch. It was time to leave the office if I didn’t want to be late for my first appointment. Requisitioning a Bureau vehicle would have meant one more person looking over my shoulder, and that’s exactly why I’d rented a car at the airport.

I left without telling anyone where I was headed. If I was going to be acting like a homicide detective again, I was going to do it right.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

THIS WAS REAL POLICE WORK at least, and I threw myself into it with renewed energy and enthusiasm. Actually, I was pumped up. Professor Deborah Papadakis had my full attention as she beckoned me into her book-lined office, number twenty-two, in the Rolfe Building at UCLA. She took a neatly piled stack of manuscripts from the only available chair and set them on the floor.

“I can see you’re busy, Professor. God, are you ever busy. Thank you for agreeing to meet,” I said.

“Happy to help if I can.” She motioned for me to sit. “I haven’t seen Los Angeles so preoccupied since, I don’t know, maybe since Rodney King. It’s kind of sad.”

Then she raised a hand and quickly added, “Although that’s not the same, is it? Anyway, this is a bit unusual for me. I’m more of a short-story and personal-essay kind of person. I don’t read true crime, or even mysteries for that matter. Well, I do read Walter Mosley, but he’s a closet sociologist.”

“Whatever you can do,” I said, and handed her copies of Mary Smith’s e-mails. “At the risk of repeating myself, we would appreciate your complete confidence on this.” That was for my own sake as well as the investigation’s. I hadn’t gotten official permission to share the e-mails with her or anyone else.

Professor Papadakis poured me a cup of coffee from an old percolator, and I waited while she read, then reread, the e-mails.

Her office seemed to be a bit of prime real estate at the university. It looked out to a courtyard and sculpture garden, where students wrote and soaked up the perfect Southern California weather. Most offices in the building faced out to the street. Ms. Papadakis, with her antique pine desk and O. Henry Award on the wall, gave the impression of someone who had long since paid her dues.

Except for the occasional “hm,” she was unresponsive while she read. Finally, she looked up and stared my way. A bit of the color was gone from her face.

“Well,” she said with a deep breath, “first impressions are important, so I’ll start there.”

She picked up a red pencil, and I stood up and came around to look over her shoulder.