Long Knives

by Charles Rosenberg

  After he was gone, I took the carafe out of its holder beneath the drip spout and sniffed it. It did smell a bit strange. It even seemed to make me a bit nauseated, but then, it was probably more from the situation than from the coffee. Looking at the coffee made me realize I had an intense need for still more. I left the office, locked the door and went over to Lu Valle Commons, the casual coffee-and-food place that sits between the law school and the public policy school. I drank down two big cups.

  When I finished the second cup and set it down on the table, I noticed my hands were shaking slightly. Initially, I couldn’t figure out why. Sure, it had been unnerving to have Primo collapse in my office and then be dragooned into going to the hospital with him in the ambulance. That was over, though, and he was going to be all right. In the end I just passed it off as what happens to your body when an intense adrenaline rush fades. Like what used to happen to me on the track team in high school right after I won a close race. I decided not to worry about it. Everything was going to be fine.

  CHAPTER 9

  I left Lu Valle Commons and walked back to the law school, unlocked my office and sat down at my desk. Then I tried to get back to work on my law review article, intending to make the small last-minute changes Stanford had requested. After maybe thirty minutes, I realized that instead of typing I was just staring at my hands on the keyboard. They were red all over, and rough. The thought that went through my head was that my hands had begun to look like they belonged to an old woman. Which was ridiculous, since I was only thirty-four. But still…Maybe I needed to get a manicure or something. Which was also ridiculous. I’d never had a manicure in my whole life. All I did to my nails was cut them. I didn’t even use nail polish.

  After a few more minutes of staring at my hands, I realized I was rapidly becoming a basket case, even as I simultaneously chided myself for my reaction. There was no good reason for it. It certainly wasn’t my fault that Primo had collapsed in my office, and I had gone well beyond the call of duty in riding to the hospital with him. Really, George Skillings should have gone. That was his job. Maybe I was feeling the way I was because it was the first time I’d ever been the first person on the scene for something like that.

  In the end, whatever the reason for my feelings, it was clear to me that I wasn’t going to get anything at all done that day, and I might as well go home. I got up, stepped out into the hallway, closed the door behind me and locked it. And I made special note of the fact that I had indeed locked it. Tomorrow, if it turned out to be open again, there wasn’t going to be any doubt in my mind about the locked state in which I had left it.

  As I went by Aldous’s office, I stopped and knocked, thinking it might be good to talk again, but there was no answer. Nor was there any light coming out from under his door. He was probably off teaching a class.

  Just then, I heard a voice behind me say, “Professor?” I turned to see Julie Gattner, an attractive brunette who’s a third-year student in my Sunken Treasure seminar. Julie had been one of the students hanging around in the hallway earlier in the morning, when I’d shut the door to block their view of the EMTs working on Primo. There were two other students with her, neither of whom I recognized.

  “Professor,” Julie said, “what happened to Primo? We saw him being wheeled out by the emergency people.”

  “I don’t really know, Julie. One minute he was okay, then he wasn’t. But I want to respect his privacy, so I think I’m just going to leave it at that, okay?”

  “Oh, sure, I understand. Hope he’s all right. He’s a really nice guy.”

  “Agreed. And I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but I need to get going.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said again, turned away and headed down the hall in the direction from which I had come. As the group moved away, I heard one of the other students say to her, “Primo’s into stuff, isn’t he?” And then I heard another voice I didn’t know respond, more faintly and harder to make out, “Yeah, maybe he just went too hard last night.”

  I stood for a moment and thought about that, then trotted down the stairs and out the door and headed over to my car, which was in Parking Lot 3. A pass for Lot 3—particularly a blue pass—was an important faculty perk. The lot’s only about a six-or seven-minute walk from the law school, at least at the speed at which I usually walk, and is especially handy when it rains or the weather turns cold, keeping in mind that most Angelenos regard anything under fifty degrees as positively arctic. Had I been less lucky, I might have had to park in Lot 2, which was farther away, not to mention rather dark and forbidding inside.

  My trusty Land Cruiser was there, waiting for me. It was ten years old by now, but I still loved it, and it still served as my home away from home, although the backseat, with its books, discarded plastic water bottles and at least two old pizza boxes, had become something of a disgrace. I really needed to clean it out. Maybe today would be a good day to do it.

  I got in, put the key in the ignition and started the engine. I was about to put it into gear and back out of the parking space when my cell rang. I picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was the dean. I thought seriously about ignoring his call, but given all that had happened, I supposed I owed it to him to answer, so I did.

  “Jenna, it’s Matthew. Giordano died.”

  I was poleaxed. I tried to say something in response but found I couldn’t speak.

  “Jenna, are you there?”

  It took me another second, but I finally found my voice. “Yes, I’m here. Did you say he died? That Primo died?”

  “Yes. I got a call about ten minutes ago from the chief attending at the ER, a Dr. Nightingale.”

  “The same doctor who told me that he’d probably be fine.”

  “He told the associate dean the same thing. You were there when I got the call. I guess he got it wrong.”

  “What did Primo die from?”

  “Dr. Nightingale wouldn’t tell me anything. Medical privacy and all that crap. He just wanted to get information on next of kin.”

  “I have no idea who they are.”

  “I gave him what we have on file. Meanwhile, my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since they took him out of your office. A lot of people are saying he was a heavy partier. So maybe it was drugs.”

  “I guess. I hardly knew him. But whatever, I’m in shock.”

  “I can understand that. There’s one more thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “His brother, Quinto Giordano, just called me.”

  “Quinto? That’s his brother’s name?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Well, Primo means ‘first’ in Italian. Quinto means ‘fifth.’ So does that mean there are three other brothers in between?”

  “I have no idea. But he was calling about something in particular.”

  “What?”

  “He wanted to know, and I quote, ‘Where is the treasure map?’ What is he talking about?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “When Primo came to see me, he told me he had a map marking where a supposed Spanish galleon had sunk. Filled with valuable stuff, he claimed.”

  “Did he have it with him?”

  “He said he did. He was carrying a red mailing tube, and he said the map was inside it. I never got to see it because right after he offered to show it to me, I went across the hall to take a call, and when I got back, he was already unconscious. I simply forgot about it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know. It disappeared at some point. I think it was already gone when the EMTs got to my office, but I only noticed it was gone when they were wheeling Primo out. In any case, it’s not there now.”

  “How big was it?”

  “Maybe three feet long.”

  “How could you fail to notice immediately that something that big was missing?”

  “Hey, Dean Blender, when I got back from the phone call, I was focused on Primo, you know? He was unconscious and dr
ooling. And then the EMT guys arrived and all of that. I wasn’t exactly looking for the effing map.”

  “Okay, okay. Are you in your office now?”

  “No. I’m in my car in Lot 3, about to go home.”

  “I think you should go back and look again for that map.”

  “All right, but it’s not there.”

  “Try the trash cans. And let me know if you find it. This guy seems a little unhinged.”

  I turned off the car and jogged back to my office, thinking hard about the map. If it was really important—could it possibly be a real treasure map?—there had to be a logical explanation for what had happened to it. It was in my office for sure when I walked across the hall to take the phone call but apparently gone by the time I got back. Where could it have disappeared to in the few minutes I was away? I had no answer.

  When I reached my office, my door was again wide open. This time there was a UCLA police officer standing inside, looking around. He turned as I walked in and said, “Could you identify yourself, please?”

  “I’m Professor James. This is my office.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m Detective Drady of the UCLA Police Department.” He handed me a card. “I’m doing an initial investigation of the death of a student.” He looked at a set of notes he had in his hand. “Student’s name was Primo Giordano. I understand this was the last place he was seen alive before they took him to the ER.”

  “Uh, I guess that’s true. But how did you get in, Officer? I locked my office when I left.”

  “Campus security let me in. Said I could have a look around, even though you weren’t here. Don’t need a search warrant since it’s university property. We don’t usually exercise that right, but in the case of a death, it’s different.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would now be a convenient time to interview you, Professor? It’s best when things are fresh in someone’s mind.”

  “Sure. You know, Officer, you look vaguely familiar.”

  “I was one of the LAPD officers who arrested Robert Tarza.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, you do remember, don’t you, that Tarza tried to flee to Chicago when he was the target in a murder investigation? For murdering the managing partner of his law firm?” The sarcasm was so thick I could have cut it. And although it was tempting to respond in kind, I decided to stick to the facts because I had no idea where, exactly, this upsetting conversation was going.

  “He wasn’t trying to flee, Detective. He was going to see a rare coin dealer to try to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Well, whatever. When he got back, we arrested him. I was one of the arresting officers. I testified briefly at the preliminary hearing. You cross-examined me.”

  Once he put it in context I did vaguely remember him. He had testified for something like two seconds. But I really didn’t want to get into a further discussion of the case with him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I still don’t recall your testimony.”

  “Well, it’s a long time ago now. Six years, maybe?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Not long after that trial I left the LAPD and joined the UCLA force.”

  “Well, welcome to UCLA School of Law, Officer. Let’s sit down, and you can ask me what you want to know, not that I know very much.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The interview with Officer Drady took about ten minutes. We covered pretty much the same territory I had covered with everyone else. I went out of my way to mention that the coffee had smelled odd to me. Drady sniffed what was left in the pot, wrinkled his nose and suggested I toss it. I reminded him that if there was something wrong with it that had made Primo sick—like some weird fungus on the beans—it could be evidence. But he said Skillings had already collected samples and was going to hand them over to the police, so there was no need to keep it. Overall, he didn’t seem particularly interested in that aspect of the story.

  I also decided it was time to mention the supposed treasure map. He raised his eyebrows on that one but didn’t press for more details about the map. When I told him it had gone missing, he helped me look around the office for it and confirmed it wasn’t there.

  As the interview was wrapping up, I thought to myself that the death had been awful, but the conversation about it with Drady had so far seemed rather anodyne. Then I berated myself for using that word, even in my head. It’s one of those ten-dollar words law professors use to impress each other, and all it means is ordinary, inoffensive. It’s certainly not a word I would ever use in front of a jury.

  Which is exactly when the interview began to veer toward the offensive.

  “So,” Officer Drady said, as he slapped his notebook closed, “what’s Robert Tarza doing these days?”

  The truth was that Robert and I, despite his having been my mentor and close friend for close to a decade, were no longer on the best of terms. I hadn’t spoken to him in several years. But I certainly wasn’t going to share that with this asshole detective.

  “Well,” I said, “I haven’t talked to him lately, so I don’t really know exactly. Litigating in his downtown law firm, I suppose.”

  “He’s lucky not to be up in Marin County instead, if you ask me.”

  “Which is what, Officer, a veiled reference to San Quentin, which, if I recall correctly, is in Marin?”

  “Didn’t intend it as veiled, really. I still think he had something to do with the murder of the managing partner all those years ago.”

  “You don’t think all the others who were convicted had anything to do with it?”

  “Yeah, I do. But I don’t think it was the whole story.”

  “What do you think the whole story was?”

  “I’m not sure, but to be candid, I think you had something to do with it, too, Professor.”

  I stared at him for a moment in disbelief.

  “I didn’t, Detective. And if you don’t have anything else to ask me about today’s situation, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “I’d only say this, Professor. The last time around they found the body of the managing partner in the firm’s reception area with a knife in his back, and he turned out to be your boyfriend. This time around there’s a body and it’s your student. What’s a good detective to think?” He stood up and stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” I said, conspicuously declining either to stand up or to shake his outstretched hand.

  He smirked, turned and waltzed out the door.

  I sat there after he left with a rising feeling of unease. Was I about to be accused of killing Primo? That was too ridiculous even to contemplate, and I shoved it out of my mind. Or maybe I didn’t shove it entirely out of my mind. When I looked down at my hands, they were shaking again, and they were redder than ever.

  CHAPTER 11

  After Drady left I looked around my office once again, hoping to catch sight of either the mailing tube or its supposed contents. I got down on my knees and peered under my desk. I opened all of my desk drawers, thinking perhaps someone had taken the map out of the tube and folded it up. I looked carefully on my bookshelves, even pulling out some of the books to make sure nothing had slipped behind them. It wasn’t in any of those places.

  Next I walked back into the empty office across the hall, where I had taken the phone call. The room was still utterly empty. I went down the hall and searched in the small kitchen, where there was a tall trash can. There wasn’t much in the can, but I rooted through it anyway. I found nothing that even remotely resembled a map. I looked in the drawers and cabinets. I searched the trash can in the women’s room and even in the men’s room. Nothing.

  I returned to my office and considered what to do with the coffee that was left in the coffeepot. I was about to take it to the bathroom and dump it when I had second thoughts. Skillings had taken a sample, which Drady had said he was going to give to the police. If there turned out to be something wrong
with the coffee, there were going to be consequences. My litigator instincts told me I needed to have my own sample. I decided it would be easiest to take the entire coffeepot home with me.

  My next problem was what to do with the remaining beans in the cute little Coffee Chaos bag. If they were tainted in some way, it wouldn’t be a great idea to leave them there lest someone else use them. But who could possibly use them without my knowledge? On the other hand, at least three people had entered my office without my knowledge in the last twenty-four hours—Primo, Skillings and Drady. There was no point in risking it. I grabbed the bag and shoved it into my purse.

  I walked to Lot 3 for the second time, carrying the coffeepot, managing to get there without having the coffee slosh over the edge of the lid. I put the pot on the floor in front of the passenger seat, got back in the car and headed for home.

  On the way, not far from campus, I spied a new nail salon. It had a big sign out front: ONLY NAILS. GRAND OPENING. Amazingly, there was a parking place right in front. I braked hard, slid my car into the space and went in. After some initial confusion, I was able to persuade them that I didn’t want my nails done—that I just needed some treatment that might soothe my raw, red hands. The woman in charge, whose name was Thu Nguyen, and who I think was also the owner, suggested hot wax. I agreed. The treatment—wrapping my hands in plastic bags into which hot wax was poured—felt great. For the first time that day, I was able, at least momentarily, to forget about Primo and the missing map and just relax.

  When they were done with the treatment, I thanked Thu, paid in cash and left a large tip. Then I got back in my car and headed home. On the way, though, I couldn’t help but replay the day’s events in my mind—over and over and over again. They still made no sense to me.

  CHAPTER 12

  Home is a condo—the penthouse—in one of the high-rises along the Wilshire Boulevard corridor, just east of Westwood Village. It looks north into the hills and has three bedrooms and a marble hot tub. I bought it when I was in my last year at Marbury Marfan and still making a mid-six-figure salary, and used my end-of-year bonus and a small inheritance for the down payment. Now, on my low-six-figure law professor salary, I had begun to find the mortgage payments and the condo association fees a bit of a stretch. I really ought to have sold it, but it reminded me of my prior, more glittery life, so I kept it.