Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“Can I help you?”

That same modulated voice, now obviously coming from a striking woman of forty standing behind the desk, a large-format book in her hand showing three more wolves on its cover. She stood about five-five if she didn’t wear heels, with dishwater blond hair that fell to her shoulders. If this was the associate professor on my list, though, she believed in coming to school in sweats with Corbin’s name and mascot on the shirt.

“Jillian Wayne?”

“Doctor Wayne, actually. Who are you?”

I’ve always thought that people who lead with their titles must wonder if they’re worthy of them. “John Cuddy.” I took out my ID holder and crossed the room toward her. Cradling the wolf book, Wayne came out from behind the desk to take it, and I could tell she was wearing just sneakers below the sweats. In profile, she also had that nose-pointed-at-chin feature that might remind you of clan Kennedy in Hyannis Port.

Handing the holder back to me, Wayne said, “A private investigator? Let me guess. Tammy?”

“Right the first time.”

A smile that could have been sly or coy. “An easy deduction. I’m afraid Brant’s daughter is the only one who sees conspiracy beyond tragedy.”

“Conspiracy?”

“Oh, no,” said Wayne, using the side of her free hand to slide some other books over and put the one she was holding back on the shelf, if in a slightly different spot than it seemed to occupy originally. “No, I don’t mean in some legal sense of cabal. Just that there’s more to the incident beyond some drug addict gone berserk when Brant surprised him in the act of robbing his loft.”

“You’ve been there, then?”

Wayne stopped with the books and turned toward me. “I’m sorry?”

“You didn’t say Dr. Sinclair’s ‘house’ or ‘apartment.’ You specified his ‘loft.’ ”

That ambiguous smile again, and a little swing in the hips as she turned back to choose another volume to rearrange. “I see I’ll have to watch my vocabulary around you, sir. But yes, last Christmas, Brant hosted a holiday party for the Science department, and I attended.”

“Dr. Sinclair’s daughter seems to think that if it wasn’t a burglary gone violent, you might have some information on who would have a reason to see him dead.”

“Does she?” A light laugh, like a minor riffle on a garden pond. “No, Mr. — I’m sorry. Is it ‘Curry’?”

She’d read it off my license. “Cuddy, with two d’s .”

“Well, Mr. Cud dy, I suppose I’d have the most ‘reason to see him dead,’ since I’ll now be the head of our department and probably be elevated to full professor as well. However, I also have the least reason, since without Brant, Zoology will have a much harder time seeking — both within Corbin and without — funds for research.”

“Because?”

“Because, in zoological circles, the man was a giant. ‘Brant the Grant,’ a lightning rod for attracting money.” Wayne motioned toward the tableau of stuffed animals at the hearth. “As colonists, we killed this magnificent beast off, and now, thanks to people like Brant Sinclair, there’s renewed interest in them, and renewed enthusiasm for averting their extinction.”

“You’re a wolf expert, too, then?”

“No.” Another rippling laugh. “No, an institution the size of Corbin is lucky to have a Zoology department at all. We certainly couldn’t afford two professors with the same subspecialty. But Brant’s absence will mean that he won’t be bringing in the outside funding for his projects that allowed all our inside funding to be spent on mine and others’ efforts.”

“Maybe even close the department down?”

A frown. “No, Mr. Cuddy. Whatever gave you that idea?”

I gestured at her clothing. “You look like you’re dressed for clearing Dr. Sinclair’s things out of here.”

Wayne looked down at herself, then back up at me. “Dressed more for ‘sorting’ his collection, toward reducing it to the most valuable volumes for a special section of our library.”

“And after which,” I glanced around the spacious, desirable space, “who gets this office?”

The sly/coy smile again. “I’m hoping I will. Which also brings us rather full circle, to my ‘reason for wanting Brant dead,’ and makes it time for you to leave so I can complete my task and you can get on with yours.”

Picturing my client’s list, I said, “Any suggestions where I might go next?”

“There’s a former student whom Brant scuttled by not approving his thesis topic.” Wayne tapped a finger to her pointed chin. “In fact, I’ve heard the young man’s now tending bar at an establishment two blocks down from Corbin’s front gate. Now, talk about a reason.”

Maybe more fox than wolf, Dr. Jillian Wayne, but definitely found within the “predator” band of the animal spectrum.

My client’s list showed the name of that tavern where the former student, James Odom, supposedly now worked. Approaching the place — and stepping around two sleeping drunks and one aggressive panhandler with a serial-killer’s tic in his eye — I hoped young Mr. Odom could take care of himself.

Inside, the lineoleum was tacky and as colorless as indoor-outdoor carpeting. More stale beer than urine hung in the air, but not by much. The bar itself started about three feet inside the door and on the left wall; some chipped and faded wooden booths with shabby upsholstery shared the right one.

I moved toward a vacant stool a few seats away from a black guy in an MBTA motorman’s outfit on my left and two burly whites wearing near-rags on my right, but with a six-pack’s worth of empty long-necked Buds standing before them.

The raggedy guy closer to me aimed his voice downward. “Hey, Jim, let’s have another round.”

“The name’s James,” from below bar level, “and you’re both past your limit.”

Taking the stool, I could see the bartender, squatting under the bottom shelf of hard liquor with his back to me, loading a metal cabinet from a case of ale. I guessed he heard the movement and rustle of my clothes behind him. When he rose and turned, I decided James Odom could indeed take care of himself.

Head shaved and shining in even the tavern’s poor lighting, Odom went about six-four and two-thirty, an inch taller than I am, twenty pounds heavier, and I didn’t even want to think how many years younger.

The white guy closer to me wouldn’t give it up. “I told you we’ll have another round, boy.”

The MBTA motorman quietly said, “Say your prayers, man.”

Odom acted the way I was thinking, that the guy to my left was speaking to the two whites, not the bartender. Then Odom’s eyes left me and turned to the slur. “Get your sorry asses out of here or I’ll put the two of you through that door.”

The white guy doing all the talking took one of his empty Bud bottles by its neck and smashed the base on the bar, coming up with a nasty weapon for gouging and disfiguring. Back in the military police, I’d been taught how to deal with such, but this wasn’t my place, much less my fight.

Odom acted like it was his. Taking a wipe-towel from the sink in front of him, he wrapped it tight around his right hand, which to me meant he was a lefty. Then Odom vaulted on his flat left palm over the bar, catching the surprised and beer-slowed guy in the shoulder with the ball of his foot. The guy went over as Odom landed catlike on the linoleum. The guy’s friend, though, dropped off his stool and scooped the broken bottle into his own right hand, coming up quickly to jab at Odom with it.

Odom used his towel-wrapped hand to parry the first two thrusts, then on the third brought both forearms together in an X, the white guy’s wrist being caught at the cross formed by Odom’s wrists. The bartender pivoted to the side, brought the second white guy’s arm up behind his back, and snapped it at the shoulder.