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Archer Minor, age 41, of Manhattan, formerly of Flushing, Queens, New York. Mr. Minor was a senior partner at the law firm of Pashaian, Dressner and Rosenburgh, located in the Lock-Horne Building at 245 Park Avenue in New York City. Archer received many awards and citations for his charitable work. He attended Saint Francis Prep and was graduated summa cum laude from Lanford College . . .

Chapter 30

Through the phone line, I heard Mrs. Dinsmore sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be on suspension?”

“You miss me. Admit it.”

Even in the midst of this ever-growing combination of horror and confusion, Mrs. Dinsmore made me feel grounded. There were few constants. Messing around with Mrs. Dinsmore was one of them. It was comforting to hold on to my own version of ritual while the rest of the world spun madly on.

“Suspension probably includes calling college support staff,” Mrs. Dinsmore said.

“Even if it’s just for phone sex?”

I could feel her disapproving glare from 160 miles away. “What do you want, funny man?”

“I need a huge favor,” I said.

“And in return?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said about phone sex?”

“Jake?”

I don’t think she had ever called me by my first name.

“Yes?”

Her voice was suddenly tender. “What’s wrong? Getting suspended is not like you. You’re a role model here.”

“It’s a really long story.”

“You were asking me about Professor Kleiner’s daughter. The one you’re in love with.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still looking for her?”

“Yes.”

“Does your suspension have something to do with that?”

“It does.”

Silence. Then Mrs. Dinsmore cleared her throat.

“What do you need, Professor Fisher?”

“A student file.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“You need the student’s permission,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “I told you that last time.”

“And like last time, the student is dead.”

“Oh,” she said. “What’s his name?”

“Archer Minor.”

There was a pause.

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“As a student, no.”

“But?”

“But I remember reading in the Lanford News that he was murdered a few years ago.”

“Six years ago,” I said.

I started up the car, keeping the phone to my ear.

“Let me see if I understand this,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “You’re looking for Natalie Avery, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And in searching for her, you’ve needed to look at the personal files of not one but two murdered students.”

Strangely enough, I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I guess that’s true,” I said.

“If I may be bold, this isn’t sounding like much of a love story.”

I said nothing. A few seconds passed.

“I’ll call you back,” Mrs. Dinsmore said before hanging up.

* * *

The Hyde Park Assisted Living facility resembled a Marriott Courtyard.

A nice one, grant you, upscale with one of those Victorian gazebos in front, but everything screamed chain, impersonal, prefab. The main building was three stories with faux turrets on the corners. An oversize sign read ASSISTED LIVING ENTRANCE. I followed the path, walked up a wheelchair ramp, and opened the door.

The woman at the desk had a helmety beehive hairdo last seen on a senator’s wife circa 1964. She hit me with a smile so wooden I could have knocked on it for luck.

“May I help you?”

I smiled and spread my arms. I had read somewhere that spreading your arms makes you appear more open and trusting while folded arms make you seem the opposite. I didn’t know if that was true. It felt as though I might swoop someone up and carry him away. “I’m here to see Sylvia Avery,” I said.

“Would she be expecting you?” Beehive asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

She looked doubtful. I couldn’t blame her. I doubt too many people just happen to drop in on assisted-living facilities. “Do you mind signing in?”

“Not at all.”

She spun an oversize guestbook, the kind I usually associate with weddings, funerals, and hotels in old movies, toward me and handed me a large quill pen. I signed my name. The woman spun the guestbook back toward her.

“Mr. Fisher,” she said, reading the name very slowly. She looked up at me and blinked. “May I ask how you know Miss Avery?”

“Through her daughter Natalie. I thought it’d be nice to visit.”

“I’m sure Sylvia will appreciate that.” Beehive gestured to her left. “Our living room is available and inviting. Would it be okay if you met there?”

Inviting? “Sure,” I said.

Beehive stood. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.”

I moved into the available, inviting living room. I realized what was up. Beehive wanted the meeting in a public place just in case I wasn’t on the up-and-up. Made sense. Better safe than sorry and all that. The couches looked nice enough, what with their floral prints, and yet they didn’t look like something that could make one comfortable. Nothing here did. The décor resembled that of a model home perfectly laid out to accentuate the positives, but the smell of antiseptic, industrial-strength cleaner, and—yes, dare I say it—the elderly was unmistakable. I stayed standing. There was an old woman with a walker and tattered bathrobe standing in the corner. She was talking to a wall, gesturing wildly.