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His face looked so blank. Slack. Old, though he was barely into his sixties. He stumbled into his office, the one overlooking Endicott River. If he opened the windows, he could hear the roar of the falls.
He saw and heard none of this. Just booted up the computer, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Office of Undergraduate Studies,” said a crisp, female voice.
“Eileen? Hello, this is Sidney Beck,” he said, in his best hearty, jovial tone. “I hope you had a lovely summer.”
“Hello, Professor! I did, thanks. Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, in fact. Would you e-mail me the academic records of one of my former students? I have a friend who’s interviewing her for a job.”
“Why, certainly, Professor. What’s the name?”
“Cynthia Riggs,” he said.
“One moment.” He listened to Muzak, foot tapping compulsively.
Eileen came back on the line. “Professor? Are you sure you’ve got the right person? This girl was a music major. And on her transcript, I see that she barely passed the course she took from you.”
“Actually, ah, my friend is a musician,” he improvised.
“Ah. I see. Well, I’m sending the file. Do you want the photo?”
He was startled. “You have a photo?”
“We have a photo on file of all our students. Do you want it?”
“Uh, why, yes,” he said distractedly. “Please, send it along.”
And there it was, in his inbox. He opened the jpg, and stared at Cynthia’s pretty face. He thought of how warm the skin of her shoulders had been. How in a couple of days, that warm skin would be stone cold.
That curvy, slender body, laid out on a coroner’s table.
He was going to hell anyway. It didn’t matter anymore what sins he committed. And besides, no one had forced that idiot girl to ask her stupid questions. He’d done nothing. She’d brought it all on herself.
He dialed. The phone was promptly answered. “Beck?”
“Yes! Dr. Osterman? How are you? I haven’t heard from you in—”
“Cut right to it, Beck,” Osterman said. “I’m very busy.”
Beck swallowed his anger at the man’s arrogance. “Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat, and laughed nervously. “I thought you might like to know about an odd visit I got, from a former student of mine. She was asking questions about Kevin McCloud.”
Osterman waited. “What questions? Who is she? Spit it out.”
“She asked about the Midnight Project,” Beck blurted out.
The quality of Osterman’s silence changed. It made Beck feel guilty. As if this mess were his fault. “She said she found his notebook. She wants to write a book.” He laughed again. “I doubt her interest runs very deep, knowing the young lady in question,” he babbled. “Not the brightest bulb, though she does compensate in other ways—”
“Her name, Beck. Don’t waste my time.”
He stared at the girl’s bright smile and took another step towards the crackling flames. “Cynthia Riggs. She’s teaching up at the Colfax. Probably staying in student summer housing. I…I have a photo.”
“Send it. What else do you have?”
Beck studied the files. “Academic records, parents’ address—”
“Send it all.” Osterman had a smug, satisfied tone. “I don’t have to tell you how important discretion is, do I?”
