Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

I nodded. “Was this after he asked you out or before?”

“After. The creep. It was obviously his way of getting back at me. Three separate times he asked me, three times I told him no. Three strikes and you're out, right? But he wouldn't accept it. Everywhere I'd go I'd turn around and he'd be looking at me. A creepy look. It was really starting to get to me.”

“Was this all over campus?”

“No, only the library,” she said. “As if the library was his little den. He probably stayed down there looking for women to spook, because there was no other reason for him to be there. He's an engineering major and engineering has its own library.”

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I'm not paranoid, I've always been able to take care of myself. But this was horrible. I couldn't concentrate. School's tough enough without getting so distracted. Why should I have to deal with that, too? But I wouldn't have had the courage to do anything about it without Professor Devane.”

She bit back tears. “It's such an incredible loss! So unfair!”

She rolled the bike faster.

“Has Huang stopped bothering you?”

“Yes. So God bless Professor Devane and to hell with the administration for caving in.”

“Who'd they cave in to?”

“What I heard was there was a rich alumnus who ordered them to shut it down.” She thrust her jaw out. “Is Huang dangerous?”

“Not that we've learned so far.”

Her laugh was unsteady. “Well, that's really comforting.”

“So you're still worried about him.”

“I really wasn't- we pass each other on campus sometimes and I feel empowered. But then I start thinking about Professor Devane's murder. Could it have been something to do with the committee? And I just get sick.”

We walked a bit before she said, “When I start to get anxious, I think back to something Professor Devane told me: Harassers are underassertive cowards, that's why they sneak around. The key is to face up to them, show your inner strength. Which is what I do when I see Huang. But look what happened to her.”

The bike came to a skidding halt so sudden she had to pull back to maintain balance. “The fact that she could become victimized enrages me! I've got to find a way to make something good out of it- is there any chance it could be Huang?”

“He seems to have an excellent alibi.”

“So at least you took him seriously enough to investigate him. Good. Let him know what it feels like to be under scrutiny. But if you don't suspect him, why are you talking to me?”

“I'm after any information I can get about Professor Devane. People she was close to, her activities, anyone she might have angered.”

“Well, we weren't close. We only spoke a couple of times- before the hearing and after, when she coached me on how to handle myself. She was incredibly kind. So understanding. As if she really knew. ”

“About harassment?”

“About what it felt like to be the victim.”

“Did she talk about having been a victim?”

“No, nothing like that. Just empathy- genuine empathy, not someone trying to fake it.”

The blue eyes were unwavering.

“She was an amazing woman. I'll never forget her.”

Tessa Bowlby's dorm was one of several six-story boxes propped at the northwest edge of the U's sprawling acreage. A big wooden sign on posts said STUDENT HOUSING, NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING. The landscaping was rolling lawn and bearded coco palms. Just down the road was the cream-stucco-and-smoked-glass recreation center where Philip Seacrest and Hope Devane had met, years ago.

I parked in a loading zone at the side of the building, entered the lobby, and walked up to the front desk. A black woman in her twenties sat underlining a book with a thick pink marker. Her lips were the same shade of pink. Behind her was a switchboard. It blinked and beeped and as she turned to take the call she noticed me. Her book was full of fine print and pie graphs. I read the title, upside down. Fundamentals of Economics.

Plugging the board, she faced me. “Can I help you?”

“Tessa Bowlby, please.”

She slid over a sheaf of papers. Typed list of names. The B's began on the second page and continued onto the third. She checked twice before shaking her head.

“Sorry, no one by that name.”

“Tessa might be a nickname.”

She inspected me and looked again. “No Bowlbys at all. Try another dorm.”

I checked all of them. Same results.

Maybe Tessa had moved off-campus. Students did it all the time. But combined with the fear I'd seen in her eyes, plus her reduced workload, it added up to escape.

I used a pay phone in the last dorm to call Milo, wondering if he had her home address and wanting to tell him about the holes in Cruvic's training. He was away and the cell phone didn't answer, either. Maybe he'd found another three-stab murder or something else that would make my train of thought irrelevant.

Driving away from the U, I pulled into the first filling station I found in Westwood Village. The phone booth was a tilting aluminum wreck, but a Westside directory dangled under the phone, coverless and shredded, lots of pages missing. The page with all the Bowlbys was there.

All two of them:

Bowlby, T. J., Venice, no address listed.

Bowlby, Walter E., Mississippi Avenue in West L.A.

L.A.'s a random toss of residential pickup sticks, and with a dozen directories covering the county, the odds of either Bowlby being related to Tessa were low. But I went with what I had, starting with Walter on Mississippi because he was closer.

Very close. Between Santa Monica Boulevard and Olympic, just a mile or so south of the University, in a district of small postwar homes and a few much larger fantasy projects.

Garbage day in the neighborhood. Overflowing cans and corpulent lawn bags shouted out pride of consumption. Squirrels scavenged nervously. At night, their rat cousins would take over. Years ago the people of California had voted to reduce predatory property-tax rates and the politicians had meted out punishment by eliminating rodent control and other services. Like tree trimming. Money seemed to be available for other things, though: Last year after a storm I'd watched a thirteen-man city crew take four entire days to chop down and haul half a fallen pine.

Walter Bowlby's residence was a tan bungalow with a black shingle roof. The lawn was shaved close as a Marine recruit, more gray than green. A wide front porch played host to potted plants, an aluminum chair, and a small blue bike with training wheels. An old brown Ford Galaxie sat in the driveway. I walked up a strip of cement to the door. An enamel plaque, the kind you get at a carnival or an amusement park, said THE BOWLBYS! No one answered the bell or my knock.

I was back in the Seville and about to drive away when a blue-and-white van approached from Olympic and pulled in behind the Ford. Two bumper stickers: GO DODGERS. BUY UNION. It came to a smoking, shuddering stop and the driver's door opened.

A dark-mustachioed, bowlegged man in his forties got out. He wore a white nylon polo shirt with a horizontal green stripe that Milo would have liked, pleated off-white pants, and black work shoes. His arms were thick and sunburned but his frame was narrow. The beginnings of a gut swelled the green stripe and a cigarette pack pouched his shirt pocket. Twirling his car keys, he stood there examining the lawn, then he touched the cigarettes, as if to make sure they were still there, and turned as Tessa Bowlby came out of the front passenger door.

She looked to be wearing the same dark, baggy sweater and pipestem jeans I'd seen her in at the Psych Tower, and her complexion was even chalkier. She kept her back to the mustachioed man and slid open the van's rear door, allowing a pleasant-looking gray-haired woman in a red tank top and jeans to climb out. The woman looked tired. Gray hair but a young face. In her arms was a black-haired boy around four.