He pretends he didn’t hear me.

“His…?”

“Laptop.”

“He probably had it with him.”

“No,” I say firmly. Jay wasn’t even wearing a backpack—not a notebook, pen, or piece of paper on him, and certainly no laptop. “He didn’t. Any idea where it might be?”

Tripp shrugs, but there’s something stiff and unnatural about the gesture.

“He might have let one of the brothers borrow it,” he says slowly. “I can ask at the meeting.”

My mouth tightens. “You can ask now. Or I will open every door until we find it.”

His eyes widen. “That’s not necessary,” he says carefully, and I see him think, You need a warrant, but he’s playing cooperative, at least for the moment. “I’ll message everyone.”

He pulls out his phone and I look at my watch. It’s 8:19. If we need his phone records, I’ll know exactly what time he texted whoever has Jay’s laptop.

Minutes pass. Teddy withdraws a pair of gloves, and Tripp’s eyes grow large, but he says nothing as Teddy lifts Jay’s mattress, goes through the pockets of his dirty jeans, and opens his desk drawers.

I keep an ear out for our laptop borrower and stoop to examine the books stacked under the coffee table. I’m surprised to see they’re mostly biographies—Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan, and Antonin Scalia.

I hear hurried footsteps, and Tripp disappears from the door. I stand, but Teddy’s already in the hall, depositing the laptop into an evidence bag. Next to him stands a young man in slacks and a crisp button-down. With dark hair, a broad nose, and eyes slightly too close together, he looks like a well-put-together Fred Flintstone. A little too put-together for his age and the hour.

“This is Michael Williams, our treasurer.”

“Detectives White and Kaplan.”

Michael’s lip curls at my name. My father’s Jewish, nonpracticing, and I rarely think about my heritage, but Michael’s look reminds me that other people do.

“We’ll need your fingerprints,” I growl.

His eyes pass over me to appraise Teddy. “Sure.”

“Williams,” Teddy says. “Any relation to Ed Williams?”

Michael’s lip curl turns into a smirk.

Right, so we’re dealing with the university president’s son here. He may think that gives him a free pass, but I don’t.

“Why did you borrow Jay’s laptop?”

“I didn’t.” Michael arches his eyebrow. “I found it.”

I turn to Tripp, but his face has gone blank.

“You found it where?”

“In the study room. On a chair.” He looks bored. Apparently, this conversation is a massive waste of his time.

“So you’re telling me that when our techs open this,” I tap the metal top with my pen, “they’ll find only Jay’s fingerprints on the keys and the last log-in will be before his time of death?”

Tripp flinches.