Peter was looking out the glass into the street. It had quickly turned into a sunshiny day. The world flowed out there like he didn’t exist.
“What happened?” Olivia asked, some earnestness in her voice.
“I guess not many people share your convictions.”
“My convictions? I thought you—”
“No, Olivia. That’s not what I’m saying. I really believe this could work, don’t get me wrong, okay. But we are talking about a lot of money and manpower. There’s just not enough traction with the committee, I guess.”
Olivia sipped her coffee. She eyed the professor suspiciously.
“You don’t have enough traction with the committee,” she said. “They have something on you.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Peter gazed at her across the table. After a moment he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” She finished her coffee and her rolls. She wiped her mouth with a white napkin. “What do we do now?”
“I could try again next session.”
“Next session? You are kidding, right? We may not have a next session. The people who killed Harald are out there. They stole the copies of the documents from your office. They could be anyone, could be anywhere, even people in your university, who knows?”
Peter sighed. Red, prickly eyes stared at Olivia. He didn’t exactly like this journalist. Her kind put him in a bad light in the past. Yet, he wanted to come clean. At least, to tell someone the truth.
“I blew it.”
Olivia was preparing to leave. “What?”
“Last night was my fault,” he explained. “Ted Cooper, he pushed me, and I said some things…”
“What things?”
“Unsavory things.”
“Oh.”
Olivia ordered more coffee. And rolls. They continued in the diner for more minutes, but in silence, each with their own introspection. Lingering apprehension caused Olivia to watch the door every time it opened, making a thin noise on its hinges. She would practically jump, check the face—especially if it was male. She wondered if the man who killed Harald Kruger was watching her now, if he was in this diner. But most of the people here wore suits and ties, briefcases extended from their hands, and they drank coffee and ate rolls.
Didn’t assassins eat bolts and pins for breakfast?
A tall man in a red checkered long-sleeved shirt walked in. He looked around and his eyes landed directly on Olivia’s face. He had very dark hair and a dough-like face. He was either Mexican or Spanish. He ordered steaming rolls. He pulled his sleeves up and ate. He joked with the girl who waited on him.
No, he couldn’t be the man on the tape.
Peter caught the wary stare on her face and turned around to see.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m just thinking, this is what they want. They’d like to keep this a secret. I’m afraid Harald Kruger died for nothing.”
Peter turned around again. “Do you think we are being followed?” he whispered.
Olivia nodded, eyes on the double doors. Peter said they have the documents now, and they probably know about his failure to get funding for an expedition. Then he began to reason that he couldn’t trust his people in the faculty too.
Olivia packed her bag.
“I have to go now, Peter.”
The professor rose too, half his coffee untouched.
“You’ll let me know if something comes up, won’t you?”
“You can count on it.”
They parted on the street. Peter got in his car and drove off. Olivia hailed a cab, after.
—
There was a disheveled looking man across the street under a sign that said Oslo Car Wash. The sign was painted red and yellow, the letterings being yellow, the background red.
The man wore a red jumpsuit. He carried a toolbox and he looked in place. He blended well, and he knew he would. It was why he chose that spot in the street. He was a professional. The man he worked for required the skill of a chameleon.
There was a manhole with its cover up where he stood, hence passersby could glance at him, notice the manhole but not his pitted face, and then go on their jolly way.
His interest was not in the gaping hole in the street, but the two people drinking coffee and eating rolls in the diner across the road. The woman ate rolls, actually. The man ate his worries.
By the time their little social meeting ended, the woman had contacted some of the man’s worries. Yet, when she got in the taxi, there had been a curious light in her eyes.
She didn’t matter, though. At least, not yet.
It was the man, the professor, that he was after. So he followed the man’s car on a Ducati bike parked in a nearby alley.
—
What the strange man saw on Olivia’s face was the afterglow of an idea.
The said idea was to go back to Tom Garcia. She had to see that tape again. Criminals often stalked the cops who investigated them. In this case, Olivia could be attracting such interest. She would simply watch that tape a couple more times, memorize the way he walked, his appearance, and then let him fall into the description when she caught sight of him.
There was a further idea, a natural progeny of the first idea; as long as those professors have refused to be sensible, she was entitled to a few drinks that afternoon.
First, she called Tom Garcia. He said he was on his way out of the office but he’d wait a few minutes for her to arrive.
“Aw, shit,” she cussed.
“What?”
She wanted to get her drink along the way. She said instead, “Nothing serious, I’ve been talking with Peter. Plans for the expedition aren’t looking good.”
“My suspicions too.”
“And I need a drink—”
“Olivia, don’t.”
“Okay. Give me ten minutes.”
“Five.”
“Seven.”
“Okay then.”
—
The University of Florida.
Peter Williams drove onto the campus about noon, twenty minutes after drinking half a cup of coffee downtown with Olivia Newton. Behind his black Porsche followed a Ducati bike.
The rider kept about half a mile distance so the professor didn’t notice he’d been followed from the diner. And when the biker came in through the iron-wrought gates of the institution, security assumed he was a repairman.
Indeed he was a repairman, sort of.
He parked his bike at the edge of the lot, away from the professor. He watched him walk up the steps into the Faculty of Humanities. The man counted to ten before bringing a cellphone to his ear.
“Sir, he is in now.”
The voice on the other side growled, “Watch him, I want to know who else he sees, where he goes. Just stay on him.”
“Right sir.” The man hesitated a bit. “He is clean, sir.”
There was silence on the other side.
“Squeaky clean, sir,” the repairman said, waiting for his master.
“I know. I just need to be sure.”
The man flipped his cellphone closed and quickly pocketed it. A burly security guy was approaching.
“Hey, may I know what you’re doing here?” the security guy asked, his hand on the butt of the stick attached to his hip.
“I’m a repairman.”
“Oh, what do you repair?”
Habits, he almost said, but he raised his toolbox and spread uneven teeth. On it was written Telephone Lines.
The security guy walked away.
—
Sheriff Tom Garcia pulled Olivia into his office and shut the door. A few heads turned in the pool. Policemen were busy people, first by profession and generally by nature. Tom had waited for Olivia for one hour.
He was livid.
“What took you so long?!”
“Hey, cool out, Tom.” She gestured at the officers out there. “They are gonna think their sheriff is molesting
a citizen.”
Tom sniffed the air around her. Satisfied that Olivia hadn’t been drinking, he calmed down. But he watched her suspiciously.
“How long are you going to be?” he asked.
Olivia saw that the sheriff had already set up the rig in the corner of his office. There was a VCR and a monitor on a small table and nothing else.
“Maybe fifteen minutes,” Olivia said as she sat down.
“The tape is only two minutes, why do you need that long?”
She turned to him. “Have you ever had a feeling someone was watching you, following you?”
Before Tom could respond, Olivia continued, “Of course you have, you’re a cop. I think I’m being followed. I’ve seen no one in particular but I’d like to know what they look like—”
“You think Harald’s killer may be coming after you?”
“I don’t know, Tom.”
Tom Garcia sighed. He went back to his chair. Olivia frowned. “Did I say something?”
The sheriff regarded her with tired eyes. His face was rough with bristles of hair, days old. He pulled his tie, unhooked his collar.
“Betty needs a kidney transplant.”
On the monitor, the killer was walking down a lighted hall, but Olivia wasn’t looking anymore.
“I’m sorry, Tom. Oh Betty.”
“We need six thousand dollars that I don’t have.” Tom added, “I was going to go see Internal Affairs. I need a loan.”
Olivia clicked off the tape. She had seen enough.
“Will you get it?”
“I don’t know, but I want to try.”
Her thirst for a drink had been severe but now she suddenly lost all desire for it. In the past few days she’s been realizing that the world was a big fucked up place. She had troubles of her own, but so did others. Yet, people went about their days as though they didn’t need a loan, a kidney, or even to catch a killer.
She wanted to ask how the investigation was going on Harald’s case. She had been so engrossed in her angle of the case that she had forgotten that Tom had responsibilities to the city and to his family.
“I hope you get it, Tom. How’s Betty holding up?”
“She’s in a daze. We just can’t just believe it.”
Olivia breathed deeply. The past months had been like a dream for her too. She could relate.
To change the mood, Tom asked, “What about the professor, any news?”
“We are stuck.”
“I guess stuck is something going around now.”
Olivia nodded, thinking about her own predicaments. Maybe she should not get that drink after all.
—
Three days had passed since his botched presentation to the Dean of the Faculty and his cohorts. If Barry Dutch was having second thoughts about Peter’s request, he wasn’t showing it. He’d been genial at the quarterly meeting the previous day, even making blithe allusions to Peter’s accusations of Ted’s indiscretions.
“You sure got the man reaching for his balls,” the dean had laughed.
What that meant hadn’t been clear to Peter and he didn’t care one way or the other.
Ted Cooper had been there too. Ted was anywhere he could make an impression. They had been polite to each other. Then they met again at the school staff club last night. Ted had not been his usual imperious and contemptible self.
Craig Bozeman had pulled Peter aside in the faculty room earlier, congratulated him for doing what he had always wanted to do, which was, “shit on Ted.”
He had then bludgeoned him into coming to the club. They had taken a seat far from Ted and his friends, a couple of guys who smelled of plenty of money. Ted had said hi, with the corner of his mouth, and went back to drinking water.
“I’m looking for someone to fill in for me, Peter. For a couple of days.”
“Why? Are you dying?”
Craig laughed. “No, man. I’m not. I’m getting married next month.”
Peter was drinking a Bud Light, which was the only alcohol allowed on the campus. He twirled the green bottle at Craig. “Why would you do that to yourself, Craig?”
“Growth, Peter, adulthood.”
“I love singlehood, stay single and live forever, man.”
Some shabby-looking guy walked into the bar. Something about him caught Peter’s attention. Craig was recounting how his wedding preparations were coming, how he’d love Peter to either be his best man or take over his workload for the week.
Peter thought the guy looked familiar. He wore what looked like work clothes. He had a face that may have gone through some sort of grinder, it was riddled in crevices.
“Peter?”
“Huh?” Peter took his eyes off the pitted face.
“I’m talking to you, man.” Craig touched his shoulder. “I need help with Anglo-German Relations?”
Peter said something in reply. Craig said, “You’re the best.”
The stranger leaned in to talk in Ted Cooper’s ear. The conversation at Ted’s table stopped for the exchange. Then the man left without looking his way.
Peter’s interest in the man was short-lived. The anger he harbored against Ted resurrected. He managed another thread of conversation with Craig.
—
Peter parked his car in the garage beside a U-Haul van. Further down the row there was the Ducati bike. But the rider was nowhere near.
As he went up the stairs, two grey eyes watched him from behind a pillar. The man from the club, who had talked with Ted Cooper, brought his phone to his ear.
“He’s in, sir.”
“The professor?”
“Yes, him.”
“Alright, enough for now. Cut him loose.”
The man heaved a sigh of relief. He pocketed his phone and jumped on his bike. He hated this part of his job. In the past, he killed people but now his financier wanted him to make sure people stayed out of harm's way. It was a new experience for him, this bodyguard job. And the people he protects often didn’t know they had a personal angel.
He sped in the direction of downtown to find a whore for the night.
13
Peter heard the sound of the bike leaving the parking lot below. He went to the window, pulled the curtains to see, but he was too late. He knew almost everyone on his block. None had a bike, certainly not a Ducati.
He had ridden in his undergrad days. He knew a little of bikes and their various sounds.
As a matter of habit, and on account of his promise to help Craig Bozeman with his courses, he booted his laptop. He was in the shower, singing Phil Collins’ “I Don’t Care Anymore,” off-key, when his laptop readied and received an email.
When he came out of the bathroom he saw it.
It said,
Good day to you Professor,
It is our hope that your day went well and your night begins with much satisfaction.
You are hereby invited to a ball by the University of Florida. This is a ball in honor of our esteemed benefactors to be held at the Baughman Center. Time is 7:00 pm, prompt.
Please, dress formal. This invitation admits you and a companion.
Best regards.
The President
Edward Dyer was the president, and his signature was below, like a chicken's scratch.
“What the…”
He rubbed his towel around his shoulder, slowly assimilating the short email from the office of the president. Peter had never attended any of those balls before. He’d only heard of them. They were a big thing among select professors and other teaching staff, but boring big things all the same.
He read the email again. He looked at his cellphone beside his computer and almost called Craig or maybe the dean Barry Dutch himself. Well, maybe he was getting the recognition he deserved after all this time.
Peter slept better that night.
—
Peter Williams wore a dark pin-striped suit, black brogues polished to a blinding shine, and he was alone.
He had his ha
ir cut to a crew cut. He agreed that he was handsome and needed a girl to come with him to the ball. But the invitation came on short notice. Besides, who was there to take to such a party, one of the girls from his class?
He smiled ruefully at the skirmishes from his past.
There was Olivia, he thought as he nosed his car into the parking lot, but she wasn’t his type. It was 7:05 pm. He was late but these functions always started late anyway.
Baughman Center was lit up. It stood gigantic with its Victorian-style windows and stuccos. The surrounding field reflected the yellow glare.
Peter scanned the parking lot to tell what to expect in there. Well, opulence, for one thing. And then he saw Ted Cooper’s car, a yellow Camaro he drove on occasion.
He walked up the stairs, got a pamphlet with an outline of the night's procession on it from a round and short valet. He was ushered in by another one who wore a bow tie and tailcoats.
The familiar fragrance of champagne filled his nose. Bass guitar music, the sort from Saturday matinees, filled his ears. The hall was already crowded. Peter didn’t know half the people. The ones he knew definitely didn’t expect to see him.
Barry Dutch patted him on the back.
“Look who we have here,” he hollered.
Barry’s breath smelled of alcohol. They shook hands. Peter looked around to see if Ted would show up on the heels of the dean. He didn’t. Barry Dutch wore a waistcoat under his jacket. And a bow tie. Peter hated ties now.
“So you got invited too. Me, I was surprised that I was,” Barry confided, a little drunkenly.
Peter picked up a glass off the tray a waiter carried past.
“I could not resist, I had to crash this one,” Peter lied.
Barry looked at him dubiously.
Peter scanned the crowd. “Where’s everyone?”
“What’d you mean, we are all here. Have you seen Ted and Silva Goodall, oh those guys looked like they were cut from Vogue magazines,” Barry blared.
Peter sipped his drink. He smiled genuinely for the first time. A man who looked like a businessman put his arm around Barry’s shoulder and pulled him away in a bray of laughter and introductions.
Hunt for the Holy Grail Page 7
