Steven James - The Knight

“Well, you made copies, right?”

“Privacy rights. We can open the mail, inspect it, but we can’t copy anything. ACLU would have a field day with that. Sorry.”

“What about outgoing mail?”

“Same deal.”

For the second time that day, I cussed.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“All right, thanks. Have a good lunch.”

“I wish I could be of more help.” As Warden Schuler said the words, his voice slipped from the annoyance I’d heard at the beginning of the call into a tense kind of uneasiness. “In sixteen years of doing this, Agent Bowers, he’s the worst I’ve seen. Put him away. At the trial, I mean. Don’t let him-”

“I won’t,” I said and ended the call.

With Basque’s letters destroyed, there was no way to verify that John had ever written to him, but still, Basque had known who I was talking about right away when I mentioned Renaissance literature so I figured that somehow, they’d been in touch.

John.

Giovanni.

Since the murders were in Denver, and Kurt had told me that the only college in the region that offered medieval literature courses on The Decameron was DU, it seemed probable to me that John-or Giovanni, or whatever his name was-would have taken one of those classes.

When I arrived home I went directly to my desk, tapped the spacebar, and woke up my laptop.

According to our information, Dr. Bryant, the professor who taught the classes on Boccaccio, was in Phoenix yesterday. It’s tough living in the twenty-first century without leaving electronic footprints everywhere you go, so I accessed the Federal Digital Database, and surfed to the FAA’s flight manifest records. Then I checked the passenger lists from all the airlines that fly into or out of the Denver International Airport and the Colorado Springs Airport for yesterday and today, but I didn’t find the name Adrian Bryant on any of them.

I expanded my search to include any arrivals or departures over the last twenty days.

Still nothing.

So unless Professor Bryant drove to Phoenix or flew under analias, it looked like our local Boccaccio expert never went to his conference.

Interesting.

It took me less than three minutes to do an online search and find out that Dr. Bryant wasn’t married, lived alone, and didn’t own a landline, so it was a good thing for me the National Security Agency keeps searchable records of all the cell numbers and subscriber names from the mobile phone companies operating in North America.

The Bureau’s cybercrime division works closely with NSA, so I called them, and a few moments later, I had Bryant’s cell number and verification that the GPS location for both his phone and his 2009 BMW 328i sedan were currently at his home address. I told them to monitor the GPS locations and call me if either moved in the next thirty minutes.

To confirm that Bryant was at home with his cell, I tapped in his number, and after he picked up I asked if he wanted to purchase a free vacation package He hung up without even pointing out that I’d offered him a chance to buy something that was free.

So, he was at the house. Good.

Sometimes I wonder how crimes were ever solved before we had computers.

A quick look at the clock-11:14 a.m. I needed to be at police headquarters by 1:00, so considering where Bryant lived in Littleton, it might be cutting it close, but I figured I’d have just enough time to drive over, meet with the professor, and make it back in time for Jake’s sure-to-be-scintillating briefing.

I made one final call from behind the wheel of my car, and after Cheyenne answered I invited her to join me, and she agreed-as long as I could swing by and get her. “All right,” I said. “This time I’ll pick you up.” And then, realizing how I’d phrased that, I added, “In my car. For the case. To catch the bad guy.”

“Right.” I heard a smile in her voice. “I’ll see you in a few.”

Even though Tessa was a fast reader, she was taking her time working her way through her mother’s diary.

In a way, reading the entries felt a little weird, like an invasion of her mom’s personal space, sort of like stepping into Patrick’s bedroom, but way more private. More intimate.

In addition, her mom never used any last names in the diary. Maybe it was a way of protecting people’s privacy. Hard to know, but it added a cryptic touch to every entry, and Tessa liked that.

Most of the early entries dealt with her mom’s struggles relating to her parents (whom Tessa had met when she was younger, but who’d died before she was six), her boy problems, and overcoming the loneliness and isolation she often felt as a senior in high school. Even her thoughts of suicide.

Not a whole lot different than you.

Tessa knew that sometimes girls reach a point in their relationships with their mothers where they become almost like sisters. She’d never had the chance to experience that with her mom when she was still alive, but now, reading these entries she found herself feeling close to her in a way she’d never felt before.

And of course, with each entry she came closer and closer to the winter day of her mother’s sophomore year in college when she was conceived.

She tried not to think too much about that, and to just take the entries one at a time, but with every page it was getting harder and harder not to wonder when her father’s real name might appear.

As Cheyenne and I drove to Professor Bryant’s house, we reviewed everything that had gone down during the morning. Kurt had already told her about Bennett’s death and John’s phone call to me, so I focused instead on summarizing my conversation with Richard Basque.

“It looks like you do have a fan, after all,” Cheyenne said. “Maybe two.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s very possible Basque wrote Giovanni back-that they’re closely acquainted. And that would open up all sorts of interesting possibilities.”

I had to think about that.

And I did, all during the drive.

In fact, her words were still cycling through my head when we arrived at Dr. Bryant’s subdivision on the outskirts of Littleton.

I parked across the street from Bryant’s red brick home.

Cybercrime hadn’t called me back to tell me his cell’s location had moved, and since his BMW was still in his driveway, I figured he was probably still here as well.

Cheyenne rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later a blond man wearing Chaco sport sandals, a gray T-shirt, and Patagonia shorts answered the door.

“Dr. Bryant?” I said.

“Yes?” Caucasian. Mid to late forties. Lean. Athletic. A tanned face, taut and wind-lashed. He looked like he’d spent the last twenty years backpacking and running marathons instead of lecturing at a university.

I showed him my ID. “I’m Special Agent Bowers with the FBI, and this is Detective Warren with the Denver Police Department.

We’re wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

He let his eyes drift from me to Cheyenne. Then back to me.

“What does this concern?”

“An ongoing investigation,” Cheyenne said.

“May we come in?” I asked.

He looked like he might object but then said curtly, “Of course.”

Once inside, I surveyed his living room. New furniture that looked like it had never been used. No television. A violin and music stand in the corner. The smell of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen, still percolating. Good coffee, the kind they serve at Rachel’s Cafe. A collection of medieval swords and daggers hung prominently on the wall.

A sword had been used to kill Tatum Maroukas on Wednesday.

“That’s an impressive sword collection,” I said.

“Thank you.”

No, Pat, think about it. John would never have used a sword that could be linked to him. He’s too smart for that.