In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (42 page)

But working with him was a different story. He was only a step away from retirement, and he was as set in his ways as if his feet had been encased in concrete. He was a short, stubby man with iron-gray hair and a stomach that entered a room long before the rest of him. Yet he was as much a part of Eastern as the broad lawn in front of Fields Hall, the Victorian stone mansion that had once been the home of Eastern’s founder. His devotion to the school overshadowed everything else.

He was sitting in his office staring at his computer screen. “Biggest mistake we ever made, going to online applications,” he said to me as I walked in. “Nothing beats having a piece of paper in front of you when it comes to evaluating an applicant.”

“That’s progress, Joe,” I said, sitting down across from him. I was still having a little trouble calling him by his first name, after four college years of calling him Mr. Dagorian. “Every other college has gone that way. If we didn’t kids wouldn’t bother to apply.”

“So they say,” Joe said. “What can I do for you, Steve?”

“Mike asked me to talk to you about Marty Moran.”

“Admission at Eastern College is not for sale. Every student competes on his or her own merits.”

Joe had been able to keep admissions standards high and he’d been able to prevent anyone from tampering with the way he did his job, because the applications kept rolling in from the nation’s best and brightest. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” was his favorite saying.

“I agree. But every student is unique, right? I remember when you took me under your wing when I was graduating from high school. I didn’t know anything about applying to college, and you helped me through it all. I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for you.”

“You had the academic qualifications to be an Eastern student. Marty Moran does not.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “Sure, he hasn’t tested well, and he hasn’t performed well in high school. But it could be that he just needs someone to take an interest in him, the way you did with me.”

He shook his head. “You do have the gift of gab, Steve Levitan. I’ll give you that. But you’re not going to convince me.”

“Have you met his father? Bob Moran?”

“Many times. The man’s an egotistical bully.”

“Exactly my point. How can a kid blossom with a father like that? He needs a nurturing environment, the kind that Eastern provides.”

Joe frowned at me. “Your affection for this kid wouldn’t have anything to do with the hundred grand his father has promised Mike’s foolish campaign, would it?”

“Of course it would, Joe. Think of what that money could do for Eastern. I love this college just as much as you do, but I recognize we have problems. Have you been in the science labs lately? They’re still using equipment from the 1970s. And the dorms could use some refurbishing. I could write you a list of things we could use that money for. Hell, I
have
written those lists.”

“No promises.” Joe frowned. “But I’ll look over his application once more.”

“That’s all I can ask. Thanks, Joe.”

I did like Joe, even though he was the kind of old dinosaur who lumbers around complaining about how different things are and getting in the way of change.  A lot of people don’t like that, particularly if they’re pushing to have things changed. But as I had told him, I recognized the affection he had for Eastern, and saw the same thing in myself.

If anything, the only thing I cared about more than Eastern, and keeping my job there, was Rochester. When I got back to my office he was so glad to see me that I felt warmth creeping through my body, despite the cold weather outside and the cool temperatures inside Fields Hall. The fact that he was jumping all over me helped with that, too.

It was 3:30 by then, and I wrestled Rochester into submission long enough to fasten his leash. It was a sunny February day with just a few clouds scattering the light blue sky, and he was excited to get outdoors. We got into my old BMW sedan and I drove down the hill into Leighville, the small town that clusters around the base of the college.

The north-south streets, the ones that parallel the Delaware River, are named for trees, while the east-west ones are named after generals of the Revolutionary War. E-Z Quick Printers was located at the corner of Beech and Howe, in a run-down neighborhood at the north end of town. I parked in front of the office and left the windows down a bit for Rochester.

I began ferrying boxes out of the printer’s to the trunk of the BMW, leaving it propped open. I was getting the last of the five boxes from the clerk when I heard Rochester barking his head off. I grabbed the box and hurried outside.

A disheveled man was standing behind the BMW staring at the boxes in the trunk. He had an electric screwdriver with the back panel off so I could see there was no battery inside, and he kept putting it up to his head and listening, as if he thought it was a cell phone.

“Just paper,” I said. “Nothing worth stealing.”

“Wasn’t going to steal it.” The screwdriver slipped in his hand so he was holding it straight ahead of him in a menacing gesture.

I took in his posture, the way he gripped that screwdriver like a weapon, the empty look in his eyes. In a heartbeat, I was back in prison again, standing in the exercise yard. I had learned fast not to show any fear or vulnerability, because that would make me a target. Neither did I want to seem to aggressive, making promises with my mouth that my body couldn’t follow through on.

Most important was that I had to learn how to act, rather than react. I couldn’t stand there and wait to see if this guy became a threat to me or to Rochester.

“Away from the car. Now,” I said, in my most commanding voice, one I had begun using in prison and polished in the classroom. Rochester was still barking like mad, so I added, “Or I’ll sic the dog on you.”