“So you knew him before.”

“Just from working with Hope. Basically, Phil's asocial… Well, good talking to you.”

He picked up the attachÉ case and started up the stairs.

I said, “What's your view of the Interpersonal Conduct Committee?”

He stopped, smiled. “That, again. My view? I thought it was an excellent idea with insufficient enforcement power.”

“Some people believe the committee was a mistake.”

“Some people believe quality of life means anarchy.”

“So you think it should have been allowed to continue.”

“Sure, but what chance was there of that? That rich snot's father shut it down because this place operates on the same principles as any other political system: money and power. If the girl he harassed had been the one with the fat-cat daddy, you can believe the committee would be alive and healthy.”

He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, looked at it, snapped it away. “The point is, women will always be physically weaker than men and their safety can't be left up to the good graces of anyone with a penis. The only way to simulate equity is through rules and consequences.”

“Discipline.”

“Better believe it.” He smoothed a leather lapel. “You're asking me about the committee because you think it had something to do with Hope's death. One of those chickenshit little weenies getting back at her. But like I said, they were all cowards.”

“Cowards commit murder.”

“But I sat on the committee, too, and I'm obviously intact.”

Same logic Cruvic had used, talking about abortion protest.

“Let me ask you something else,” I said. “Did Hope ever mention being abused, herself?”

The lapel bunched as his hand closed tight around the leather. “No. Why?”

“Sometimes people's work is directed by personal experience.”

The black brows dipped low and his eyes got cold. “You want to reduce her achievements to psychopathology?”

“I want to learn as much as I can about her. Did she ever talk about her past?”

Uncurling his fingers, he let his arms drop very slowly. Then he raised them very quickly, almost a martial-arts move. Folding them across his chest, as if warding off attack.

“She talked about her work. That's all. Whatever personal things I was able to infer came from that.”

“What did you infer?”

“That she was incredibly intelligent and focused and cared deeply about what she was doing. That's why she took me on. Focus is my thing. I get my teeth in and don't let go.”

He smiled, showing white enamel. “She appreciated the fact that I was willing to come out and say how I really felt. That I believed people can't just follow their impulses. Around here, that's still heresy.”

“What about her other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez?”

“What about her?”

“Is she also focused?”

“Don't know, we didn't see each other much. Good talking to you, got to run an experiment. If you ever do find the piece of shit, convict him, sentence him to die, invite me to San Quentin to jam the hypodermic into his veins.”

Giving a choppy salute, he vaulted up the steps to the tower, shoved at one of the heavy glass doors. As it swung open, I caught a momentary flash of reflection. The delicate mouth curving, but hard to read.

Like Cruvic, he'd talked about Hope with passion.

Wet eyes notwithstanding, her husband hadn't.

Leading her to turn elsewhere?

Love, sex, stab in the back.

Seacrest had no history of violence, but men who killed their wives often didn't. And like Seacrest, they tended to be middle-aged.

As for the lover being left unharmed, that was also typical: jealous husbands targeting their wives, sparing the lover unless he happened to get in the way.

But if Locking had been Hope's lover, would Seacrest have maintained any connection to him?

I thought about the interplay between the two men. No signs of hostility, but formal.

Then a discrepancy hit me: Last night, Locking had called Seacrest Professor. Today it was Phil.

Did any of it matter?

I bought another cup of cardboard-flavored coffee and drank it on my way over to the Engineering Building, wondering what kind of surprises a chat with Patrick Huang would bring.

He was flustered when I showed up at his locker but offered no resistance when I suggested we talk.

We found a bench on the west end of the quad and I offered to get him coffee.

“No, thanks, I'm caffeined enough. NoDoz. Exams.”

He simulated a tremoring hand and frowned.

He was five-ten and heavy-set with a smooth square face and shoulder-length hair parted in the middle. His wrinkled T-shirt said STONE TEMPLE PILOTS and he wore it over paisley cutoffs and rubber beach thongs. A couple of books were sandwiched under his arm, both on thermodynamics.

“Thanks for talking to me, Patrick.”

He looked down at the bench. “I figured somebody would finally get to me.”

“Why's that?”

“After what happened to Professor Devane, I figured the committee was bound to come up. I'm surprised it took this long.”

He fidgeted. “Did they send a psychologist because they think I'm nuts?”

“No. I do work for the police and they thought I could be helpful on this case.”

He thought about that. “I think I'll get a burger, okay?”

“Sure.”

Leaving his books behind, he went to one of the snack bars and came back with a waxed-paper wad, a box of crinkled fries buried under a blob of ketchup, and a large orange soda.

“I have an uncle who's a psychologist,” he said, settling. “Robert Chan? Works for the prison system?”

“Don't know him,” I said.

“My dad's a lawyer.” He unwrapped the wad. The paper was translucent with grease, and cheese dripped over the sides of the hamburger. Biting down hard, he chewed fast and swallowed. “My dad was mega-pissed about the committee. That I didn't tell him about it. At the time I thought it was a bad joke, why get into it? But after I heard about Professor Devane I said uh-oh, I'm screwed.” He rolled his eyes.

“Trouble with your father.”

“He's traditional- big shame on the family and all that.” He took a huge bite out of the burger, and ate stoically while gazing across the quad.

“Not that I did anything wrong. Everything I said at the hearing was true. That girl's a stone racist. I never hassled her, she used me. But Dad…”

He whistled and shook his head. “After he chewed me out and reduced my credit-card limit for six months, he said I should expect trouble because the police were bound to look into Professor Devane's background. When it didn't happen, I thought, whew, lucky break.”

Looking around some more, he dragged his eyes back to me. “Wrong again. Anyway, I've got no real problem because on the night she was killed I was at a big family get-together. Grandparents' fiftieth anniversary. We all went out to Lawry's, on La Cienega. Prime rib and all the trimmings. I was there the whole time, from eight to after eleven-thirty, sitting right next to Dad, Numbah One Son, along with about a hundred relatives. I've even got documented proof: My cousin took pictures. Lots of pictures, big surprise, huh?”

He shot me an angry smile, placed his front teeth over his lower lip, and wiggled an index finger. “Ah so. Say cheese with wontons, crick crick.”

I didn't respond.

“Want some?” he said, pointing to the fries.

“No thanks.”

He put his mouth to the straw and filled it with orange soda. “You want the pictures, I'll have my dad send them. He actually put them in his office vault.” He laughed. “Now can I go?”

“Any thoughts about Professor Devane?”

“Nope.”

“What about the committee?”