On his way back to Hanby Hall, he called Gordie Lyle’s aunt, but after three rings it went to message. Elliot gave the spiel about who he was and what he wanted, left his phone number, and continued on to his office. He was going to be late for his Film and History: The American West seminar, but his knee didn’t like to be rushed. Rushing left him limping and in pain, something that generally only happened these days when he was very tired or had overdone it. Nothing like excruciating pain as an incentive for taking care of yourself.

He let himself into his office, gathered his notes and headed down the empty hall to the seminar room. It was a relief to find no group of students milling in the corridor. Kyle Kanza, his TA, had let them in and was taking roll.

He smiled as Elliot entered. “Hey, Professor.”

“Hey,” Elliot responded, setting his briefcase on the desk. “Thanks for holding the fort.”

He was relieved to see Kyle had the TV and DVD player set up and ready to go at the front of the room. Kyle really was the perfect TA. Smart, helpful, able to think for himself. And, despite a really awful magenta flattop and a painful-looking lip ring, he was also a nice-looking kid. An attractive mix of delicate bones, almond eyes and honey-colored skin.

Elliot turned to his captive audience and notebooks—electronic and otherwise—opened, cell phones disappeared. “Okay, just to let you know, since we’re running late, we’ll probably have to save our history versus celluloid debate till next time.”

He picked up the remote, powered on the television and walked over to dim the lights. “Though it was a commercial success, The Searchers received scant critical acclaim at the time of its release. It received zero Oscar nominations, however the American Film Institute has since named it the number one Western of all time.” He watched them scribbling frantically in their notebooks, although none of that was crucial information to remember. “Look for themes of obsession, miscegenation and racism. I think that’s about it. Starring John Wayne, Jeffrey Hunter and Natalie Wood…The Searchers.”

Elliot pressed play, flicked the lights off and returned to his desk.

“Do you want me to get started grading last week’s reviews of Red River?” Kyle whispered as the film credits rolled.

Elliot nodded. Kyle scooped up a stack of papers, rose and made his way across the front of the room, heading for the door. Elliot studied the faces highlighted by the television screen. In the back row he could see the glow of someone busily texting.

“Schrader, lose the phone or you’re out of here.”

The light went out, Schrader sat up straight. There was uneasy shifting around in chairs. Elliot felt someone watching him. He glanced over and sure enough, Leslie Mrachek was staring. She quickly looked away.

His cell phone suddenly rang—he’d forgotten to change it to vibrate—and there were chuckles and a few snickers as he grabbed for it.

He peered at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number, but he received few enough calls these days that he answered as he rose and headed for the door.

“Mr. Mills?” The voice was feminine, the intonation African American. “This is Zahra Lyle, Gordie’s aunt.”

“Thanks for returning my call so quickly, Ms Lyle.” The door to the classroom shut quietly behind him. Elliot stood in the deserted corridor. He could hear voices drifting from both Anne Gold’s and Andrew Corian’s rooms. He’d have preferred to take this call in his office, but unlike many of his peers, he wasn’t comfortable leaving the classroom unattended. A career in law enforcement left you with a suspicious disposition. “I was wondering if it would be possible to talk with you about Gordie?”

“Is Gordie one of your students?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Then why?”

The hostility there gave Elliot pause. “It’s my understanding you reported him missing. Charlotte Oppenheimer has authorized me to act as liaison between the college and the police.”

“In other words,” Zahra Lyle returned, “this is the official kiss off.”

“No. It’s not. But in order to proceed, I need to ask you a few questions.”

“I know all about the questions you’re going to ask, Mr. Mills. I already heard from Dr. Oppenheimer. All you’re interested in is proving to yourselves that Gordie ran away. You’re not going to convince me and I’m not going to shut up.”

This was one seriously pissed off lady. He had to wonder at the runaround she’d been getting so far. Or was she always like this? “Listen, Ms Lyle. I don’t want you to shut up. I’d like to help you, but I need you to answer my questions. I’m looking into the disappearance of another student and I’m trying to determine whether there’s a possible connection.”

Zahra demanded, “What other student?”

“Did your nephew ever mention a boy named Terry Baker?”

“No.” She unbent enough to add, “I don’t think so.”

“I’d rather not do this over the phone. Can we meet?”

There was a silence. “I’ll have to think about it,” Zahra said at last. She disconnected.

Chapter Seven

The Wharfside restaurant was a popular meeting place for Seattle University students and young professionals. On the outside it was all rustic timbers and small iron bridges over saltwater ponds filled with starfish and sea anemones. On the inside it was muted lighting and leather booths. A wall of curved windows offered superb panoramic views of the marina and downtown Seattle.

By the time Elliot arrived on Friday evening, the bar was crowded, the tinkle of the piano blending with the low babble of voices. The picture windows offered dramatic skies darkening to hues of apricot and brick. The marina water was glazed in silver and the indigo silhouettes of the city beyond blinked and glittered with lights. Elliot glanced around the wood paneled room. He was early for his meeting with Jim Feder—assuming Feder really planned to show.

An attractive woman with long dark hair and stylish glasses sat in front of the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He recognized fellow teacher and friend Anne Gold and he made his way through the tables, watching as Anne sipped her drink and looked at her watch.

She looked up quickly as Elliot reached her table. Her smile faded, but she made an effort to recover it. “Elliot. What a nice surprise.” She raised her cheek for his kiss. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Anne taught art history. She was twice divorced and reputedly a man-eater, whatever that meant, but Elliot had always found her charming and intelligent company. Then again he’d had the full series of man-eater immunization shots long ago.

He pulled out a chair at her gesture. “It’s a bit out of my way.” Out of Anne’s as well.

“I suppose so.” She offered as though by way of explanation, “The appletinis are legendary.”

“I don’t think I’m an appletini kind of guy.”

She laughed. She had a pretty laugh. “No, possibly not. How are you? It seems ages since we’ve talked.”

Elliot couldn’t help but notice that despite her smile, Anne’s gaze darted past him and then back. Waiting for someone who was already late.

“I’m good. Still settling in. I won’t stay. I’m here to meet someone. I just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

Anne made a face. “It doesn’t look like my friend is going to show anyway. The rat is now officially forty-five minutes late. Why don’t you have a drink and visit till your date arrives?”

“Not a date,” Elliot said. “Definitely not a date.”

“God, you make it sound like all that is behind you now. You’re not even forty. You’re certainly younger than me. Anyway, they say age is a state of mind.” Anne shook the ice in her glass and frowned.