Fair Game - lanyon Josh - Страница 28

“A lot of anger and frustration, I should say.” Charlotte’s comment was dry.

“Frustration doesn’t seem to be one of his problems.” Corian was still talking to the couple, so Elliot was unsure if he’d been attempting to speak to Anne or simply trying to get away from Elliot and his incessant questions. “Not sexual anyway. Not by all accounts.”

“Yes, well, a very interesting young man,” Charlotte observed. Clearly “interesting” equaled “dubious” in her mind.

Elliot asked, “Do you know him?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. It seemed pretty comprehensive: past, present and future.

The three of them studied Gordie’s sculpture in polite silence.

“He still hasn’t shown up?” Elliot knew the answer. He’d been keeping an eye out for Gordie since his own arrival.

“Not that I’m aware.” Charlotte’s smile was slightly pained. “Students, even gifted students, do elect to leave us. Rarely are the reasons sinister.”

That was certainly true. Most people who disappeared chose to do so. It wasn’t a crime to be a missing person. No matter how much it hurt the people who loved you.

Elliot murmured something noncommittal as Roland moved around to the back of the sculpture.

Charlotte added quietly, “His aunt isn’t here either. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

Interesting. Mildly. Hardly conclusive. Elliot had talked to Zahra after his dinner with Anne, in an effort to find out what she and Gordie had argued about the morning Gordie had disappeared. Zahra had initially denied arguing with Gordie, then she had claimed she had been worried he would make trouble for himself by pursuing a relationship with a professor.

He’d been unable to get a straight answer as to what Gordie’s response had been. But maybe that was because Gordie’s reaction to Zahra’s concern had not been clear cut. It seemed to Elliot, that for all Gordie’s reported bad temper, he had restrained himself with Zahra. Gordie appeared to be genuinely fond of his aunt, which lent some credence to her belief that he wouldn’t take off without a word to her.

He made a so-so gesture to Charlotte.

She chuckled as though he was deliberately being stubborn. “You do enjoy your mysteries.”

He did? Maybe he did.

She squeezed his arm affectionately and moved away as Roland rounded the pedestal. He rejoined Elliot.

“What was that all about?”

“I agreed to look for the Lyle kid. Charlotte thinks I’m wasting my time and energy.”

“Oh yes? I saw the mother making an appeal on TV. On the KONG station. Very touching.”

“That was his aunt. According to her, he’s been missing for about a week. She’s worried.”

“The boy’s a student of yours?”

“No.”

“Then why are you getting involved?” Roland’s tone was curious.

“I wish I knew. Maybe it pisses me off the way everyone is so ready to dismiss this kid’s disappearance—and his aunt’s concern. My experience has been that most people aren’t concerned enough.”

Roland laughed and patted him on the shoulder. It seemed to be Elliot’s day for atta boys. “Like it or not, you’re a chip off the old block, Elliot. Even if you did choose to express your desire to help mankind in the pay of a repressive, authoritarian institution.”

Elliot sighed. “Dad, go tell it to your pal Andrew Corian. I get enough of that rhetoric from him.”

“Corian’s all right. Maybe a pinch over-opinionated.”

He left Elliot chewing over that sweeping irony, and Elliot moved to the next exhibit, a very well-done male nude in limestone.

“I may not know a lot about art, but I know what I like. I like that.”

Jim Feder stood next to him, his shoulder brushing Elliot’s. He offered a smile that was slightly shy, but determined.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Elliot agreed.

“Terry’s funeral is Sunday.”

“I’d heard.”

“Are you going?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m not sure that’s what Terry’s parents would want.”

“I’m going.”

“You should go,” Elliot assured him. “I didn’t know Terry. You did. You cared about him.”

Feder took a deep breath. “I was wondering,” he began very casually, “if you would want—”

“Elliot,” Roland said, strolling up to them. “A few of us are going to dinner at Giacometti’s. Are you coming?”

“I’ll be right there.” He gave it a moment, and then turned to Jim. “It’s nice seeing you again, Jim. Take care.”

Chapter Fourteen

Good food, good wine, good company. They had always ranked high on Elliot’s list of life’s pleasures, but he found himself restless and unable to concentrate as he sat in Giacometti’s restaurant after the art exhibition listening to the usual professional gabble about funding and screening and online social networking.

The food was good: from the zuppa toscana soup to the swordfish a la siciliana. The wine, a Sicilian chard, was also excellent. The problem was him. Elliot knew that much. From the minute he’d agreed to look into Terry Baker’s disappearance, his restlessness and dissatisfaction with his new life had steadily escalated. The reentry of Tucker into his life hadn’t helped.

“I believe most of our faculty make the effort to preserve their private lives, but professors really have responsibilities twenty-four-seven.” Charlotte’s voice drifted to him across the table. “We all have to be conscious of that. The university is drafting a social media policy for those of our faculty who choose to engage in online interaction. We have to be conscious all the time of the boundaries between student and staff.”

Was Charlotte directing that comment toward him? Elliot wondered as he met her gaze over the candles and wine glasses and filled plates. Maybe she’d seen him talking to Jim Feder and misread the dynamic? Or maybe she was thinking about Zahra Lyle’s allegations. Not much went on around campus that Charlotte wasn’t aware of. Did she have her suspicions as to which professor Gordie had been involved with? It wouldn’t be too difficult to pin down. There were only about five female professors who were unattached and in the right age bracket.

Assuming Gordie limited himself to a particular age bracket.

Come to think of it, maybe he shouldn’t make any assumptions about that.

“It’s always been a consideration,” Roland responded, “but things were looser in my day. At the same time we didn’t have so many tiger traps. Blogs, Facebooks, Twitters.”

“No,” agreed another older lady professor whose name Elliot had missed. “We seduced our students the old-fashioned way.”

The others laughed, but Elliot could see Charlotte was not amused.

“Are you going to Andrew’s opening next Friday?” Anne asked from next to him, her voice startling Elliot out of his thoughts. He could understand why she was hoping for a change of subject.

“Andrew?”

“Corian.” Anne’s smile was deriding. “You remember Andrew? World famous artist? His office is in the same building as ours.”

“I remember Andrew.”

“You two don’t care much for each other, do you?”

“I never thought much about it.”

She chuckled. “Proof positive. That dismissing tone says it all. But next to your father he’s probably our most famous alumni. Well, not counting Charlotte.”

Charlotte had written two highly respected books on women poets of the Romantic period, but she was not a local celebrity in the way of Roland or Andrew Corian. Elliot said, “I didn’t realize Corian was having another exhibition.”

“I don’t know how you could miss it. The flyers are plastered everywhere.”

He bit back an uncharitable comment. “Are you going?”

“I suppose so. We have to support each other. It makes Charlotte happy.”

Elliot glanced across the table at Charlotte. She was sipping her wine and smiling serenely as her gaze rested on the faces of her staff. She reminded him of a queen benignly observing her obedient courtiers.