CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (9 page)

CHAPTER 10 – SCRATCHING AN ITCH

“Why do you want to know?”

I was sitting at a desk talking to an elderly Registrar lady who had been assigned to help me. Dave’s phone call had gotten past the receptionist. Now I was on my own.

“Because I don’t,” I said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t know.”

“Student transcripts are confidential. Commander Clapper knows that.”

“And he would never ask you to do anything remotely unethical,” I said, trying to look shocked. I could feel the folded transcript copies in my jacket pocket. “But surely the names of a former student’s teachers are public record.”

She processed that for a moment. I knew it could go either way, and given my recent experience with women her age, I was not hopeful. I looked at the nameplate on her desk.

“You don’t have a raffle book I could buy, do you Ms. Polidori?”

She sighed and then decided that it was less trouble to get what I wanted than put up with me. That happens a lot.

“Please wait here.”

She shuffled off somewhere. Almost 20 minutes later she returned and handed me several sheets of paper. 

“I printed out the names of all of William Capriati’s instructors. Only two of them are  still here,” she said. “I circled their names for you. Is there anything else?”

“Would you know where I can find them?”

“You will have to go over to their respective Departments. If they aren’t in their offices, you can get a class schedule. Is there anything else?”

I stood up.

“No. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

I looked at the names she’d circled.

“Oh, boy.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, thanks again.”

One of the names was P. Lancaster. “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women” was his course. Presumably a gut elective for a jock studying finance, designed to make both teacher and student look good. Yet Pierce gave Capriati a ‘D.’ Strange. From what I knew about Capriati, he would have spotted a fellow con man and told Lancaster exactly what he wanted to hear. I decided to save Pierce the Precious for last, since I suspected I would need a drink after speaking to him.

The other teacher whose name was circled, J. Kaplan, was a biology instructor. I hoofed it over to the Department of Science only to discover that Professor Kaplan was finishing a class in 20 minutes on the other side of the campus. I had time to stop in the library to pick up the yearbook and get lectured by the librarian on the importance of its return. Then on to the building to wait for the biology class to empty out. Professor Kaplan turned out to be a Justine, a tall, lanky woman who would have been a looker 15 to 20 years earlier. In fact, she was still very attractive. There was a slash of silver in her black hair and she had wide intelligent eyes and a sensual mouth. She was wearing denim trousers and a long herringbone vest over a white poplin shirt.

“You are absolutely the first private detective I have ever met,” she said after I introduced myself. “I can’t wait to tell my husband. He’s a big fan of private eye novels. Has all the Spensers and Jake Scarnes. Even some of the old ‘masters,’ as he calls them. Dashiell Hammett, Raymonf Chandler. Every time we go into Manhattan he just has to go to the Strand bookstore in the Village and look for an undiscovered thriller writer. Do you know the Strand? It must have every used book in the country.”

I told her I did.

“He comes home with half a dozen books. Says they are real bargains at the Strand. Which I suppose they would be, if he didn’t factor in the lunch or dinner I make him buy at the Gotham for making me wait while he scours the stacks. Be cheaper to download them to his Kindle. But he says it’s not the same.”

“He’s right,” I said.

I studied her face, which, except for a few small smile lines around her mouth and eyes was youthful.

“It kills Ira that most new thrillers are written by women,” she continued. “They’re not hard-boiled enough for him.” She smiled. “Are you hard-boiled, Mr. Rhode?”

“To tell you the truth, Professor, lately I’ve been feeling a bit scrambled. I was hoping you could help me out on something. Do you remember William Capriati? You were listed as one of his teachers.” 

“Yes, of course.” She answered so quickly I was taken aback. “Can we sit down?”

We walked over to a bench under a big sycamore. I liked sitting on benches under trees, particularly with a good-looking woman. I did check for birds, however. Someone once told me that being crapped on by a bird was good luck. So far my bad luck had held and I wanted to keep it that way. I don’t think you can have a serious conversation with bird doo on your head.

“Why are you asking about Billy? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. No one seems to know what became of him after he left college. I represent someone who wants to find him on a personal matter.” I saw no harm in telling her what the situation was, but left out the part about the bank embezzlement. “Why did you assume there might be something wrong?”

She smiled.

“Billy was a good student. But you could tell he was a rascal. He came on to every female in the class. Sex was really the only biology that interested him. I’m not surprised to hear that there is an issue of paternity involved. What a sad story. I only hope you find him in time to help that poor child. Is that his yearbook?”

I handed it to her and she quickly found his photo. She stared at the picture a long while, shaking her head in remembrance.

“God, we were young,” she said, handing the book back.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. He kept to himself a lot. About the only other thing that interested him besides sex was wrestling.” She laughed. “On the team, I mean.”

I was getting a strange vibe from Professor Kaplan.

“Do you always take such an interest in your students?”

“I told you he hit on every female in the class.” She colored slightly. “In my case, successfully.”

Billy had good taste. I wasn’t so sure about hers.

“I don’t mean to be judgmental, but aren’t there rules against that sort of thing?”

“It’s frowned on more today than it was back then. I have no excuse, except to say that I was only an adjunct at the time and not that much older than Billy. This isn’t high school; we were both consenting adults. I didn’t seduce him and we only began sleeping together after he left my class.”

I recalled the transcript.

“You gave him a ‘B.’”

She laughed.

“He didn’t seem to hold that against me. That’s one of the reasons I liked him. I shudder to think what our sex life would have been if I’d given him an ‘A’. Billy was a wonderful lover, much more experienced than I was.” She smiled. “At the time.”

I decided that if I were her husband, I wouldn’t spend too much time with my nose buried in a mystery novel.

“Did you know where he lived? Meet any of his family or friends?”

“No, he’d come to my apartment, and occasionally we’d go out for dinner or take in a movie. Billy was crazy about the movies. Always just the two of us. It only lasted a summer. It was what it was. A fling.”

“Who broke it up?”

“Billy did. He called me one day to say that he’d taken a job in Atlanta and was leaving almost immediately.”

“How did you feel?”

“Sad at first, then relieved.”

“And you didn’t keep in touch?”

“No calls, no cards, no flowers, no recriminations, no sleepless nights. I had an itch and Billy scratched it. We both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Now I’m a Sadie, Sadie married lady. With some great memories.”

I didn’t buy the Sadie routine. Justine Kaplan had crossed her legs several times during our conversation and each time had somehow inched closer to me on the bench. I didn’t know how she did that but a few more leg crossings and she’d be sitting on the other side of me. I have absolutely nothing against women of a certain age but I had my sights set elsewhere and I try not to get involved with married women – if I can help it. I stood abruptly and held out my hand.

“Thank you for your help, Professor.”

She took it well. There were a thousand other men walking around the campus.

“I’m not sure I’ve been all that helpful.” she said. “Have you spoken to any of Billy’s other instructors?

“There’s only one still around. Lancaster.”

Her laugh was sudden and harsh.

“Oh, I’ll bet Pierce will give you an earful.”

“He says he doesn’t remember him.”

“Bullshit! He’d never forget Billy. Hated him. Tried to flunk him out of school. Would have if the wrestling team didn’t need him so badly.”

“Why the animus. I know Lancaster doesn’t like jocks but that can’t be the reason.”

She smiled. I had seen that kind of smile before.

“I stopped seeing Pierce because of Billy. He found out. Might have made trouble for me but his record with his female students was just short of a scandal.”

That explained the “D”. Pierce the Precious was also Pierce the Prevaricator. Liar, liar, pants on fire. I’d get to him, but it was time to meet Alice Watts.

CHAPTER 11 – IN THE BEAR’S DEN

The old administration building was ivy central and had the requisite turrets. It was, as far as I knew, just called “the old administration building.” A sign outside said that it now housed the Department of Continuing Education. That was probably why the college kept the archaic Bear’s Den cafeteria open in the basement. Night school students could get cholesterol and caffeine fixes without having to tramp all the way across the campus.

Alice was already sitting at a table when I got to the Den, looking through some papers. She smiled when I walked up to her.

“Mr. Rhode, how are you?”

“Do you think we can work with Alton and Alice? After all we’ve seen each other almost naked.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like some coffee? Maybe something to eat.”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

She told me how she took it and I went over to the counter. I had been in the Bear’s Den a few times over the past 20 years and it looked exactly the same. As opposed to the modernity of the other dining halls, all chrome, glass, plastic and salad bars, the Den was decidedly retro. Its salad bar consisted of a head of lettuce, and some onions and tomatoes on a plate. To be fair, there was also a large jar of pickles. Hot dogs and the infamous “Grizzly Burgers” were the staples. The kids called them “Gristle Burgers” but in reality they were quite good, if artery clogging. There was also a small platter piled high with corn muffins. They smelled warm. I didn’t see a microwave.

“Fresh corn muffins?”

The elderly lady behind the counter, who also served as cashier, said, “Home made. Right out of the oven.”

“What oven?”

“Main cafeteria. They send them over. Want one?”

“Two. And two regular coffees”

There was a bowl of butter and jellies in those little mini-tubs that are hard to open and often frozen solid. I loaded up, to increase the odds of success. When I got back to the table, Alice Watts looked at the tray.

“Those who ignore fresh corn muffins,” I said, “are doomed to regret it.”

“I love corn muffins.”

She broke off a piece of a muffin and put some butter and jelly on it. She had no trouble opening the packets. She looked at me. My fingernails were stubbier than hers. I was using a plastic knife on a butter tub when she reached across and opened it for me. Then another and a couple of jellies for good measure. I thought about proposing on the spot but instead just took it from there and fixed up the muffins myself. We drank coffee and ate while we chatted. Much to my disappointment, she finished her entire muffin. I put the proposal on hold.

Alice Watts was easy to talk to. And look at. She was wearing a mint green V-necked paisley merino wool sweater and dark gray boot-cut slacks. Her only jewelry was a large silver Perreti heart on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were light gray above a strong nose, wide mouth and pointed chin. It was a face with many disparate parts that shouldn’t have all worked together but did.

She was originally from Mission Viejo, California, and won a scholarship to UCLA.

“You must have been a hell of a swimmer.”

“Actually, it was an academic scholarship,” she said. “But I made the UCLA team as a “swim on.”

“You must have been pretty good.”

“I was, in high school,” she said. “Mission Viejo is known for producing world-class swimmers. I grew up with some kids who medaled at the Olympics a few years back. But by the time I got to college I was a couple of seconds behind my peers. At that level, a second is a light year. But I managed to get in a couple of relays my senior year.”

“How did you end up here?”

“I wanted to be a novelist and NYU offered a Masters in Creative Writing. My boyfriend wanted to make his fortune on Wall Street. We moved to Greenwich Village.”

“How did that work out?”

“Fine, for a few years. Actually, almost nine years. I got the masters and Kevin landed a good job at Merrill Lynch. We married. I stayed home and wrote. Sold a few short stories. Finished a novel, which I have in a drawer somewhere. We thought about starting a family, until we both realized that trying to salvage a marriage wasn’t a good reason for having a child.”

She suddenly looked startled.

“Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

“I’m a detective. You probably figured I’d pull a rubber hose and find out anyway. You owe me, anyway.”

“Owe you? Why?”

“You weren’t supposed to eat your whole corn muffin. So you might as well tell me the rest.”

“No much more to tell. We’d grown apart. He wanted to move to Mamaroneck with all his bond buddies. I wanted to stay in the Village. We divorced. It was amicable. We exchange cards at Christmas. Financially, he treated me well. But I still needed a job if I wanted to keep my apartment in the city. A friend mentioned that there was an adjunct position available here to teach Philosophy, which was what I majored in at UCLA, and I applied, and here I am. I’m working toward my doctorate and was given tenure last year.”

“Congratulations. Are you going to stay with the swim program?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I got the teaching position because they noticed my swimming background on my resume and they needed a coach. I don’t really need the extra money anymore, but I love it. A lot of the kids in the Performing Arts Department take philosophy because they think it will help them understand their characters. Some of them are so bright and committed it’s frightening. They energize me.”

“Are you still writing?”

“Not as much as I thought I’d be able to. Teachers have plenty of time off. But with the coaching and my commute to the city, it hasn’t worked out. I often stay on campus on weekends. They let me keep some clothes and things in one of the old dorm rooms. That’s why you saw me so early on Saturday. Something has to give, soon, I know. I’m afraid it may be the swim team.”

“What is your novel about?”

She shook her head.

“Sorry. I like you, but I don’t know you well enough to talk about that. In fact, I realize that I hardly know you at all. Now it’s your turn.”

The small room had begun to fill up. Most of the patrons looked like teachers or college staffers. It occurred to me that we had talked well into the lunch hour. I could smell and hear meat grilling in the serving area.

“Sure. But before we get to that, I’m hungry. Could I talk you into joining me in suicide by Grizzly Burgers?”

She crossed her legs and smiled at me.

“Could I talk you into splitting one,” she said.

“With fries?”

“Extra crispy?”

“Jesus, you’re a tough negotiator.”

“Look who’s talking. I only wanted a cup of coffee.”

The burger was just as I’d remembered it, piled high with several layers of meat and cheese, as well as onions, tomatoes, lettuce and pickles. Cutting it in half qualified as major surgery. I felt that I should have tied off a few bleeders. Unlike me, Alice Watts somehow managed to eat her portion without juice dripping down her chin.

“I’ll have to swim the Narrows to work this off,” she said.

I told her about myself. She was one of those people who really concentrate on the person talking, and don’t interrupt needlessly. But she seemed to sense things that I’d left out, and tried to get me to talk about them.

“Maybe when you can tell me about your book,” I said at one point.

“Touché. But just one thing. Are there any other wounds I should know about?”

“You saw me in a bathing suit. Not much to hide. Are you thinking of
The Sun Also Rises
? I didn’t think anyone read Hemingway anymore. Would Jake Barnes waste a Grizzly Burger on mere friendship? Believe me, my intentions are purely dishonorable.”

Alice Watts colored.

“No. I didn’t mean that. I meant. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot for even mentioning it.”

“You want to know if I suffered emotional damage.”

“Please, forget I even brought it up.”

“Alice, I’m about the same as I was before I left.” I smiled. “Some people would say that’s what you should worry about.”

Her eyes drifted over my shoulder as I felt someone approach. She smiled but I could tell it was forced. I knew who it was before she said, “Hello Pierce.”

Lancaster sat down without asking.

“You remember Alton, don’t you?”

Not “Mr. Rhode.” That was a good sign.

“Yes. The gumshoe.”

Shamus. Gumshoe. I was beginning to think I was in a Dashiell Hammett novel. I scowled, trying to look the part, which is hard to do with Grizzly Burger drippings on your shirt. So I went back to my pleasant smile. It didn’t matter. Lancaster was ignoring me. He wouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d had an entire burger. My shirt would have resembled the Shroud of Turin.

“Why aren’t you in the faculty lounge?”

“This was more convenient,” Alice said. I could tell she didn’t like to be interrogated by him.

Now he looked at me.

“And why are you here?”

I, on the other hand, relish being interrogated by a pantywaist academic. It offers so many opportunities.

“I heard it had the best yoghurt and salad bar on campus.”

“It has neither.”

Lancaster was not into irony.

“I was misinformed.” It wasn’t a very good Bogart but Lancaster probably didn’t know that. He was seated with one booted foot on the table. I suppressed an urge to knock it off. He was dressed much the same as he had been at the cocktail party. He probably thought every female on campus wanted to jump his bones. And would be privileged to do so. I wanted to ask him what he was doing in the Bear’s Den but didn’t want to embarrass Alice. He’d probably been looking for her. Instead I said, “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered if William Capriati was ever one of your students.”

Lancaster tried for a bored look, but I sensed there was something else behind it.

“I haven’t given it a thought.”

“Do you keep records?”

“Not that far back.”

“The registrar’s office probably does,” Alice said. “Isn’t that right, Pierce?”

Lancaster shot her a look.

“Yes, I suppose so. But what is your interest in an old student?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information.”

Actually it wasn’t. Ellen James wouldn’t care who knew about Capriati if it would help locate him in time. But Lancaster had lied to me. Letting him stew about my motives might prove productive. How, I didn’t know. But hunches often have to do when clues are scarce. I didn’t want to confront him in front of Alice, so I said, “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it professor. As you said, your field was probably too esoteric for a wrestler. By the way, what is your field?”

I think he was relieved I didn’t call him “Pierce,” because he answered me.

“Theoretical Modern History. I hope to set up a separate department devoted to it.”

“Theoretical Modern History?”

I suspected that was a curriculum that predated President Bradley coming on board.

“Yes,” he said. “Traditional history is an overrated and dangerous discipline that ties us to outdated thinking and leads to misguided political decisions.” I shouldn’t have called him “Professor.” Now he had a full head of steam. “There is a new cultural paradigm that obviates the need for studying the histories written by the victors. We should be looking at what their victims can tell us about ourselves and our world.”

“I thought that those who ignore history,” I said, “are doomed to repeat it.”

He almost yawned.

“Quoting Santayana is typical of what the stunted, or should I say ignorant, so-called students of history believe.”

I heard Alice draw in her breath. Punching gasbag academics would be a full-time job, so I settled on delivering a devastating riposte.     

“Actually, Pierce, I was paraphrasing Edmund Burke, as Santayana did.”

“Whatever.” He looked at his watch. It was one of those out-doorsey chronographs with a thick leather strap and more buttons than an old car radio. “I have a meeting in Tolentine. I’ll call you later, Alice.”

He uncurled himself from his chair and walked away. Alice and I were silent for a moment. Then she said, “I presume you aren’t carrying a gun today.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You didn’t shoot Pierce.”

I spilled some coffee laughing at that.

“Actually, I am carrying. I’m hoping to impress you with my restraint.”

“And the Edmund Burke reference.”

“That, too. Did it work?”

“I don’t eat Grizzly burgers with just anybody.”

I walked her to her next class. She commented on my limp.

“The docs say it will be gone in a couple of weeks. I’m exaggerating it to gain sympathy from you. I thought crutches would be overkill.”

We reached her building. Students were streaming in and out. I told her I wanted to see her again.