Dexter in the Dark (25 page)

One call on the cell phone got us the address in Coconut Grove where Dr. Wilkins made his humble home. It was in a section called The Moorings, which meant that either my alma mater was paying professors a great deal more than they used to, or else Professor Wilkins had independent means. As we turned onto the street, the afternoon rain started, blowing across the road in slanted sheets, then slowing to a trickle, then picking up again.

We found the house easily. The number was on the yellow seven-foot wall that surrounded the house. A wrought-iron gate blocked off the driveway. Deborah pulled up in front and parked in the street, and we climbed out and looked through the gate. It was a rather modest home, no more than 4,000 square feet, and situated at least seventy-five yards from the water, so perhaps Wilkins wasn’t really all that wealthy.

As we peeked in, looking for some way to signal the house that we had arrived and wished to enter, the front door swung open and a man came out, wearing a bright yellow rain suit. He headed for the car parked in the drive, a blue Lexus.

Deborah raised her voice and called out, “Professor? Professor Wilkins?”

The man looked up at us from under the hood of his rain suit. “Yes?”

“Can we speak to you for a moment, please?” Deborah said.

He walked toward us slowly, head cocked at Deborah on a slight angle. “That depends. Who is us?”

Deborah reached into her pocket for her badge and Professor Wilkins paused cautiously, no doubt worried that she might pull out a hand grenade.

“Us is the police,” I reassured him.

“Is we?” he said, and he turned toward me with a half smile that froze when he saw me, flickered, and then resumed as a very poor fake smile. Since I am an expert on faking emotions and expressions I was in absolutely no doubt about it—the sight of little old me had startled him somehow, and he was covering it by pretending to smile. But why? If he was guilty, surely the thought of police at the gate would be worse than Dexter at the door. But instead he looked at Deborah and said, “Oh, yes, we met once before, outside my office.”

“That’s right,” said Deborah as she finally fished out her badge.

“I’m sorry, will this take long? I’m kind of in a hurry,” he said.

“We have just a couple of questions, Professor,” Deborah said. “It will take only a minute.”

“Well,” he said, looking from the badge to my face and then quickly away again. “All right.” He opened the gate and held it wide. “Would you like to come in?”

Even though we were already soaked to the skin, it seemed like a pretty good idea to get out of the rain, and we followed Wilkins through the gate, up the driveway, and into his house.

The interior of the house was done in a style I recognized as classic Coconut Grove Rich Person Casual. I had not seen an example like this since I was a boy, when Miami Vice Modern took over as the area’s dominant decorative pattern. But this was old school, bringing back the memory of when the area was called Nut Grove because of its loose, Bohemian flavor.

The floors were reddish-brown tile and shiny enough to shave in, and there was a conversation area consisting of a leather couch and two matching chairs off to the right beside a large picture window. Next to the window was a wet bar with a large, glassed-in, temperature-controlled wine cabinet and an abstract painting of a nude on the wall next to it.

Wilkins led us past a pair of potted plants and over to the couch, and hesitated a couple of steps in front of it. “Ah,” he said, pushing back the hood from his rain jacket, “we’re kind of wet for the leather furniture. Can I offer you a barstool?” He gestured toward the bar.

I looked at Deborah, who shrugged. “We can stand,” she said. “This will only take a minute.”

“All right,” Wilkins said. He folded his arms and smiled at Deborah. “What’s so important that they send someone like you, in this weather?” he said.

Deborah flushed slightly, whether from irritation or something else I couldn’t tell. “How long have you been sleeping with Tammy Connor?” Deborah said.

Wilkins lost his happy expression and for a moment there was a very cold, unpleasant look on his face. “Where did you hear that?” he said.

I could see that Deborah was trying to push him off-balance just a bit, and since that is one of my specialties I chimed in. “Will you have to sell this place if you don’t get tenure?” I said.

His eyes snapped to mine, and there was nothing at all pleasant about the look he gave me. He kept his tongue in his mouth, too. “I should have known,” he said. “So this was Halpern’s jailhouse confession, was it? Wilkins did it.”

“So you didn’t have an affair with Tammy Connor?” Deborah said.

Wilkins looked back to her again and, with a visible effort, regained his relaxed smile. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t get used to you as the tough one. I guess that’s a pretty successful technique for you two, hmm?”

“Not so far,” I said. “You haven’t answered any of the questions.”

He nodded. “All right,” he said. “And did Halpern tell you he broke into my office? I found him hiding under my desk. God knows what he was doing there.”

“Why do you think he broke into your office?” Deborah asked.

Wilkins shrugged. “He said I sabotaged his paper.”

“Did you?”

He looked at her, and then over to me for an unpleasant moment, then back to Deborah. “Officer,” he said, “I am trying very hard to cooperate here. But you’ve accused me of so many different things I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to answer.”

“Is that why you haven’t answered any of them?” I asked.

Wilkins ignored me. “If you can tell me how Halpern’s paper and Tammy Connor fit together, I’ll be happy to help any way I can. But otherwise, I’ve got to get going.”

Deborah looked at me, whether for advice or because she was tired of looking at Wilkins, I couldn’t tell, so I gave her my very best shrug, and she looked back at Wilkins. “Tammy Connor is dead,” she said.

“Oh, my,” Wilkins said. “How did it happen?”

“The same way as Ariel Goldman,” Debs said.

“And you knew them both,” I added helpfully.

“I imagine that dozens of people knew them both. Including Jerry Halpern,” he said.

“Did Professor Halpern kill Tammy Connor, Professor Wilkins?” Deborah asked him. “From the detention center?”

He shrugged. “I’m only saying that he knew them, too.”

“And did he have an affair with her, too?” I asked.

Wilkins smirked. “Probably not. Not with Tammy, anyway.”

“What does that mean, Professor?” Deborah asked.

Wilkins shrugged. “Just rumors, you know. The kids talk. Some of them think Halpern is gay.”

“Less competition for you,” I said. “Like with Tammy Connor.”

Wilkins scowled at me and I’m sure I would have been intimidated if I was a university sophomore. “You need to make up your mind whether I killed my students or screwed them,” he said.

“Why not both?”

“Did you go to college?” he demanded.

“Why yes, I did,” I said.

“Then you ought to know that a certain type of girl sexually pursues her professors. Tammy was over eighteen, and I’m not married.”

“Isn’t it a little bit unethical to have sex with a student?” I said.

“Ex-student,” he snapped. “I dated her after the class last semester. There’s no law against dating an ex-student. Especially if she throws herself at you.”

“Nice catch,” I said.

“Did you sabotage Professor Halpern’s paper?” Deborah said.

Wilkins looked back at Deborah and smiled again. It was wonderful to watch somebody almost as good as I am at switching emotions so quickly. “Detective, do you see a pattern here?” he said. “Listen, Jerry Halpern is a brilliant guy, but…not exactly stable? And with all the pressure on him right now, he’s just decided that I am a whole conspiracy to get him, all by myself.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m quite that good,” he said with a little smile. “At least, not at conspiracy.”

“So you think Halpern killed Tammy Connor and the others?” Deborah said.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “But hey, he’s the psycho. Not me.” He made a step toward the door and raised an eyebrow at Deborah. “And now, if you don’t mind, I really have to get going.”

Deborah handed him a business card. “Thank you for your time, Professor,” she said. “If you think of anything that might help, please give me a call.”

“I certainly will,” he said, giving her the kind of smile that killed disco and placing a hand on her shoulder. She managed not to flinch. “I really hate to throw you back out into the rain, but…”

Deborah moved, very willingly I thought, out from under his hand and toward the door. I followed. Wilkins herded us out the door and through the gate, and then climbed into his car, backed out of the driveway, and drove away. Debs stood in the rain and watched him go, which I am sure she intended to make Wilkins nervous enough to leap from the car and confess, but considering the weather it struck me as excessive zeal. I got into the car and waited for her.

When the blue Lexus had vanished Deborah finally got in beside me. “Guy gives me the fucking creeps,” she said.

“Do you think he’s the killer?” I asked. It was a strange feeling for me, not knowing, and wondering if somebody else had seen behind the predator’s mask.

She shook her head with irritation. Water flew off her hair and hit me. “I think he’s a fucking creep,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re right,” I said.

“He didn’t mind admitting his affair with Tammy Connor,” she said. “So why lie and say she was in his class
last
semester?”

“Reflex?” I said. “Because he’s up for tenure?”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and then leaned forward decisively and started the car. “I’m putting a tail on him,” she said.

TWENTY-THREE

A
COPY OF AN INCIDENT REPORT LAY ON MY DESK WHEN
I finally got to work, and I realized that someone expected me to be a productive drone today, in spite of it all. So much had happened in the last few hours that it was hard to adjust to the idea that most of the workday was still looming over me with its long sharp teeth, so I went for a cup of coffee before submitting to servitude. I had half hoped that someone might have brought in some doughnuts or cookies, but of course it was a foolish thought. There was nothing but a cup and a half of burned, very dark coffee. I poured some into a cup—leaving the rest for someone truly desperate—and slogged back to my desk.

I picked up the report and began to read. Apparently someone had driven a vehicle belonging to a Mr. Darius Starzak into a canal and then fled the scene. Mr. Starzak himself was thus far unavailable for questioning. It took me several long moments of blinking and sipping the vile coffee to realize that this was the report of my incident this morning, and several minutes longer to decide what to do about it.

To have the name of the car’s owner was little enough to go on—almost nothing, since the odds were good that the car was stolen. But to assume that and do nothing was worse than trying it and coming up empty, so I went to work once again on my computer.

First, the standard stuff: the car’s registration, which showed an address off Old Cutler Road in a somewhat pricey neighborhood. Next, the police records: traffic stops, outstanding warrants, child support payments. There was nothing. Mr. Starzak was apparently a model citizen who’d had no contact at all with the long arm of the law.

All right then; the name itself, “Darius Starzak.” Darius was not a common name—at least, not in the United States. I checked immigration records. And surprisingly, I got a hit right away.

First of all, it was Dr. Starzak, not Mister. He held a Ph.D. in religious philosophy from Heidelberg University, and until a few years ago had been a tenured professor at the University of Kraków. A little more digging revealed that he had been fired for some kind of uncertain scandal. Polish is not really one of my stronger languages, although I can say kielbasa when ordering lunch at a deli. But unless the translation was completely off, Starzak had been fired for membership in an illegal society.

The file did not mention why a European scholar who had lost his job for such an obscure reason would want to follow me and then drive his car into a canal. It seemed like a significant omission. Nevertheless, I printed the picture of Starzak from the immigration file. I squinted at the photo, trying to imagine it half hidden by the large sunglasses I had seen in the Avalon’s side mirror. It could have been him. It could also have been Elvis. And as far as I knew, Elvis had just as much reason to follow me as Starzak.

I went a little deeper. It isn’t easy for a forensics wonk to access Interpol without an official reason, even when he is charming and clever. But after playing my online version of dodgeball for a few minutes, I got into the central records, and here things became more interesting.

Dr. Darius Starzak was on a special watch list in four countries, not including the States, which explained why he was here. Although there was no proof that he had done anything, there were suspicions that he knew more than he would say about the traffic in war orphans from Bosnia. And the file casually mentioned that, of course, it is impossible to account for the whereabouts of such children. In the language of official police documents, that meant that somebody thought he might be killing them.