Immoral by Brian Freeman Page B

demeanor. “I’m so sorry. I needed to talk to you, and I didn’t realize you had someone with you.”
    The girl struggled to right the recliner and then to stand up. She didn’t make eye contact with Stride. “I should get to class. Thanks a lot, Nancy.”
    Carver replied in a softer voice. “Sure, Sarah. I’ll be back on Thursday.”
    Sarah grabbed a stack of books from Nancy Carver’s desk. She clutched them to her chest and wedged uncomfortably past Stride. The girl wasted no time disappearing down the corridor.
    Stride closed the door behind him. Carver remained frozen behind the old recliner, studying him as if he were an insect. Her glasses made her fierce brown eyes look larger than life. She was even smaller than the photographs made her look, but with a muscular physique.
    “What do you want?” she asked.
    “My name is Jonathan Stride,” he began, but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand.
    “Yes, yes, I know who you are. You’re with the police, and you’re investigating Rachel’s disappearance, and you’re taking up my time.” She returned to her desk and sat down in a wooden Shaker chair. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    Stride looked around the tiny office. Carver’s desk was standard school district issue, white laminate on aluminum legs. It was piled with hardcover books, most with obscure psychological titles, and manila folders overflowing with papers. The phone was stuck all over with little reminder notes. The chair, desk, and recliner were the only pieces of furniture in the office. The one item on the wall was a cork bulletin board, as crowded as her office door, with more articles and photographs.
    Stride sat leisurely in the recliner and made himself comfortable. He extracted a notebook from his inside coat pocket, searched a few other pockets for a pen, then settled against the cushy backrest with a sigh. He flipped the notebook backward a few pages, glancing at the scribblings there and making an annoying clicking noise with his tongue. Finally, he looked up at Nancy Carver, who sat in her chair with all the patience of a ticking bomb.
    “My partner tells me that I should get therapy,” Stride said pleasantly. “Do all patients get the little face massage thing?”
    Carver’s face was etched in stone. “Sarah is not a patient.”
    “No? Too bad. I heard you were a doctor, but maybe I was wrong. Are you a massage therapist?”
    “I have both a master’s and a Ph.D. in psychology, Detective. I am a tenured professor at the University of Minnesota. But here, with these girls, I’m just Nancy.”
    “That’s nice. So what was this with Sarah—a slumber party?”
    “No,” she said. “Not that it is any of your business, but Sarah has trouble sleeping. I was showing her relaxation techniques. That’s all.”
    Stride nodded. “Relaxation is good. My partner tells me I should try that, too.”
    “Perhaps your partner should tell you to get to the point faster, Detective. Your little game is transparent and tedious, so why not just ask your questions and let me get back to my work?” For the first time, Nancy Carver smiled, without a trace of warmth.
    Stride smiled back. “Game?”
    “Game. See who can outshrink the other. Remember, I make a living at it. So let’s be honest, shall we, Detective? In addition to whatever investigative conclusions you’ve jumped to, you’ve also already checked me out as a piece of meat. You’ve concluded that I’m not attractive enough to constitute a major loss to the heterosexual community. Nonetheless, you’ve noted that I have an athletic body, and based on my feisty attitude, you’ve figured that if you ever could get me into bed, I’d probably give you a pretty good ride. All of which leads you to fantasize about me making love to other women—and to wonder whether I’m having sex with any of the teenagers here. And you’re hoping if you act flip and challenge my insecurities, you’ll get me to spill