PROFESSOR JONATHAN BOLING was in his forties, Dance estimated. Not tall, a few inches over her height, with a frame that suggested either a tolerance for exercise or a disdain for junk food. Straight brownish hair similar to Dance’s, though she suspected that he didn’t sneak a box of Clairol into his shopping cart at Safeway every couple of weeks. “Well,” he said, looking around the halls as she escorted him from the lobby to her office at the California Bureau of Investigation. “This isn’t quite what I pictured. Not like CSI.” Did everybody in the universe watch that show? Boling wore a digital Timex on one wrist and a braided bracelet on the other—perhaps symbolizing support for something or another. (Dance thought about her children, who would cover their wrists with so many colored bands she was never sure what the latest causes were.) In jeans and a black polo shirt, he was handsome in a subdued, National Public Radio kind of way. His brown eyes were steady, and he seemed fast with a smile. Dance decided he could have any grad student he set his sights on. She asked, “You ever been in a law enforcement office before?” “Well, sure,” he said, clearing his throat and giving off odd kinesic signals. Then a smile. “But they dropped the charges. I mean, what else could they do when Jimmy Hoffa’s body never turned up?” She couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, you poor grad students. Beware. “I thought you consulted with police.” “I’ve offered to, at the end of my lectures to law enforcement agencies and security companies. But nobody’s taken me up on it. Until now. You’re my maiden voyage. I’ll try not to disappoint.” They arrived in her office and sat across from each other at her battered coffee table. Boling said, “I’m happy to help however I can but I’m not sure exactly what I can do.” A bolt of sunlight fell across his loafers and he glanced down, noticed that one sock was black and one navy blue. He laughed with out embarrassment. In another era Dance would have deduced that he was single; nowadays, with two busy working partners, fashion glitches like this were inadmissible evidence. He didn’t, however, wear a wedding ring. “I have a hardware and software background but for serious technical advice, I’m afraid I’m over the legal age limit and I don’t speak Hindi.” He told her that he’d gotten joint degrees in literature and engineering at Stanford, admittedly an odd combination, and after a bit of “bumming around the world” had ended up in Silicon Valley, doing systems design for some of the big computer companies. “Exciting time,” he said. But, he added, eventually he’d been turned off by the greed. “It was like an oil rush. Everybody was asking how could they get rich by convincing people they had these needs that computers could fill. I thought maybe we should look at it the other way: find out what needs people actually had and then ask how computers could help them.” A cocked head. “As between their position and mine. I lost big-time. So I took some stock money, quit, bummed around again. I ended up in Santa Cruz, met somebody, decided to stay and tried teaching. Loved it. That was almost ten years ago. I’m still there.” Dance told him that after a stint as a reporter she’d gone back to college—the same school where he taught. She studied communications and psychology. Their time had coincided, briefly, but they didn’t know anyone in common. He taught several courses, including the Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. And in the grad school Boling taught what he described as some boring technical courses. “Sort of math, sort of engineering.” He also consulted for corporations. Dance interviewed people in many different professions. The majority radioed clear signals of stress when speaking of their jobs, which indicated either anxiety because of the demands of the work, or, more often, depression about it—as Boling had earlier when speaking about Silicon Valley. But his kinesic behavior now, when discussing his present career, was stress free. He continued to downplay his technical skill, though, and Dance was disappointed. He seemed smart and more than willing to help—he’d driven down here on a moment’s notice—and she would have liked to use his services, but to get into Tammy Foster’s computer it sounded like they’d need more of a hands-on tech person. At least, she hoped, he could recommend someone. Maryellen Kresbach came in with a tray of coffee and cookies. Attractive, she resembled a country-western singer, with her coiffed brown hair and red Kevlar fingernails. “The guard desk called. Somebody’s got a computer from Michael’s office.” “Good. You can bring it up.” Maryellen paused for a moment and Dance had an amusing idea that the woman was checking out Boling as romantic fodder. Her assistant had been waging a none-too-subtle campaign to find Dance a husband. When the woman eyed Boling’s naked left ring finger and lifted her brow at Dance, the agent flashed her an exasperated glance, which was duly noted and summarily ignored. Boling called his thanks and, after pouring three sugars into his coffee, dug into the cookies and ate two. “Good. No, better than good.” “She bakes them herself.” “Really? People do that? They don’t all come out of a Keebler bag?” Dance went for half a cookie and enjoyed a sip of coffee, though she was caffeinated enough from her earlier meeting with Michael O’Neil. “Let me tell you what’s going on.” She explained to Boling about the attack on Tammy Foster. Then said, “And we have to get into her laptop.” Boling nodded understandingly. “Ah, the one that went for a swim in the Pacific Ocean.” “It’s toast…” He corrected, “With the water, more likely it’s oatmeal—if we’re keeping to breakfast food metaphors.” Just then a young MCSO deputy stepped into Dance’s office, carrying a large paper bag. Good-looking and eager, though more cute than handsome, he had bright blue eyes, and for a moment he seemed about to salute. “Agent Dance?” “That’s right.” “I’m David Reinhold. Crime Scene at the Sheriff’s Office.” She nodded a greeting. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for bringing that over.” “You bet. Anything I can do.” He and Boling shook hands. Then the trim officer, in a perfectly pressed uniform, handed Dance the paper bag. “I didn’t put it in plastic. Wanted it to breathe. Get as much moisture out as we could.” “Thanks,” Boling said. “And I took the liberty of taking the battery out,” the young deputy said. He held up a sealed metal tube. “It’s a lithium-ion. I thought if water got inside there could be a fire risk.” Boling nodded, clearly impressed. “Good thinking.” Dance had no clue what he was talking about. Boling noticed her frown and explained that some lithium batteries, under certain circumstances, could burst into flames when exposed to water. “You a geek?” Boling asked him. The deputy replied, “Not really. Just stuff you pick up, you know.” He held out a receipt for Dance to sign and then pointed out the chain-of-custody card, attached to the bag itself. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.” He handed her a business card. She thanked him, and the young man retreated. Dance reached inside the bag and extracted Tammy’s laptop. It was pink. “What a color,” Boling said, shaking his head. He turned it over and examined the back. Dance asked him, “So, do you know somebody who could get it running and take a look at her files?” “Sure. Me.” “Oh, I thought you said you weren’t that much of a tech anymore.” “That’s not tech, not by today’s standards.” He smiled again. “It’s like rotating your tires on a car. Only I need a couple of tools.” “We don’t have a lab here. Nothing as sophisticated as you probably need.” “Well, that depends. I see you collect shoes.” Her closet door was open and Boling must’ve glanced inside, where a dozen pairs sat, more or less ordered, on the floor—for those nights when she went out after work, without stopping at home. She gave a laugh. Busted. He continued, “How ’bout personal care appliances?” “Personal care?” “I need a hair dryer.” She chuckled. “Sadly, all my beauty aids are at home.” “Then we better go shopping.”