At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(25)

Verraday turned his back to his students so they couldn’t see or hear him.

“Good work, Detective.”

“I’m heading down there now. Want to come scope the place out with me?”

“Love to, but I’m just about to teach a class. I’ll be done in two hours. I can join you then if you can hang on.”

“Sorry, can’t wait that long. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.”

Verraday ended the call and shut off the ringer. The last of the stragglers were taking their seats.

“All right. Since everybody seems to be ready now, let’s begin. Today we’ll be talking about biological theories of criminal behavior.”

A hand went up. It was a student named Koller. Verraday remembered Koller’s name only because the kid was so annoying, frequently interrupting Verraday’s lectures with inane points and irrelevant questions. Worse, he was in both classes that Verraday taught, so Verraday had to see him four times a week.

Verraday ignored him for a moment, then gave in to Koller’s persistent eye contact and raised hand.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked, betraying his slight annoyance.

Koller pointed toward Verraday’s hand. “You’re bleeding, dude.”

Verraday looked down. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more. To see drops of blood on the lectern or to have a student call him “dude.” Koller was irritating even when he was trying to help, thought Verraday.

“Thank you, Mr. Koller,” he replied.

He felt inside his blazer for a tissue and realized he didn’t have one.

“Um, anybody got a clean tissue or a wipe that I can have?”

The frumpy girl in the baggy jeans and big sweater made her way toward him. Janzen or Jensen or Johansen. He still couldn’t remember. She took a small travel-size package of sanitizing wipes from her purse.

“There you go, Professor,” she said timidly, hunching her shoulders as she handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he replied as he took one from the package. He pressed the alcohol wipe against the cut. It stung but absorbed the blood on his fingertip and staunched the flow.

“And there’s a Band-Aid too if you need it,” she added, handing him one from her purse.

“You come fully equipped,” he said.

She smiled shyly but said nothing.

“Thanks,” he replied.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Even with her slightly olive-hued skin, he could see that she was blushing. She returned to her seat somewhat self-consciously. She was smart, but not the kind of person who liked being the center of attention, he thought. She’d probably go into the research side of the profession, he mused, become a number cruncher for a polling or marketing company. She had an eye for detail that would serve her well in that role. Verraday cleaned the few drops of blood off the lectern and tossed the wipe into a nearby wastebasket. Then he wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger.

“All right, now that the medical emergency is over, let’s carry on, shall we?”





CHAPTER 12


Maclean cruised past Pioneer Square, went a couple more blocks then made a right-hand turn. She pulled the unmarked Interceptor up to the curb a couple of doors short of The Victorian Closet so the vehicle wouldn’t draw attention from within the store. She walked back to the cruiser accompanying her and leaned in to speak to the uniformed officer behind the wheel.

“Wait here. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

As she surveyed the front window, Maclean tried to look like a casual shopper. Or as casual as you could look surveying a window display that included a female mannequin dressed in a nineteenth-century whalebone corset holding a riding crop with which she was spanking a winged taxidermy monkey that wore a gold-tasseled fez and a salacious grin.

Maclean drew in a deep breath and entered. A small brass bell chimed. She didn’t immediately see the proprietor or any other signs of life. The shop was musty-smelling and crowded with the sort of antiques that would appeal only to customers of extremely particular tastes. There were more vintage corsets, Victorian spanking mechanisms, antique paddles, and several cast-iron “Naughty Nellie” boot jacks, their 120-year-old legs spread wide, at the ready to accept a gentleman’s heel. There was a nineteenth-century sex swing. Maclean pretended to browse what appeared to be an entire case filled with antique vibrators, creaky-looking, alternating-current affairs to be used at one’s peril.

At the end of another aisle, in a place of honor within a glass case, was a phallic-looking carved wooden object. Its handle was decorated with a crudely fashioned diamond pattern. The business end consisted of three long prongs the length of a large human hand, gradually curving inward until the tips almost met. Maclean didn’t know what to make of it, but it looked utterly depraved.

“It’s probably not what you think it is,” said a male voice from behind her. “It’s probably worse.”

She turned to see a man in his forties, with a thick moustache and deep-set eyes. His hair was long and slicked back, some of it pulled into a topknot. He appeared to be the only other person in the store.

“Would you like to hazard a guess?” he asked.

“I’m thinking a utensil of some sort, but not for anything I do on a regular basis.”