CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) Page 9

  “Any of Capriati’s teachers still here?”

  I hadn’t seen any names on the transcripts.

  “Jesus, Rhode, you want me to do your job for you? Go down to the Registrar’s Office and find out.”

  “All you academic types are lazy.”

  “Mention my name at the Registrar and if you talk to any of the professors. Though I’m not sure that will help. They live in their own world and they don’t like me in it.”

  I held up a grainy photo of Capriati wearing a jacket and tie.

  “Yearbook shot?”

  “Yeah. When he was a senior.”

  “Can I get the yearbook?”

  “There’s only that graduation shot of him and a couple with him on the wrestling team. They’re all in the file. Like I said, he wasn’t a joiner.”

  “I may want to blow this up and have copies made. The resolution isn’t good. I’d rather work from the original page.”

  “The photographer is listed on the credit page. Maybe you can go right to him. If he’s still in business he may still have the negatives.”

  “I’d like the yearbook just in case. Besides, it will have the names of his classmates. Might give me some leads. Maybe he kept in touch.”

  “That’s a lot of kids. The yearbook won’t tell you who Capriati was close to. You can’t contact them all, can you?”

  “I’d probably contact those who still live around here. I might get lucky. Six degrees of separation and all that.”

  Clapper looked dubious.

  “You have heard about the Internet, haven’t you?”

  “This is an unusual guy.”

  “Must be. Anyway, I’ll call the library and tell them to pull the yearbook for you. They’ll want it back. Not too many left after all this time. Don’t lose it, for God’s sake. I’d rather go through Katrina again than have a hassle with one of our librarians.”

  After I left Dave, I found a bench outside on the common and went through the file. It didn’t take long. Clapper was right. Billy Capriati had been a solid student, maintaining a 3.2 Grade Point Average as a finance major. He showed a particular aptitude for mathematics, which undoubtedly came in handy during his embezzlement. Only a few B’s and C’s, and one D, all in Liberal Arts courses. One of the C’s was in something called “Moral Decisions in a Pragmatic World.” I suspected Billy Cap hadn’t drawn the right conclusions from that course. The D was in “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women.” He should have aced that one.

  Most of the other stuff in the file was boilerplate. The news clips that mentioned Capriati ran along the lines of one that said “Bear Wrestlers Pin Ryder 9-3.” If ever a headline called for a typo, that was it. He didn’t seem to have any extracurricular interests outside wrestling. Not even intramural football to mitigate the lie to Ellen James. His medical reports listed a few minor injuries related to wrestling and some of the meds he was on, mostly low-dose painkillers. There were some mildly warning comments about neck sprains, rotator cuffs and a hip flexor. But he was always cleared to wrestle, and did. For a conman, Billy Cap was a tough-enough kid.

  The admissions and graduation information was more productive. I wrote down his address, phone number and other personal data. All of it was ancient history, but better than nothing. There was also his Social Security number, which Ellen James had not been able to provide. Social Security numbers are ageless. They follow us from cradle to grave, and sometimes beyond. The other private dicks and the cops Ellen had contacted had the number by now, but it was still my best chance of tracking Capriati down. My cell phone beeped. It was Alice Watts.

  “You are nothing if not persistent,” she said.

  “Telemarketers are persistent,” I said. “Private eyes are dogged.”

  “Do you know where the Bear’s Den is? In the old Admin building?”

  I said I did.

  “I’m free in about an hour and a half, at 12:50. Is that convenient?”

  I said it was.

  CHAPTER 10 – SCRATCHING AN ITCH

  “Why do you want to know?”

  I was sitting at a desk talking to an elderly Registrar lady who had been assigned to help me. Dave’s phone call had gotten past the receptionist. Now I was on my own.

  “Because I don’t,” I said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Student transcripts are confidential. Commander Clapper knows that.”

  “And he would never ask you to do anything remotely unethical,” I said, trying to look shocked. I could feel the folded transcript copies in my jacket pocket. “But surely the names of a former student’s teachers are public record.”

  She processed that for a moment. I knew it could go either way, and given my recent experience with women her age, I was not hopeful. I looked at the nameplate on her desk.

  “You don’t have a raffle book I could buy, do you Ms. Polidori?”

  She sighed and then decided that it was less trouble to get what I wanted than put up with me. That happens a lot.

  “Please wait here.”

  She shuffled off somewhere. Almost 20 minutes later she returned and handed me several sheets of paper.

  “I printed out the names of all of William Capriati’s instructors. Only two of them are still here,” she said. “I circled their names for you. Is there anything else?”

  “Would you know where I can find them?”

  “You will have to go over to their respective Departments. If they aren’t in their offices, you can get a class schedule. Is there anything else?”

  I stood up.

  “No. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  I looked at the names she’d circled.

  “Oh, boy.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, thanks again.”

  One of the names was P. Lancaster. “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women” was his course. Presumably a gut elective for a jock studying finance, designed to make both teacher and student look good. Yet Pierce gave Capriati a ‘D.’ Strange. From what I knew about Capriati, he would have spotted a fellow con man and told Lancaster exactly what he wanted to hear. I decided to save Pierce the Precious for last, since I suspected I would need a drink after speaking to him.

  The other teacher whose name was circled, J. Kaplan, was a biology instructor. I hoofed it over to the Department of Science only to discover that Professor Kaplan was finishing a class in 20 minutes on the other side of the campus. I had time to stop in the library to pick up the yearbook and get lectured by the librarian on the importance of its return. Then on to the building to wait for the biology class to empty out. Professor Kaplan turned out to be a Justine, a tall, lanky woman who would have been a looker 15 to 20 years earlier. In fact, she was still very attractive. There was a slash of silver in her black hair and she had wide intelligent eyes and a sensual mouth. She was wearing denim trousers and a long herringbone vest over a white poplin shirt.

  “You are absolutely the first private detective I have ever met,” she said after I introduced myself. “I can’t wait to tell my husband. He’s a big fan of private eye novels. Has all the Spensers and Jake Scarnes. Even some of the old ‘masters,’ as he calls them. Dashiell Hammett, Raymonf Chandler. Every time we go into Manhattan he just has to go to the Strand bookstore in the Village and look for an undiscovered thriller writer. Do you know the Strand? It must have every used book in the country.”

  I told her I did.

  “He comes home with half a dozen books. Says they are real bargains at the Strand. Which I suppose they would be, if he didn’t factor in the lunch or dinner I make him buy at the Gotham for making me wait while he scours the stacks. Be cheaper to download them to his Kindle. But he says it’s not the same.”

  “He’s right,” I said.

  I studied her face, which, except for a few small smi
le lines around her mouth and eyes was youthful.

  “It kills Ira that most new thrillers are written by women,” she continued. “They’re not hard-boiled enough for him.” She smiled. “Are you hard-boiled, Mr. Rhode?”

  “To tell you the truth, Professor, lately I’ve been feeling a bit scrambled. I was hoping you could help me out on something. Do you remember William Capriati? You were listed as one of his teachers.”

  “Yes, of course.” She answered so quickly I was taken aback. “Can we sit down?”

  We walked over to a bench under a big sycamore. I liked sitting on benches under trees, particularly with a good-looking woman. I did check for birds, however. Someone once told me that being crapped on by a bird was good luck. So far my bad luck had held and I wanted to keep it that way. I don’t think you can have a serious conversation with bird doo on your head.

  “Why are you asking about Billy? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know. No one seems to know what became of him after he left college. I represent someone who wants to find him on a personal matter.” I saw no harm in telling her what the situation was, but left out the part about the bank embezzlement. “Why did you assume there might be something wrong?”

  She smiled.

  “Billy was a good student. But you could tell he was a rascal. He came on to every female in the class. Sex was really the only biology that interested him. I’m not surprised to hear that there is an issue of paternity involved. What a sad story. I only hope you find him in time to help that poor child. Is that his yearbook?”

  I handed it to her and she quickly found his photo. She stared at the picture a long while, shaking her head in remembrance.

  “God, we were young,” she said, handing the book back.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much. He kept to himself a lot. About the only other thing that interested him besides sex was wrestling.” She laughed. “On the team, I mean.”

  I was getting a strange vibe from Professor Kaplan.

  “Do you always take such an interest in your students?”

  “I told you he hit on every female in the class.” She colored slightly. “In my case, successfully.”

  Billy had good taste. I wasn’t so sure about hers.

  “I don’t mean to be judgmental, but aren’t there rules against that sort of thing?”

  “It’s frowned on more today than it was back then. I have no excuse, except to say that I was only an adjunct at the time and not that much older than Billy. This isn’t high school; we were both consenting adults. I didn’t seduce him and we only began sleeping together after he left my class.”

  I recalled the transcript.

  “You gave him a ‘B.’”

  She laughed.

  “He didn’t seem to hold that against me. That’s one of the reasons I liked him. I shudder to think what our sex life would have been if I’d given him an ‘A’. Billy was a wonderful lover, much more experienced than I was.” She smiled. “At the time.”

  I decided that if I were her husband, I wouldn’t spend too much time with my nose buried in a mystery novel.

  “Did you know where he lived? Meet any of his family or friends?”

  “No, he’d come to my apartment, and occasionally we’d go out for dinner or take in a movie. Billy was crazy about the movies. Always just the two of us. It only lasted a summer. It was what it was. A fling.”

  “Who broke it up?”

  “Billy did. He called me one day to say that he’d taken a job in Atlanta and was leaving almost immediately.”

  “How did you feel?”

  “Sad at first, then relieved.”

  “And you didn’t keep in touch?”

  “No calls, no cards, no flowers, no recriminations, no sleepless nights. I had an itch and Billy scratched it. We both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Now I’m a Sadie, Sadie married lady. With some great memories.”

  I didn’t buy the Sadie routine. Justine Kaplan had crossed her legs several times during our conversation and each time had somehow inched closer to me on the bench. I didn’t know how she did that but a few more leg crossings and she’d be sitting on the other side of me. I have absolutely nothing against women of a certain age but I had my sights set elsewhere and I try not to get involved with married women – if I can help it. I stood abruptly and held out my hand.

  “Thank you for your help, Professor.”

  She took it well. There were a thousand other men walking around the campus.

  “I’m not sure I’ve been all that helpful.” she said. “Have you spoken to any of Billy’s other instructors?

  “There’s only one still around. Lancaster.”

  Her laugh was sudden and harsh.

  “Oh, I’ll bet Pierce will give you an earful.”

  “He says he doesn’t remember him.”

  “Bullshit! He’d never forget Billy. Hated him. Tried to flunk him out of school. Would have if the wrestling team didn’t need him so badly.”

  “Why the animus. I know Lancaster doesn’t like jocks but that can’t be the reason.”

  She smiled. I had seen that kind of smile before.

  “I stopped seeing Pierce because of Billy. He found out. Might have made trouble for me but his record with his female students was just short of a scandal.”

  That explained the “D”. Pierce the Precious was also Pierce the Prevaricator. Liar, liar, pants on fire. I’d get to him, but it was time to meet Alice Watts.

  CHAPTER 11 – IN THE BEAR’S DEN

  The old administration building was ivy central and had the requisite turrets. It was, as far as I knew, just called “the old administration building.” A sign outside said that it now housed the Department of Continuing Education. That was probably why the college kept the archaic Bear’s Den cafeteria open in the basement. Night school students could get cholesterol and caffeine fixes without having to tramp all the way across the campus.

  Alice was already sitting at a table when I got to the Den, looking through some papers. She smiled when I walked up to her.

  “Mr. Rhode, how are you?”

  “Do you think we can work with Alton and Alice? After all we’ve seen each other almost naked.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like some coffee? Maybe something to eat.”

  “Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

  She told me how she took it and I went over to the counter. I had been in the Bear’s Den a few times over the past 20 years and it looked exactly the same. As opposed to the modernity of the other dining halls, all chrome, glass, plastic and salad bars, the Den was decidedly retro. Its salad bar consisted of a head of lettuce, and some onions and tomatoes on a plate. To be fair, there was also a large jar of pickles. Hot dogs and the infamous “Grizzly Burgers” were the staples. The kids called them “Gristle Burgers” but in reality they were quite good, if artery clogging. There was also a small platter piled high with corn muffins. They smelled warm. I didn’t see a microwave.

  “Fresh corn muffins?”

  The elderly lady behind the counter, who also served as cashier, said, “Home made. Right out of the oven.”

  “What oven?”

  “Main cafeteria. They send them over. Want one?”

  “Two. And two regular coffees”

  There was a bowl of butter and jellies in those little mini-tubs that are hard to open and often frozen solid. I loaded up, to increase the odds of success. When I got back to the table, Alice Watts looked at the tray.

  “Those who ignore fresh corn muffins,” I said, “are doomed to regret it.”

  “I love corn muffins.”

  She broke off a piece of a muffin and put some butter and jelly on it. She had no trouble opening the packets. She looked at me. My fingernails were stubbier than hers. I was using a plastic knife on a butter tub when she reached across and opened it for me. Then another and a couple of jellies for good measure. I t
hought about proposing on the spot but instead just took it from there and fixed up the muffins myself. We drank coffee and ate while we chatted. Much to my disappointment, she finished her entire muffin. I put the proposal on hold.

  Alice Watts was easy to talk to. And look at. She was wearing a mint green V-necked paisley merino wool sweater and dark gray boot-cut slacks. Her only jewelry was a large silver Perreti heart on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were light gray above a strong nose, wide mouth and pointed chin. It was a face with many disparate parts that shouldn’t have all worked together but did.

  She was originally from Mission Viejo, California, and won a scholarship to UCLA.

  “You must have been a hell of a swimmer.”

  “Actually, it was an academic scholarship,” she said. “But I made the UCLA team as a “swim on.”

  “You must have been pretty good.”

  “I was, in high school,” she said. “Mission Viejo is known for producing world-class swimmers. I grew up with some kids who medaled at the Olympics a few years back. But by the time I got to college I was a couple of seconds behind my peers. At that level, a second is a light year. But I managed to get in a couple of relays my senior year.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “I wanted to be a novelist and NYU offered a Masters in Creative Writing. My boyfriend wanted to make his fortune on Wall Street. We moved to Greenwich Village.”

  “How did that work out?”

  “Fine, for a few years. Actually, almost nine years. I got the masters and Kevin landed a good job at Merrill Lynch. We married. I stayed home and wrote. Sold a few short stories. Finished a novel, which I have in a drawer somewhere. We thought about starting a family, until we both realized that trying to salvage a marriage wasn’t a good reason for having a child.”

  She suddenly looked startled.

  “Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

  “I’m a detective. You probably figured I’d pull a rubber hose and find out anyway. You owe me, anyway.”

  “Owe you? Why?”