the third ring. She sounded stressed.
“Look for Dr. Tate,” she said.
“Your father is President Tate?”
“No. My father is Chancellor Tate.”
How logical that every previous instant of my life had occurred so I would hear Audrey’s words in that moment. It almost seemed unfair that it could have been this easy, as if I should have worked harder before having “Chance” from Snooky’s notebook fall into my lap. Would Milly, Devil, and Butch be as accommodating?
* * *
Chancellor Tate’s photo hung prominently in the lobby. He was handsome in the silver-haired corporate style, a chiseled-featured CEO who still had a thirty-four-inch waist and probably modeled for GQ in his spare time. Alongside the chancellor hung photos of the president, provost, and regents. Their somber expressions reflected disapproval of the mobs crisscrossing the marble floor in their torn jeans and facial piercings.
I just wanted a few minutes with Tate, just enough time to put his brain in overdrive. I took the elevator to the tenth floor and asked to see the chancellor. His secretary looked about fifty and wore a white sweater with a large red and blue GO Flames! button pinned below the shoulder. She looked like a retired cheerleader. She asked if I was a graduate student, and when I said no, she said I would have to make an appointment.
“What time does he eat lunch?”
“Sir, you will have to make an appointment. Next Monday would be the earliest opening.”
I wrote “Snooky” on one of my business cards and asked if she would hand it to him. She said she would put it in his in-box. I asked if I could just quickly hand it to him and leave. She said I’d have to make an appointment.
The door behind her was closed, which didn’t necessarily mean Tate was in, but I thought, What the hell , and bypassed Ms. Flame to crash the party. Stretched out on a leather couch, the silver-haired chancellor napped with an ice pack across his forehead.
“Jerry, he just barged in—”
Tate swung his legs off the couch and sat up. His eyes moved back and forth between Ms. Flame and me like a Betty Boop wall clock.
“Is something wrong?” Tate said.
“He just barged in, Jerry—”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m a private investigator looking into an important matter.” I handed him my card.
Tate squinted at the card. Ms. Flame grabbed reading glasses off his desk and handed them to him. “I said he had to make an appointment—”
Tate waved her off. “That’s fine, Barb.” Barb gave boss-man a helpless look before walking out.
Tate picked up the ice pack from the floor and put it in a small fridge against the wall. Then he sat behind his desk and stared at the card a few more seconds. “You’re notthe police?” He stared at my eye.
“I fell off my skateboard. No, I’m not the police.”
“Someone is paying you to be here?”
I wondered if all chancellors were this sharp. “Tell me what you know about Charles Snook.”
Tate looked around. “I believe he did some work for an associate of mine—and of course I heard about his tragic death. How did you get my name?”
“The usual record checks.”
“Records? I had no business with this man. I never even met him.”
The power was intoxicating. “Ah, you know, these bean-counter guys write everything down. Maybe that associate you mentioned gave him your name as a potential client. You’re one of a long list of names I have to track down. It’s all really routine, boring work.”
“I wish I had something for you, but like I said, I never met the man.”
“What about your associate? Did he ever talk to you about him?”
“No, she didn’t—or maybe she mentioned his unusual name, which is why I remember it. And then the paper running the story and finding his body just a block from here.”
“Maybe I could talk to this associate?”
“Perhaps. Uh, Linda something. She was in the assembly with me. We were acquaintances, really …”
“No
“Look for Dr. Tate,” she said.
“Your father is President Tate?”
“No. My father is Chancellor Tate.”
How logical that every previous instant of my life had occurred so I would hear Audrey’s words in that moment. It almost seemed unfair that it could have been this easy, as if I should have worked harder before having “Chance” from Snooky’s notebook fall into my lap. Would Milly, Devil, and Butch be as accommodating?
* * *
Chancellor Tate’s photo hung prominently in the lobby. He was handsome in the silver-haired corporate style, a chiseled-featured CEO who still had a thirty-four-inch waist and probably modeled for GQ in his spare time. Alongside the chancellor hung photos of the president, provost, and regents. Their somber expressions reflected disapproval of the mobs crisscrossing the marble floor in their torn jeans and facial piercings.
I just wanted a few minutes with Tate, just enough time to put his brain in overdrive. I took the elevator to the tenth floor and asked to see the chancellor. His secretary looked about fifty and wore a white sweater with a large red and blue GO Flames! button pinned below the shoulder. She looked like a retired cheerleader. She asked if I was a graduate student, and when I said no, she said I would have to make an appointment.
“What time does he eat lunch?”
“Sir, you will have to make an appointment. Next Monday would be the earliest opening.”
I wrote “Snooky” on one of my business cards and asked if she would hand it to him. She said she would put it in his in-box. I asked if I could just quickly hand it to him and leave. She said I’d have to make an appointment.
The door behind her was closed, which didn’t necessarily mean Tate was in, but I thought, What the hell , and bypassed Ms. Flame to crash the party. Stretched out on a leather couch, the silver-haired chancellor napped with an ice pack across his forehead.
“Jerry, he just barged in—”
Tate swung his legs off the couch and sat up. His eyes moved back and forth between Ms. Flame and me like a Betty Boop wall clock.
“Is something wrong?” Tate said.
“He just barged in, Jerry—”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m a private investigator looking into an important matter.” I handed him my card.
Tate squinted at the card. Ms. Flame grabbed reading glasses off his desk and handed them to him. “I said he had to make an appointment—”
Tate waved her off. “That’s fine, Barb.” Barb gave boss-man a helpless look before walking out.
Tate picked up the ice pack from the floor and put it in a small fridge against the wall. Then he sat behind his desk and stared at the card a few more seconds. “You’re notthe police?” He stared at my eye.
“I fell off my skateboard. No, I’m not the police.”
“Someone is paying you to be here?”
I wondered if all chancellors were this sharp. “Tell me what you know about Charles Snook.”
Tate looked around. “I believe he did some work for an associate of mine—and of course I heard about his tragic death. How did you get my name?”
“The usual record checks.”
“Records? I had no business with this man. I never even met him.”
The power was intoxicating. “Ah, you know, these bean-counter guys write everything down. Maybe that associate you mentioned gave him your name as a potential client. You’re one of a long list of names I have to track down. It’s all really routine, boring work.”
“I wish I had something for you, but like I said, I never met the man.”
“What about your associate? Did he ever talk to you about him?”
“No, she didn’t—or maybe she mentioned his unusual name, which is why I remember it. And then the paper running the story and finding his body just a block from here.”
“Maybe I could talk to this associate?”
“Perhaps. Uh, Linda something. She was in the assembly with me. We were acquaintances, really …”
“No
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