Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

“Just the opposite. You pissed him off once – maybe that can be harnessed.”

SIMON DE MAARTENS lived on Third Street, north of Rose. The beach was a short walk west. Crossing Rose brought you into gang territory.

The block was filled with tiny houses, some divided. Intermittent bright spots – fresh paint, brand-new skylights, flower beds, staked saplings – said gentrification had arrived. De Maartens’s abode was a brown-stucco, side-by-side duplex with a gray lawn, curling tar-paper roof, and flaking woodwork. The blue VW van in its driveway was patched and primered. Its rear bumper sagged, and so did the independent wealth hypothesis.

“Doesn’t look as if he’s been seduced by externals,” said Milo. “Life of the mind and all that?”

“Could be.” I realized the same could be said of Benjamin Dugger: Newport and Brentwood offices but a frayed lapel.

Not exactly the high rollers I’d conjured when imagining Lauren spirited away to some Casbah.

He switched off the engine. “How about I do the talking, and work you in as needed?”

“Sounds good to me.”

We were halfway to de Maartens’s front door when loud barking came from the brown house and a big, yellow face parted the curtains of the front window. Some kind of retriever. Steady barking but no enmity – announcing our presence without passing judgment. The door began opening before we got there, and a young, red-haired woman smiled out at us.

She was tall and solidly built, wore a black T-shirt and green drawstring pants, held a paintbrush in one hand. Wet, blue bristles. Her hair was the color of fresh rust, cut in a pageboy that hung to midneck, the bangs perfectly straight above inquisitive hazel eyes. The pants were baggy but the shirt was tight, accentuating a soft, friendly bosom and generous shoulders. Nice coating of flesh everywhere except for her hands, which were slim and white, with tendril fingers. The smell of turpentine blew through the doorway, along with classical music – something with woodwinds. No sign of the yellow dog. The woman had stopped smiling.

“Police, ma’am,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “Are you Mrs. de Maartens?”

“Anika.” Pronouncing her name as if it were required for border crossing. “I thought you were UPS.” “Thought” came out “taut.” Her accent was thicker than her husband’s, harder around the edges. Or maybe that was anxiety. Who likes the police on a sunny afternoon?

“Expecting a delivery?”

“I – I’m supposed to get art supplies. From back home. Was there a crime somewhere on the block?”

“No, everything’s fine. Where’s back home?”

“Holland… Why are you here?”

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am, we just wanted to talk to Professor de Maartens. Is he in?”

“You want to talk to Simon? About what?”

“A student of his.”

“A student?”

“It’s better if we talk to the professor directly, Mrs. de Maartens. Is he in?”

“Yes, yes, I go get him, hold on.”

She left the door open and headed toward the music. A big butter-colored form materialized. Heavy jowls, small bright eyes, short coat, droopy ears. Retriever mix, a splash of mastiff somewhere in the bloodline.

The dog regarded us for a second, then followed Anika de Maartens. Returned moments later with a man in tow. Man and beast walking in synchrony, the master’s hand resting lightly on the animal’s neck.

“I’m Simon. What is it?”

De Maartens was six feet tall and heavyset, with a whiskey-colored crew cut and a ruddy, bulb-nosed, thick-lipped face, as close to spherical as I’d seen on a human. Despite his clothing – gray sweatshirt, blue cutoffs, rubber beach sandals – he looked like a Rembrandt burgher, and I half-expected him to whip out a clay pipe.

“Detective Sturgis,” said Milo, extending a hand.

De Maartens looked past it, kept coming toward us. “Yes?” The sound of his voice made the dog’s ears perk.

Milo began repeating his name.

“I heard you,” said de Maartens. “I’m not deaf.” Smiling, as he and the dog stopped at the threshold. His head turned from side to side, and he stared blankly, settling on the space between Milo and me. That’s when I saw his eyes: black crescents set in bluish sockets so deep they appeared to have been scooped out of his flesh. Immobile crescents, the merest sliver of black showing through dull black, no gleam of pupil.

A blind man.

The psychophysics of vision in primates. The Braille Institute Award.

He said, “This is about the girl – Lauren.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some of my students I do know,” said de Maartens. “The ones who ask questions, visit during office hours. Voices that recur.” He touched his ear. The dog looked up at him adoringly. “Lauren Teague was not one of them. She got an A in the class – a very high A, so perhaps she did not need to ask questions. I can produce her exams when I return to my office next week. But right now, I am on vacation and I do not see why I need to be bothered. What can you hope to learn from two exams?”

“So there’s nothing you can tell us about Ms. Teague?”

De Maartens’s thick shoulders rose and fell. He canted his face toward me. Smiled. “Is that you, Dr. Delaware? Nice aftershave. After your second call when I grew cross, I called the department to see what records they have on her. Just her grade transcripts. All A’s. I should not have grown cross, but I was in the middle of something and I did not see the point. I still do not.”

He scratched behind the dog’s ears, aimed his eye sockets back at Milo. “Three times during the quarter, the class was divided into discussion groups of approximately twenty students each, supervised by teaching assistants. The groups were optional, nothing discussed was graded. It was an attempt by the department to be more personal.” Another smile. “I checked with my department chairman, and he said it would be permissible to give you the names of the students in Lauren Teague’s group. Her T.A. was Malvina Zorn. You may call the psychology department and obtain Malvina’s number. She has been instructed to give you the names of the students in the group. The chairman and I have signed authorizations. That should be all you need.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You are welcome.” De Maartens rocked back and forth, then stopped. “What exactly happened to Ms. Teague?”

“Someone shot her,” said Milo. “You can read it in the paper-” He flushed scarlet.

De Maartens laughed uproariously and ruffled the dog. “Perhaps Vincent here can read it to me. No, I am sure my wife will give me every detail. She devours everything she can about crime and misfortune because this city frightens her.”

When we were back in the car I said, “So much for that.”

Milo said, “I don’t see Lauren’s academic life as the thing here, anyway. It’s the people she didn’t talk about that I’m interested in. I’ll phone the psych department, though, get those students’ names.”

He made the call, copied down a list of nine students that I inspected as we drove away. Three males, six females.

“Everyone out for the quarter,” he mumbled, as we drove away. “Fun.”

“I’m your partner in futility.” I told him about following Benjamin Dugger. He was kind enough not to laugh.

“Old Volvo and delivering goodies to kids at the church, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Throw in the pro bono thing at the shelter in Chicago and he’s Mother Teresa in tweed. You’re right, guys like him aren’t what got Lauren into trouble. She lived in a whole other world.”

“Speaking of which,” he said. “I thought I’d drop in on Gretchen Stengel.”