“That’s where the college is located. He must live near the campus.”
“On Cypress Street. I’ll head that way,” Mitch said. “If he leaves his house, I’ll know it and can track him.”
Beth asked, “Will I have to keep calling him?”
“No. The stingray will ping whether or not his phone is in use. I’ll track you both and let you know if you’re closing in on him or getting farther away.”
John said, “Thanks, Mitch.”
“You bet. And, John, forget doing penance. That’s your guy, and he needs to get got.”
After he disconnected, Beth said, “He sounded so certain.”
“He is. The professor was playing you. From the start, he’s been laughing up his sleeve at us for contacting him and asking his help to catch the bad guy.”
“But he called you about the numerology.”
“A game. Maybe there is something to the double letters in the girls’ names, but he might have fed us that as a red herring. It’s obvious to me now that there’s been a wink-wink behind every word out of his mouth. He’s a trickster, a textbook sociopath.”
“I think so, too. But I shudder to think how this will end if we’re wrong about him.”
“I shudder to think how it will end if we’re right.”
Tom Barker stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He took a swig of vodka from the glass he’d left on the rim of the sink. He was using the guest room bath in order to prevent his wife from waking up and asking questions about the new goose egg on the side of his head and why he kept tenderly cupping his genitals. He hadn’t arrived at any answers that didn’t stretch plausibility to the limit.
He’d silenced his cell phone, but he heard the buzz of its vibration against the tiled countertop. At this hour of the morning, he should sound as though the call had woken him up, shouldn’t he?
“This is Barker,” he snarled, “and whoever this is, it had better be about something important.”
The caller identified himself as Officer Clarkson. He was a rookie, none too bright, Barker’s favorite kind.
“Were you asleep, sir?”
“Was. Not anymore. Why are you calling?”
“It’s about John Bowie.”
Tom plopped down onto the toilet lid, having forgotten the residual pain in his nether region. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth. Even though fresh from the shower, a sheen of sweat broke out on his torso.
With a dismissive inflection, he said, “Bowie? I fired him. He’s out.”
“That’s why I thought you ought to know that something’s up with him.”
“What kind of something?”
“The unit is full of his followers. You know, the people who still admire him and say he got a rotten deal.”
“Who says that?”
“A lot of people. Anyway, it’s like they’ve been mobilized, and they’re all in a flurry. On phones, on their computers, huddled and talking among themselves.”
The glass of vodka clinked against Tom’s teeth as he took a quick hit from it. Had the son of a bitch rallied his followers after the scene at his house? Trying to sound blasé, but actually holding his breath, he said, “You don’t know what all the excitement is about?”
“I overheard the name Molly.”
Hmm. She actually had skipped. “His daughter. She’s run off before. She must have again. He’s probably called in some people to help him look for her. Has an official missing person been filed?”
“Not yet.”
“Then the faithful followers had better be flurrying on their own time and not on the PD’s nickel.”
“I think they are. Off duty, I mean. I’m sorry to have woken you up. I just thought you’d like to know, you and Bowie having a history over that Crissy Mellin case, and all.”
“One for the history books.”
“Um-huh. Which is why it’s funny that they’re whispering about that, too.”
“The Mellin case? What about it? The upcoming TV show?”
“Uh, not exactly, sir. I overheard one of them saying that Bowie was right all along.”
Professor Wallace carefully set his phone on his desk and absently tapped his fingers on the polished wood as he mentally replayed his conversation with Beth Collins, a wonderfully charming young woman. It really was unfortunate that her mission was on a collision course with his.
Hers was doomed to failure.