I took the elevator up to the second floor and went to the break room for a glass of water, then sat down at the round plastic table to catch my breath. Someone had left a red-and-yellow box of candy on the table, and absentmindedly I pulled it toward me. A note taped to the lid of the box read simply, Enjoy! —PP. My whirring thoughts stuttered and went still. PP, I thought. Professor Pindar. So he was back, I thought unhappily. I had pushed the box away from me and now I brought it close again, because I wanted to give it another look. Dulce de Tamarindo, it said in big yellow letters. I opened the box—inside it was filled with petite red sugar-covered patties, each in its own frilly paper cup.

Of course, I thought, he has been in Mexico on vacation, and this is evidently some kind of local food he has retrieved. Nothing to be concerned about, I told myself. My mind flitted unhelpfully to the events of the other night, and I realized I would have to be more specific with myself, because so many of my nights had recently been notable—I tightened my grip here on my train of thought—the night I meant was Thursday night—the night of the dinner with the guest lecturer, and with my colleagues.

But, I told myself, and I could feel my pulse quickening, there was nothing wrong with driving an intoxicated woman to her hotel, and what was more, it was not so remarkable that anyone would feel the need to mention it to Professor Pindar. I took a swallow of water, although it seemed to have no effect on my suddenly parched throat. Well, well, I thought, grimacing, perhaps the lady doth protest too much.

15

The sun was sparkling on the reservoir as I drove home over the bridge, all the while pretending in my mind a cordial conversation. Yes, hello, this is—I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket and spread it flat against the steering wheel—Daniel Shriver. Yes, hello, this is Daniel Shriver; I’m calling about a bag I may have left in your hotel. I’m afraid I can’t say for certain, sometime in the last six months or so; I travel frequently.

My mind skipped several steps ahead. This conversation—the actual future one, not the imagined one I was having in the privacy of my own vehicle—seemed suddenly pressing; who knew how long this facility with words would last? I had a vision of myself pulling over at the gas station to use the pay phone, because this was an investigation, I was sure of it. No minute wasted, no stone unturned. All my life I had hung back, stewing ineffectually, and here, finally, was my chance to act.