did Primo die from?”
“Dr. Nightingale wouldn’t tell me anything. Medical privacy and all that crap. He just wanted to get information on next of kin.”
“I have no idea who they are.”
“I gave him what we have on file. Meanwhile, my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since they took him out of your office. A lot of people are saying he was a heavy partier. So maybe it was drugs.”
“I guess. I hardly knew him. But whatever, I’m in shock.”
“I can understand that. There’s one more thing, though.”
“What?”
“His brother, Quinto Giordano, just called me.”
“Quinto? That’s his brother’s name?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, Primo means ‘first’ in Italian. Quinto means ‘fifth.’ So does that mean there are three other brothers in between?”
“I have no idea. But he was calling about something in particular.”
“What?”
“He wanted to know, and I quote, ‘Where is the treasure map?’ What is he talking about?”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“When Primo came to see me, he told me he had a map marking where a supposed Spanish galleon had sunk. Filled with valuable stuff, he claimed.”
“Did he have it with him?”
“He said he did. He was carrying a red mailing tube, and he said the map was inside it. I never got to see it because right after he offered to show it to me, I went across the hall to take a call, and when I got back, he was already unconscious. I simply forgot about it.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. It disappeared at some point. I think it was already gone when the EMTs got to my office, but I only noticed it was gone when they were wheeling Primo out. In any case, it’s not there now.”
“How big was it?”
“Maybe three feet long.”
“How could you fail to notice immediately that something that big was missing?”
“Hey, Dean Blender, when I got back from the phone call, I was focused on Primo, you know? He was unconscious and drooling. And then the EMT guys arrived and all of that. I wasn’t exactly looking for the effing map.”
“Okay, okay. Are you in your office now?”
“No. I’m in my car in Lot 3, about to go home.”
“I think you should go back and look again for that map.”
“All right, but it’s not there.”
“Try the trash cans. And let me know if you find it. This guy seems a little unhinged.”
I turned off the car and jogged back to my office, thinking hard about the map. If it was really important—could it possibly be a real treasure map?—there had to be a logical explanation for what had happened to it. It was in my office for sure when I walked across the hall to take the phone call but apparently gone by the time I got back. Where could it have disappeared to in the few minutes I was away? I had no answer.
When I reached my office, my door was again wide open. This time there was a UCLA police officer standing inside, looking around. He turned as I walked in and said, “Could you identify yourself, please?”
“I’m Professor James. This is my office.”
“Ah, I see. I’m Detective Drady of the UCLA Police Department.” He handed me a card. “I’m doing an initial investigation of the death of a student.” He looked at a set of notes he had in his hand. “Student’s name was Primo Giordano. I understand this was the last place he was seen alive before they took him to the ER.”
“Uh, I guess that’s true. But how did you get in, Officer? I locked my office when I left.”
“Campus security let me in. Said I could have a look around, even though you weren’t here. Don’t need a search warrant since it’s university property. We don’t usually exercise that right, but in the case of a death, it’s different.”
“Oh.”
“Would now be a convenient time to interview you, Professor? It’s best when things are fresh in someone’s mind.”
“Sure. You know, Officer, you look vaguely familiar.”
“I was one of the LAPD officers who arrested Robert
“Dr. Nightingale wouldn’t tell me anything. Medical privacy and all that crap. He just wanted to get information on next of kin.”
“I have no idea who they are.”
“I gave him what we have on file. Meanwhile, my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since they took him out of your office. A lot of people are saying he was a heavy partier. So maybe it was drugs.”
“I guess. I hardly knew him. But whatever, I’m in shock.”
“I can understand that. There’s one more thing, though.”
“What?”
“His brother, Quinto Giordano, just called me.”
“Quinto? That’s his brother’s name?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, Primo means ‘first’ in Italian. Quinto means ‘fifth.’ So does that mean there are three other brothers in between?”
“I have no idea. But he was calling about something in particular.”
“What?”
“He wanted to know, and I quote, ‘Where is the treasure map?’ What is he talking about?”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“When Primo came to see me, he told me he had a map marking where a supposed Spanish galleon had sunk. Filled with valuable stuff, he claimed.”
“Did he have it with him?”
“He said he did. He was carrying a red mailing tube, and he said the map was inside it. I never got to see it because right after he offered to show it to me, I went across the hall to take a call, and when I got back, he was already unconscious. I simply forgot about it.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. It disappeared at some point. I think it was already gone when the EMTs got to my office, but I only noticed it was gone when they were wheeling Primo out. In any case, it’s not there now.”
“How big was it?”
“Maybe three feet long.”
“How could you fail to notice immediately that something that big was missing?”
“Hey, Dean Blender, when I got back from the phone call, I was focused on Primo, you know? He was unconscious and drooling. And then the EMT guys arrived and all of that. I wasn’t exactly looking for the effing map.”
“Okay, okay. Are you in your office now?”
“No. I’m in my car in Lot 3, about to go home.”
“I think you should go back and look again for that map.”
“All right, but it’s not there.”
“Try the trash cans. And let me know if you find it. This guy seems a little unhinged.”
I turned off the car and jogged back to my office, thinking hard about the map. If it was really important—could it possibly be a real treasure map?—there had to be a logical explanation for what had happened to it. It was in my office for sure when I walked across the hall to take the phone call but apparently gone by the time I got back. Where could it have disappeared to in the few minutes I was away? I had no answer.
When I reached my office, my door was again wide open. This time there was a UCLA police officer standing inside, looking around. He turned as I walked in and said, “Could you identify yourself, please?”
“I’m Professor James. This is my office.”
“Ah, I see. I’m Detective Drady of the UCLA Police Department.” He handed me a card. “I’m doing an initial investigation of the death of a student.” He looked at a set of notes he had in his hand. “Student’s name was Primo Giordano. I understand this was the last place he was seen alive before they took him to the ER.”
“Uh, I guess that’s true. But how did you get in, Officer? I locked my office when I left.”
“Campus security let me in. Said I could have a look around, even though you weren’t here. Don’t need a search warrant since it’s university property. We don’t usually exercise that right, but in the case of a death, it’s different.”
“Oh.”
“Would now be a convenient time to interview you, Professor? It’s best when things are fresh in someone’s mind.”
“Sure. You know, Officer, you look vaguely familiar.”
“I was one of the LAPD officers who arrested Robert
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