Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(32)
DeMarco looked at his wristwatch: 1:17.
“I knocked but he didn’t answer.”
“Oh, he’s in there,” the secretary said. “Trust me. He’s always in there.”
So this time DeMarco knocked and knocked again. Every fifteen seconds he knocked three quick raps against the door, each series louder than the last. And finally a growling voice from behind the door demanded, “Who?”
“Sergeant Ryan DeMarco of the Pennsylvania State Police.”
Silence for another ten seconds. Then, just as DeMarco was about to rap on the door again, the dead bolt clicked. He waited for the door to be pulled open, but the metal knob did not turn. He reached for it, gave it a twist, and threw the door open.
Conescu had organized his office so that the only part visible from the doorway was a narrow corridor leading to the window six feet away. To the left of the door stood a wall of metal bookcases. The books were crammed in vertically and horizontally, books on top of books. To the right, two metal filing cabinets, each five feet tall and with more books piled atop them, blocked the view into the office.
DeMarco stepped forward to the edge of the cabinets, turned to his right in the narrow opening between the front of the cabinets and the forced-air heating unit beneath the window, and there, crammed into the corner with his desk facing the wall, sat Conescu, big and slouching and messy haired. He sat with his head cocked toward a filing cabinet, his gaze locked onto the gray metal. The knuckles of both hands rested against the edge of his computer keyboard. On the screen was a text document crammed with words from margin to margin.
“I apologize for the interruption,” DeMarco said. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
Conescu sat motionless for a few seconds, then opened his hands, laid his fingers atop the keyboard. He typed furiously for a couple of lines, said, “Too busy right now. Come back at three o’clock maybe,” and hammered at the keys again.
“You teach at three o’clock,” DeMarco said. He came the rest of the way into the room and took up a position to Conescu’s left, sat on the edge of the metal desk, his body only inches from the professor. Conescu stiffened, which made DeMarco smile. “So now will work better.”
Conescu stopped typing. Then he scrolled down the page until only white space was visible on the screen. He leaned back in his chair, turned his head toward DeMarco, lifted his eyes, and glowered. Every movement was distinct and separate, almost detached from the one that preceded it.
Paranoid schizophrenic, DeMarco told himself. Classic.
He said, “How would you characterize your relationship with Professor Huston?”
Conescu considered his response. Finally he said, “I don’t like Nazis. Nazis don’t like me.”
“And why do you call him a Nazi?”
“What is Nazi? Full of hate. Prejudice. The desire to stifle, persecute, destroy those who threaten them.”
“Did you threaten him?”
Conescu stared at him through slitted eyes. Then he faced his monitor. “Professional disagreements.”
“He was one of the committee members who voted against tenure for you. You’ve threatened him personally and the university in general with lawsuits.”
“My reputation is at stake.”
“And what is your reputation?”
Conescu’s shoulders stiffened and rose. His neck all but disappeared. DeMarco could hear him breathing through his nose, the slow inhalations, quick bursts of expelled air.
Finally DeMarco said, “From what I’ve been able to determine, Professor, all the threats were coming from you. I have copies of the emails and the letters. So I have only one other question for you. Where were you Saturday night between ten or so and dawn the next day?”
“Where is any decent person at that time? Asleep in bed.”
“You’re not married, are you?”
“I have no time for those things.”
“Those things? You mean a wife?”
“Romance! Love affairs! I live a life of the mind.”
“So there’s no way to actually confirm that you were where you say you were?”
This time, Conescu blew a mouthful of air out through his teeth. “Check the tapes,” he growled.
“And what tapes would those be?”
“Security cameras on every floor of my building. I arrive home at seven. Stay in till four the next day. Order dinner between eight, eight thirty. Check the tapes if you want to know.”
“You had food delivered?”
“Steak stromboli and mozzarella sticks.”
“Name of the restaurant?”
Conescu glared up at him. “You think I’m a liar?”
“Just asking for the name of the restaurant is all.”
“Pizza fucking Joe.”
“Pizza Joe’s on Twelfth?”
“You want to smell the empty box in my garbage can?”
DeMarco smiled. “I’ll let you know if that will be necessary.”
Out on the street three minutes later, on his way to the parking lot, DeMarco was hit by a sudden cold shiver. “Higher education,” he said out loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Twenty-Four
By ten that morning the woods were no longer misty. From time to time, Huston emerged from the woods to check his position against an unobstructed view of the sun, but whenever possible, he remained hidden on his northward march. He had followed Sandy Creek out of Lake Wilhelm to its headwaters, a narrow stream that burbled up out of the ground. By his calculations, he had hiked ten to twelve miles since dawn. If his calculations were correct, Annabel’s place of employment was fewer than three hours away.