Nerdy girls were good, because they don't get hit on too often, so they don't get pissy when you talk to them. Jack followed her and Herman caboosed along behind, wheezing and grunting.

"Excuse me," Jack called out. "Excuse me, Miss."

She looked back at him, a puzzled frown on her freckled face. "Huh?" She didn't remove her headset.

"Hi, I wonder if I could ask you a question?"

Nothing.

"My kid sister, Christine, wants to major in computer science at Pepperdine. She's a senior right now, over at Pali High. I was wondering if you could tell me if you're enjoying your courses here?"

"Huh?" She was proving to be a conversational treat.

"I was wondering if you get a lot of computer time in the labs, if the terminals were state of the art, that sort of thing… if you had good job opportunities upon graduation. Do companies come on campus and do job-placement interviews?"

"Oh."

"What I mean is, do you like it here?" Getting one simple sentence out of her was tough as animal dentistry.

"Huh?" She looked at him, then added, "You mean do I like it here?"

We have ignition, Jack thought. "Yeah, that's what I was wondering."

"What's not to like?"

"Right," Jack said. "What's not to like? But could you be slightly more specific?"

"Well the labs are great…"

"Like the one you were just in?"

"Well, that's not so much a lab, really, it's-it's…" And she stopped and looked at him closer. "Do I, like, know you?"

"No." Jack wondered what was going through her fuzzy head besides Metallica music.

She finally said, "It's not a lab, it's paid work. We work like on a scholarship program. Some of us got recruited outta high school 'cause we scored high on computer aptitude, so Dean Nichols gave us these partial scholarships. He runs this special program at the lab three times a week. At least, I have it three times. I think there's also a Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday lab for some other kids."

"And you get paid," Jack smiled. "That's pretty cool."

"Half tuition and all our books."

"Really? And what do you have to do?"

"Like, we just monitor stuff. It's pretty complicated. You should ask Dean Nichols. It's supposed to be like a secret. We're not supposed to say. Gotta go. I hope your daughter comes here, it rocks." She turned and bebopped away, mixing with the others until he lost sight of her.

It took them as long going down the two flights as it had going up, Herman grabbing the rail and slowly lowering himself step by step. Jack had seen piano movers make better time. Herman finally folded himself into the silver Mercedes, dropping his ass in first, then backing in like the last clown in the Volkswagen. Jack got in beside him on the passenger's side.

"What do you think?" Herman wheezed softly, still out of breath from the walk.

"You heard her. She's, like, on a scholarship. She works in a lab, like, monitoring stuff."

"She said it was secret," Herman wheezed.

"Vandyke's an academic. These guys guard their research. He's probably writing a book." Jack was studying Herman, thinking the man really did need to get his ticker fixed, and he was just about to suggest that when the overweight man turned and looked him right in the eye. Jack saw something in that raccoon glare that almost scared him-a latent intensity that didn't square up with his broken-down condition and schlubby build.

"I want you to follow Dean Nichols," Herman said. "See where he goes, who he talks to."

"You mean a stakeout? Goody, those are neato." Jack was trying to make it sound as stupid as he thought it was. He didn't want to run a stakeout on a tweedy asshole like Dean Nichols. "Look, Herman, I really don't think there's much here. That's my trained, law-enforcement opinion. Furthermore, I think you need to address your medical problems."

"But you said there was a homicidal maniac here."

"I didn't say that. I said don't hand your card around like you're Mike Ovitz until we know what we're dealing with. In police work you have to rate your possibilities- you have to figure where your best opportunities are. I'm telling you, in my professional opinion, this is a dead end."

"But it's a secret lab," Herman challenged.

"Yeah, and my guess is that the Pentagon and DARPA aren't using teenagers to work top-security programs with sexy names like Octopus. We went off the track somewhere. I think we need to back up because we missed something."

"I want you to follow Dean Nichols. I have a hunch."

"That's not a hunch, that's a chemical reaction. I had it too. He's an arrogant shit with oh-so-slick hair, but that doesn't make him a government spook."

"I think it's worth pursuing. Since I'm paying you a thousand a day, you should do what I say. If that doesn't work for you, I'll get someone else."

Jack got out of the car. "I'll call you if I get anything."

Herman nodded and drove away.

"Bitchin'. A stakeout," Jack said to himself. "And he's payin' me."

Of course, Jack didn't know that both checks had already bounced, and by the time he found out, it would already be too late.

After Herman left, Jack tried to call Wells Fargo, but his cell battery was fried. So he walked to the Administration building and used their pay phone. After laboring through the bank's computerized help menu, a recorded voice informed him that Mrs. Donovan wasn't available-please leave a message. He left his name, then picked up a two-hundred-page academic catalogue, sat in the air-conditioned waiting room, and looked up Dr. Nichols, dean of the Pepperdine Computer Science School, who was listed as a "distinguished professor." A string of letters hung off the end of his name like knots in a kite's tail: A.B.M.A., M.A., Ph.D.

Jack already knew he was distinguished, because he'd seen the neatly trimmed Vandyke. But it was his pedigree paragraph that caught Jack's interest. Dr. Paul Nichols had done his graduate work at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., right down the road from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It wasn't exactly a big "wow," but further complicating the dean's curriculum vitae was his doctorate degree. His Ph.D. was in political science, not computer science-which begged the question: What was he doing running the computer science school at Pepperdine?

He read on. Dr. Paul Nichols had been a dean since 2001-a short-timer. Strangely, he also coached women's volleyball. An interesting sideline. But then, everybody loves tall, muscular girls in sports bras.

He found a listing for the campus police office and used the guest phone to make a call, pretending to be one of the names he picked at random off the faculty listing page.

"Hello, University Police Department," a man's voice answered.

"This is Dean Harry Gransky, Communications and Journalism," Jack said, pinching his nose for acoustical effect. "That damn Dean Nichols is in my parking space again. I can't park anywhere, 'cause the lot's full."

"Are you sure it was Dean Nichols's car?" the man asked.

"Think I don't know his damn car by now? This is the fifth time he's done it. The brown Chevy Nova with the purple antenna feather?" Just fucking around a little, trying to shake a case of boredom.

"Just a minute." And he was on hold, listening to a strange rendition of "Eleanor Rigby" done on the bagpipes.

The man came back. "I just punched out Dean Nichols's parking pass. He's not driving a brown Nova. He drives a blue Chevelle."

A Chevelle? Jack thought. Who, except postal inspectors, drive Chevelles? "Are you sure? Gimme his plate number."

"ewu 357," the man said. "Listen, Dean Gransky, maybe just for today you could find an empty spot in the Baxter Drive lot."