though she smiled she seemed momentarily frightened, as if I'd come to revoke her son's recovery.
"Dr. Delaware."
"Hi, Mary Lou. How's everything?"
The red hair was a flyaway frizz that she patted down. "Brandon's doing great—I probably should have called you to tell you." She approached the counter. "Thanks so much for your help, Dr. Delaware."
"My pleasure. How's your mom?"
She frowned. "Her hip's taking a long time to heal, and the other driver's being a butt—denying responsibility. We finally got ourselves a lawyer, but everything just drags out. So what brings you here?"
"I'm trying to locate a student who was involved in research."
"A grad student?"
"Undergrad. I assume you have a record of ongoing projects."
"Well," she said, "that's generally not public information, but I'm sure you've got a good reason. . . ."
"This girl's gone missing for a week, Mary Lou. The police can't do much, and her mother's frantic."
"Oh, no—but it's midquarter break. Students take off."
"She didn't tell her mother or her roommate, though she did say she'd continue to come here even during the break, to do research. So maybe the job took her out of town. A conference, or some kind of fieldwork."
"She didn't tell her mom anything?"
"Not a word."
She crossed the room to a wall of file cabinets. Same golden beige. The outcome of someone's experiment on color perception? Out came a two-inch-thick computer printout that she laid on a desk and flipped through. "What's her name?"
"Lauren Teague."
She searched, shook her head. "No one by that name registered with personnel on any federal or state grants—let's see about private foundations." Another flip. She looked up, with the same worried expression I'd seen on her first visit to my office. Psychology's code of ethics forbids bartering with a patient. I'd traded something with her, wondered if I'd stepped over the line.
"Nothing."
"Maybe there's a misunderstanding," I said. "Thanks."
She crossed her mouth with an index finger. "Wait a second—when it's part-time work, sometimes the professors hire out through one of those employee management firms. It avoids having to pay benefits."
Another cabinet, another printout. "Nope, no Lauren Teague. Doesn't look as if she's working here, Dr. Delaware. You're sure the study was in psychology? Some of the other departments have behavioral science grants—sociology, biology?"
"I assumed psychology, but you could be right," I said.
"Let me call over to the administration building, see what the central employee files turn up." Glance at the wall clock. "Maybe I can catch someone."
"I really appreciate this, Mary Lou."
"Don't even think about it," she said, as she dialed. "I'm a mom."
No job listing anywhere on campus. Mary Lou looked embarrassed— an honest person confronting a lie.
"But," she said, "they do have her enrolled. Junior psych major, transferred from Santa Monica College. Tell you what—I'll pull our copy of her transcript. I can't give you her grades, but I will tell you which professors she took classes from. Maybe they know something."
"I appreciate it."
"Hey," she said, "we're not even close to even in the thank-you department. . . . Okay, here we go: This past quarter she took a full load— four psych courses: Introductory Learning Theory with Professor Hall, Perception with Professor de Maartens, Developmental with Ronninger, Intro Social Psych with Dalby."
"Gene Dalby?"
"Uh-huh."
"We were classmates," I said. "Didn't know he switched from clinical practice to teaching Social."
"He came on full-time a couple of years ago. Good guy, one of the less pompous ones. Even though he drives a Jag." Her eyes rounded and shepretended to slap her wrist. "Forget I said that." She began to return the transcript to the drawer.
"Lauren told her mother she got straight A's."
"Like I said, Dr. Delaware, grades are confidential." Her eyes dropped to the paper. Tiny smile. "But if I was her mother I'd be proud.
"Dr. Delaware."
"Hi, Mary Lou. How's everything?"
The red hair was a flyaway frizz that she patted down. "Brandon's doing great—I probably should have called you to tell you." She approached the counter. "Thanks so much for your help, Dr. Delaware."
"My pleasure. How's your mom?"
She frowned. "Her hip's taking a long time to heal, and the other driver's being a butt—denying responsibility. We finally got ourselves a lawyer, but everything just drags out. So what brings you here?"
"I'm trying to locate a student who was involved in research."
"A grad student?"
"Undergrad. I assume you have a record of ongoing projects."
"Well," she said, "that's generally not public information, but I'm sure you've got a good reason. . . ."
"This girl's gone missing for a week, Mary Lou. The police can't do much, and her mother's frantic."
"Oh, no—but it's midquarter break. Students take off."
"She didn't tell her mother or her roommate, though she did say she'd continue to come here even during the break, to do research. So maybe the job took her out of town. A conference, or some kind of fieldwork."
"She didn't tell her mom anything?"
"Not a word."
She crossed the room to a wall of file cabinets. Same golden beige. The outcome of someone's experiment on color perception? Out came a two-inch-thick computer printout that she laid on a desk and flipped through. "What's her name?"
"Lauren Teague."
She searched, shook her head. "No one by that name registered with personnel on any federal or state grants—let's see about private foundations." Another flip. She looked up, with the same worried expression I'd seen on her first visit to my office. Psychology's code of ethics forbids bartering with a patient. I'd traded something with her, wondered if I'd stepped over the line.
"Nothing."
"Maybe there's a misunderstanding," I said. "Thanks."
She crossed her mouth with an index finger. "Wait a second—when it's part-time work, sometimes the professors hire out through one of those employee management firms. It avoids having to pay benefits."
Another cabinet, another printout. "Nope, no Lauren Teague. Doesn't look as if she's working here, Dr. Delaware. You're sure the study was in psychology? Some of the other departments have behavioral science grants—sociology, biology?"
"I assumed psychology, but you could be right," I said.
"Let me call over to the administration building, see what the central employee files turn up." Glance at the wall clock. "Maybe I can catch someone."
"I really appreciate this, Mary Lou."
"Don't even think about it," she said, as she dialed. "I'm a mom."
No job listing anywhere on campus. Mary Lou looked embarrassed— an honest person confronting a lie.
"But," she said, "they do have her enrolled. Junior psych major, transferred from Santa Monica College. Tell you what—I'll pull our copy of her transcript. I can't give you her grades, but I will tell you which professors she took classes from. Maybe they know something."
"I appreciate it."
"Hey," she said, "we're not even close to even in the thank-you department. . . . Okay, here we go: This past quarter she took a full load— four psych courses: Introductory Learning Theory with Professor Hall, Perception with Professor de Maartens, Developmental with Ronninger, Intro Social Psych with Dalby."
"Gene Dalby?"
"Uh-huh."
"We were classmates," I said. "Didn't know he switched from clinical practice to teaching Social."
"He came on full-time a couple of years ago. Good guy, one of the less pompous ones. Even though he drives a Jag." Her eyes rounded and shepretended to slap her wrist. "Forget I said that." She began to return the transcript to the drawer.
"Lauren told her mother she got straight A's."
"Like I said, Dr. Delaware, grades are confidential." Her eyes dropped to the paper. Tiny smile. "But if I was her mother I'd be proud.
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