“I have to go,” Neil said. “I’m on my way to a crime scene.”
“Is it a brownstone on the Upper East Side with a red door?”
“Do you have a police scanner?”
“Yeah. About six foot three, dark suit, lots of freckles—”
“I get it.”
“How long are you going to be?” I asked.
“Why’s it matter?”
I moved to the front door of the building. “It doesn’t matter. Call me when you’re out of there, will you?”
Neil let out a breath. “Don’t do anything illegal until then, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” I ended the call and stepped inside.
Being in a college atmosphere after nearly a decade was… odd. Especially being surrounded by a lot of young-somethings, who were far more hip-looking and put-together than I was now, let alone when I’d been their age. Memories resurfaced as I peered around the lobby. I’d met my second boyfriend—Brian—in this building. On the stairs, actually. I’d tripped and done the classic flail-and-fall, dropping all my books and a take-out container of chicken fingers. He’d helped me collect everything and bought me a new lunch. It was one of the only nice acts he’d done for me in the year and a half we dated. But that was neither here nor there.
I went to the security desk and set my stack of books on the counter. “Sebastian Snow for Dr. Bill Freidman.”
The guard, sitting in front of a few security monitors and a computer screen, began clicking as he searched the daily visitor log. “May I see your ID, please?”
“Sure.” I took out my nondriver’s license from my wallet and handed it over.
He did the look at me, look at the bad-hair-day photo, back to me, then the photo one last time for good measure before returning it. “Sign in here,” he said, passing me a clipboard.
I did as instructed, stuck a visitor sticker to my shirt, and collected my books.
“Do you need directions?” he asked.
“Ah, no—he’s still on the fourth floor, right?”
“419B, that’s right.”
“Thanks,” I answered, then went to the elevator. There was a sleepy-looking, summer-classes crowd waiting outside the doors—earphones in, coffees in hand, and some texting one-handed quicker than I could while utilizingboththumbs.
Not worth the wait. I could do with the walk anyway.
I turned around, went across the lobby, and hoofed it up the stairs. At the second floor, I remembered how steep the steps were and why I’d always had a tendency to trip. By the third, I was out of breath. Upon reaching the landing of the fourth floor, I just hated myself entirely. I walked through a small sitting area, went down a tight hallway, passed the office in question, then walked backward a few steps. The books felt like boat anchors in my arms. I shifted them and knocked on the door.
“Come in” was the muffled response.
I turned the knob and poked my head inside. “Dr. Freidman?”
I took a few steps into the tiny office. It was stacked to the gills with movies. The walls from floor to ceiling housed a collection of films on both DVD and VHS that was more impressive than the school’s own film library. And in precarious piles here, there, and nearly everywhere were canisters of footage on 16- and 35mm, media players, and projector parts. Near the window was a desk cluttered with stacks of paperwork and a hunched-over professor who didn’t appear to have aged a single day since my last encounter with him. And behind his chair were shelves so heavily loaded with books, they were leaningever so slightlyto the right.
Dr. Bill Freidman glanced up from his computer. He still wore the little rounded spectacles I remembered from school, and had the same salt-and-pepper beard. “Mr. Snow.” He smiled a little and leaned back in his chair. “Film History. Theory and Criticism. First row, sunglasses, magnifying glass, and a know-it-all attitude.”
I sat down across from him.
“Now I remember you,” Freidman concluded.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I answered. “How’re your summer courses?”
“The same as every year. Fresh young minds eager to learn, argue, and sleep during lectures. You said you had footage in connection to William Dickson?”
