As Dr. Lemmon walked out, she had a smile on her face, but Hannah could tell it was forced and she suspected why. The woman was walking gingerly and using a cane for support. Jessie had told her that Lemmon had a slipped disk but she hadn’t understood until now just how limited her therapist’s mobility would be.

  The doctors all stood still as Goodman stepped up to the podium and turned on the microphone. His attention seemed to be focused on something beyond the crowd and Hannah turned to follow his gaze. That’s when she saw the video camera on an adjoining roof. Apparently whatever the announcement was, Goodman wanted it recorded for posterity.

  “Thank you all for joining us here in Tranquility Courtyard,” he said, barely able to contain his exhilaration. “I know this assembly was called on short notice and that for some of you, this is lunchtime. Let me assure you that you won’t miss out. We are extending lunch for an extra hour today. But we wanted to share some grand news that will help each and every one of you.”

  He seemed to expect some applause but when none came, he pressed on, undaunted.

  “I am proud to announce, that with a generous contribution from the Alliance for a New Tomorrow Everyday, we are starting a new program called Seasons at Sea. A beach house less than a quarter mile from here is currently being transformed into a grand, water-based, rehabilitative satellite center. There, activities like surfing, kayaking, and scuba diving will be used to build confidence, discipline and team-building, all skills you will need to reintegrate yourselves into lives beyond these walls. We anticipate having the program up and fully operational by the end of the month. How does that sound, Seasoners?”

  A surprising number of cheers erupted from the crowd, which made Goodman’s face border on cracking, his smile was so wide. While Hannah thought the program sounded reasonable and she would never object to a chance to go surfing, she wondered if Goodman might be overselling it for the camera. Eventually the applause settled down.

  “One more bit of good news,” he said, his voice echoing loudly throughout the courtyard. “Some of you may have noticed the recent absence of our senior advisory adjunct psychiatrist, Dr. Janice Lemmon. As you can see, she has rejoined us. She tweaked her back a little bit, which is why she’s moving a little slower than usual and using a cane. I know you’re all excited to welcome her back, but please, do so gently. She’s still on the mend.”

  There was another round of cheers for Dr. Lemmon, even louder than for the beach house.

  “One last surprise, we’re doing something special tonight. You all know that we always start a new month with Billy Bob’s Barbecue. Well, we are doing a special, unscheduled, mid-month Triple B dinner in honor of Dr. Lemmon and the Seasons at Sea program. So when you come to eat tonight, bring your appetites and we’ll bring the bibs!

  A third cheer erupted as the assembly ended. Dr. Lemmon was immediately swarmed. Hannah would have loved to join them but her conversation would require a little more privacy.

  She wanted to tell the doctor about the progress she was making. She wanted to share how she was not seeking out dangerous situations or confrontations just for the sake of the emotional high they gave her; she had actually reined in the urge to verbally crush several people who had deserved it in the last few days. She wanted to describe the moment when she actually empathized with Silvio, something she didn’t think herself capable of, and tried to ease his emotional his pain by sharing a painful moment of her own. She wanted to brag—if one could brag about such a thing—that she hadn’t felt the desire to recreate the thrill she got from killing a man at all this week.

  But most of all, she wanted to talk to Dr. Lemmon about Merry, to tell her about her suspicions regarding Dr. Tam and find out if someone she respected thought they had merit. But Dr. Lemmon looked like she would be busy with well-wishers for quite a while, so any discussion of personal growth or murderous psychiatrists would have to wait.

  Hannah continued toward the courtyard exit, waiting for the crowd to thin out so she could shimmy through the narrow outlet. Just in front of her was a painfully skinny, young woman with long, red hair and a small backpack purse with “Robin” sewn into the back.

  Seeing the name piqued Hannah’s interest. One of the names mentioned in Dr. Tam’s notebook was Robin Carmell. Though Hannah had never met her, she recalled Tam’s description of her as a twenty-four-year-old battling an eating disorder. Could this be her? And if so, might she have some useful information to share?

  “Are you Robin Carmell?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  When the woman turned to face her, she knew she had the right Robin before a word was spoken. Her face was gaunt and her eye sockets swallowed up her eyes. The pointy ends of her collarbones just below her neck jutted out forcefully. And most disturbingly, her teeth were jagged and discolored, likely the result of years of purged stomach acids.

  “What do you want?” she asked defensively.

  “Sorry,” Hannah said, attempting to dial back the intensity from her first, out-of-the-blue question. “I just saw the name on your backpack and wondered if you were the same Robin who sees Dr. Tam regularly?”

  “Why?” she demanded, still on guard.

  “I had to switch to him recently, since Dr. Lemmon has been away, and when I signed up for my first session I saw that name on the schedule too. I thought if you were that Robin, you might be able to give me a preview of what to expect? Is he good? Should I switch to Dr. Perry?”

  “He’s fine,” Robin said curtly.

  The girl’s eyes darted around as if she feared someone might be listening in. Hannah didn’t know whether she was hiding something or if the response was just a nervous tic.

  “For real?” she pressed, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “I just don’t want to end up with some dude who doesn’t get my issues.”

  ‘What are your issues?” Robin asked bluntly, apparently not finding the question inappropriate. In fact, social niceties didn’t seem to be in her bag of tricks at all. But Hannah decided to use that to her advantage.

  “Actually, I’m working through some trust issues related to past sexual abuse,” she lied. “An older man took advantage of me and made me feel responsible for it. Do you think Dr. Tam would be sensitive to that in our sessions?”

  She watched for any reaction from Robin that suggested it might not be advisable to let Dr. Tam address matters of sexual transgression in a therapeutic setting with a young woman. But Robin remained blank-faced.

  “I don’t know,” she replied flatly. “I see him because I throw up every meal I eat and freak out if I weigh more than seventy-nine pounds. I don’t have a lot of older guys trying to get with me.”

  Hannah pretended not to be shocked at the plainspoken nature of Robin’s comments or the deep illness it revealed. The two of them were about the same height, five foot nine, and Hannah considered herself a little on the skinny side at 125 pounds. This girl weighed forty-five less than that. Rather than lingering on that horror, she honed in on Robin’s last statement.

  “Is that something you’ve addressed with Dr. Tam, not getting interest from older guys?” she asked, hoping to get some hint as to whether the young woman might have been manipulated by the doctor.

  But Robin apparently didn’t interpret the question as it had been intended.

  “Listen whoever you are,” she said sharply, through the gritted, pointed nubs that served as her teeth, “not all of us can be blonde, green-eyed model types like you. I’m sure older guys are throwing themselves at you left and right. But you don’t have to rub it in.”

  “That’s not what I meant—,” Hannah started to insist before Robin cut her off.

  “Whatever. Save it for your fashion week friends,” she retorted before pushing her way through the crowd and out of sight.

  Well, that went well.

  Not only did she potentially send an already vulnerable person into an even more precarious psychological state, something she felt unexpectedly bad about, she had made zero progress in determining if Dr. Tam had behaved improperly with Robin. The effort had been an almost total failure—almost.

  The one good thing she could take from the awkward encounter was the idea that precipitated it. There were multiple other women listed in Dr. Tam’s notebook, along with their ages. Because she’d only gotten to skim the pages, Hannah could remember just a few of those names, but she did recall that several were of legal age.

  Maybe she’d have more success talking to them about their experiences with Dr. Tam. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was all she had, so she intended to follow it wherever it took her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jessie and Ryan didn’t have to go far to find the expert they were looking for.

  As soon as they stepped out the back entrance of Haines Hall, Jessie saw her near a familiar black van and waved. But Cheryl Gallagher, the deputy medical examiner assigned to the case, wasn’t looking her way. Her attention was focused on something in the back of the medical examiner’s van.

  “Shall we go say ‘hi?’” Jessie asked Ryan, who nodded absent-mindedly. She noticed that his interest was centered on the crowd behind the police tape, which had grown larger since they first entered the building. She knew what he looking for: folks who seemed overly interested in what was going on or who averted their eyes when he stared at them. She stayed quiet as they walked, not wanting to interrupt his concentration.

  “Find anything?” she asked as they neared the van.

  “No one obvious,” he answered quietly and shifted his focus to the woman in front of them.

  “How’s it going, Cheryl?” he asked, startling the M.E., who jumped slightly. She turned around and Jessie noted that she looked the same as always. She wore black pants and a blue top, both of which were partially hidden under a lab coat. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail which matched her perpetually tight face. She wasn’t the warmest person Jessie had ever met but she was good at her job.

  “Not great,” she admitted. “No usable prints so far. No defensive wounds or other obvious signs of struggle either, which is unfortunate. The physical evidence isn’t panning out as I’d hoped.”

  “Actually, that does help us in one regard,” Jessie pointed out.” “Between the lack of both defensive wounds and any evidence of a break-in, it seems increasingly likely that Tobias knew his killer and didn’t view them as a threat.”

  “Either that,” Ryan offered, “or the killer simply moved too fast and got in the death blow before Tobias could react.”

  “Well I’m glad to offer some constructive information,” Gallagher said. “At least it’s more useful than my preliminary time of death, which isn’t much more specific than what you could get by just looking at the guy and taking a guess.”

  “Which is exactly what I did,” Jessie told her. “I estimated it was in the last three hours. How’d I do?”

  Gallagher looked at her watch.

  “Not too bad,” she replied. “It’s just after 12 noon now. I’d peg it closer to one and a half to two hours ago, but like I said, that’s preliminary.”

  “But assuming that’s correct, we’re looking at a window of 10 a.m. to 10:30,” Ryan confirmed.

  “Don’t lock those times in,” Gallagher warned. “I’d maybe extend it a half hour on either end, but you’re in the correct universe.”

  “Well, we know that he was discovered by his student, Phoebe Lewis, at 10:30,” Ryan said. “Assuming we find her credible when we speak with her, that shortens the window of death from about 9:30 to 10:30.”

  “I wouldn’t sign my name to it yet,” Gallagher warned, “but that sounds about right.”

  “That’s still a tight stretch of time,” Jessie noted as she pulled out the daily schedule for Roman Tobias that Schrader had provided them with. “In fact, if his schedule is to be believed, there shouldn’t have been much of a window at all.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

  “According to what I see here,” she explained. “He was supposed to be at some major lecture held in the concert hall at Royce Hall that ran from 9:45 to 11. Why would he schedule a meeting with a student at the same time he intended to attend a lecture?”

  “Maybe he just decided to bail on the lecture entirely and forgot to update his schedule?” Ryan suggested.

  “Maybe,” Jessie conceded, “but I doubt it. The thing was being held in the concert hall, which is huge. And it says here that he was supposed to offer brief introductory remarks prior to the lecture. He had to know that might run long. Why risk a time conflict?”

  “What if he left right after his remarks?” Gallagher suggested. “How far is Royce Hall from this building?”

  “They’re close to each other, actually,” Jessie admitted, “From the main Royce Hall exit to this entrance, it’s just a few minutes’ walk. But it strikes me as pretty rude, even for a celebrity professor like him, to just walk out after introducing someone. Also, his schedule says his office hours are typically Mondays and Wednesdays from 3 to 4 p.m. Why see Phoebe Lewis at 10:30 on Thursday morning?”

  “Maybe it was some kind of academic emergency,” Ryan suggested. “That’s definitely something we should ask her about.”

  “Agreed,” Jessie said. “In fact, unless you have something more to share at the moment, Cheryl, I think that’s something we should look into right now.”

  “Not right now,” Cheryl replied.

  “Then let’s get going,” Ryan said.

  Jessie didn’t say it out loud, but as they headed out, something felt off to her. All the possible explanations that Ryan and Gallagher had offered for the inconsistencies in Roman Tobias’s schedule were perfectly reasonable. But unlike her, neither of them had worked in an academic setting with lectures that regularly ran late or long-winded students who could turn brief chats into hour-long affairs.

  Tobias was intimately familiar with those challenges and yet he seemed to court conflicts with his scheduling. Maybe he was just disorganized, absent-minded, or lazy, but Jessie couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d planned the conflicts intentionally. Before she could ask herself why, Ryan got a call on his cell phone.

  “It’s Schrader,” he said, then answered, putting the call on speakerphone. “What’s up, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you in the middle of your work, but I just got a call from the university chancellor, Martin Elliott. He’d like to speak with you in person.”

  “Okay,” Ryan said. “We were just going over to talk to Phoebe Lewis. Can you text me his location and let him know we’ll see him as soon as we’re able?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Hernandez,” Schrader said, sounding genuinely embarrassed. “I hate to push but Chancellor Elliot made it clear he wanted to talk with you now. He specifically mentioned wanting to meet Ms. Hunt. I think he’s a fan.”

  “Seriously?” Jessie said, immediately put off.

  “Seriously,” Schrader told them. “Of course, I could stall for you—maybe say you’re in the middle of a crucial interview—but I recommend we avoid that. Having the chancellor’s backing would be a tremendous asset to making your investigation run smoothly. Making him feel as if he’s not a priority could have…the opposite effect. I know it shouldn’t be that way. But speaking from experience, you might be better served by meeting with him and putting on the charm. It could be the difference between having doors opened for you or slammed in your face.”

  Ryan looked borderline pissed but Jessie was already resigned to the inevitability.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Lieutenant,” she said with a sigh. “Let him know we’ll be right there.”

  “Let’s get this over with fast,” Ryan muttered after hanging up.

  “Agreed,” Jessie said. “But don’t make it look like we’re rushing him. We don’t need to make an enemy of the most powerful person on campus, especially with a killer on the loose. We may end up needing the guy. We have to handle this just right.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jessie was surprised to hear the chancellor was a fan.

  Despite having taught at UCLA for close to a year, she’d never met him, nor had cause to visit his office, located on the second floor of Murphy Hall. After they arrived, his assistant asked them to take seats in the waiting area. But once she alerted him to their presence, they only had to wait for a few seconds before they were ushered into his office. The place was cavernous, with wood paneling alternating between the giant windows and thick carpeting that swallowed the base of his desk. A separate dining area had an oak table and six chairs.

  Jessie had barely managed to take it all in before the chancellor bounded toward them with his hand extended in greeting. A squat, powerfully built man in his sixties with a bald pate, ruddy skin, and a broad smile, he looked like he’d already had three cups of coffee today.

  “Thanks so much for coming by,” he said, shaking Jessie’s hand vigorously before doing the same to Ryan. “I’m Marty Elliot. It’s so great to meet you both, even if it is under these circumstances.”

  “Thank you for having us, Chancellor,” Jessie said, waiting for her fingers to fully regain the circulation that had briefly stopped when he squeezed them.

  “Please call me Marty,” he said, his voice dipping dramatically into an apologetic tone as he motioned for them to sit on two leather chairs opposite the one he settled into. “I’m ashamed that this is the first opportunity I’ve had to speak with you in particular, Ms. Hunt. You’ve graced us with your presence for months now and despite my best efforts, I still haven’t had the opportunity to sit in on one of your seminars.”

  “I understand, Marty. You’re a very busy man.”

  “Nonetheless, it’s unacceptable,” he insisted, suddenly sounding angry with himself. “And now I understand you’re leaving us at the end of this quarter?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “As much as I’ve loved teaching the students here, I feel like it’s time to dedicate more to case work. Homicide Special Section has been without a full-time profiler for nearly a year now.”

 

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