Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(96)

Lots of people might take issue with that statement, but still, it was awfully nice to hear someone say it. He was turning to continue on down the hall when a thought came to her, of what Porky said about Emiliana, and the unofficial network of workers. “Ah, Bolivar?”

He turned, still smiling. “Hmm?”

“This may sound weird, but would you know anybody who was on the janitorial staff of this building fifteen years ago? Around August.”

Bolivar’s smile faded. “Depends on why you want to know.”

“Oh, I just want to talk to the person,” she assured him.

Bolivar’s eyes went very cautious. “Is this about the curse?”

Cindy’s stomach fluttered. “Curse?”

“When I took this job, people said the place is cursed. But Javier needed a dentist, his mama was having another baby. I didn’t have time to worry about no curse. Didn’t want to know. Still don’t.”

Cold fingers were doing the creepy, tickly dance up and down her spine. “Never mind,” she said. “I don’t want to cause you any—”

“I’ll ask around,” Bolivar said. “It was a long time ago.”

Cindy felt guilty that Bolivar felt obligated to do something that made him nervous, but gee, a curse? She dug in her pocket, found a dog-eared business card. It was simple, just her name, a sexy picture of her playing the sax, and her cell number. Miles had taken the picture.

Miles had typeset and printed up the cards for her, too.

“Call me if you find anything out, OK?” she said.

Bolivar nodded, tucked it into his pocket. Cindy loped towards her room, wishing she had something to show for this stunt. All she had were feelings, vibes, rumors. Tickles on the back of her neck.

It was frustrating. Maybe that was what real detective work was like. It would drive her nuts. Thank God she was a musician.

Man, she hoped the band would be blazing tonight. It was going to take a serious, exalted groove to play all of today’s worries away.





Chapter 19



P rofessor Sidney Beck stared through the glass at the willowy seductress’s beautifully presented ass as she rode away on her bicycle. Then he shuffled back to the living room. Sat down, heavily.

He drank several glasses of tea. Ate the remaining pecan puffs, crunching them mechanically. He poured the last half glass, took it to the bar, topped it off with rum. He felt steadier after gulping that down.

He went to the bathroom, when the call of nature became too urgent to ignore, and pissed. His heart raced, but the thumping felt feeble, insignificant and faraway. Mice, skittering on tiny feet. The pumping action didn’t get as far as his brain, his leaden limbs.

He stared at his heavy slab of a face. His double chin. The broken veins in his cheeks. Emiliana’s pecan puffs had transformed into corrosive acid sludge that churned and frothed, burning his esophagus.

McCloud. Dead fifteen years, and still forcing him to look at the corrupt, mediocre fraud that he was. Not that he’d ever rubbed Beck’s nose in it. Kevin hadn’t been arrogant about his genius. He had not the slightest need to be. It had never occurred to him to look down on other mortals less gifted than he, because everyone was less gifted than he.

All that genius, calm self-assurance, and youth and good looks, too. He’d been so jealous of McCloud, he could have murdered him.

Maybe he had.

Oh, no. No need to take on that burden. All he’d done was give him Osterman’s number, told him that the research might intrigue him. That there was money involved. Minimal time commitment. That was the extent of his responsibility. He hadn’t known what would happen.

He hadn’t forced Kevin to call, to get embroiled. To get hurt.

True, Osterman had asked specifically for highly intelligent young people without a lot of family ties, but Beck hadn’t taken that to mean the man was up to no good. Why should he?

He could never have guessed how sick the whole thing would become. His career, his house, the stock options in Helix, the toys, the indulgences, hot tubs filled with smiling young women—all of it built around one unspeakable secret. If that crumbled, everything crumbled.

After all. The damage was done. The milk was spilled. If he was going to hell anyway, why not cut his losses and try to enjoy it?

His face looked so blank. Slack. Old, though he was barely into his fifties. He stumbled into his office, the one overlooking Endicott River. If he opened the windows, he could hear the roar of the falls.

He saw and heard none of this. Just booted up the computer, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Office of Undergraduate Studies,” said a crisp, female voice.

“Eileen? Hello, this is Sidney Beck,” he said, in his best hearty, jovial tone. “I hope you had a lovely summer.”

“Hello, Professor! I did, thanks. Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, in fact. Would you e-mail me the academic records of one of my former students? I have a friend who’s interviewing her for a job.”

“Why, certainly, Professor. What’s the name?”

“Cynthia Riggs,” he said.

“One moment.” He listened to Muzak, foot tapping compulsively.

Eileen came back on the line. “Professor? Are you sure you’ve got the right person? This girl was a music major. And on her transcript, I see that she barely passed the course she took from you.”