The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 15

It took him a full three seconds to remember that he wasn't alone. Rick! "My cat," he said. "He makes himself scarce when I have company. I guess he's decided you're okay."

"Doesn't it give you the creeps to have it appear like that, without warning?"

"When you have a cat in the house, you're protected from all the strange, empty-house noises that would otherwise drive you mad. Whenever you hear something odd, you can tell yourself, it's only the cat."

Thirty-Five.

Matthew Dennison, PhD, ignored the detectives' invitation to come to Area Three headquarters and talk about David Bisti's death. So Thinnes and Oster invited themselves to the University of Chicago, to visit him. Having to go all the way to the South Side put Oster in a foul mood; the search for Frederick Haskell Hall, once they got there, did the same for Thinnes.

"He even gonna be here?" Oster demanded as Thinnes parked in a FACULTY ONLY s.p.a.ce and threw their OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS sign on the dash.

"The woman I talked to said he has office hours from one to two and hadn't told her he wouldn't be in. If he's not here, we'll just use the time to see what we can find out about him."

Inside, they did an end run around the department secretary. Thinnes flashed his star at the student waiting in the chair next to Dennison's door. "We need to consult the professor about a technical matter. Maybe you could come back in half an hour."

The kid's eyes widened, and Thinnes could see Dennison's stock go up with him. "Ah...Sure." He took his book bag from the floor under his seat and left, looking back at them several times as he lumbered off down the hall.

Thinnes leaned against the wall, next to the door, to wait; Oster took the vacated chair. About ten minutes later, the door opened. Thinnes moved away from the wall. Oster stood up as Dennison escorted another student out.

Oster said, "Professor Dennison?"

Dennison looked from Oster to Thinnes and back, and said, "Yes," cautiously.

Oster held up his star and said, "We need a word with you."

"I don't think so." He backed into the room and tried to close the door.

Oster took hold of the door and stopped him closing it.

"You can't come in here," Dennison said, but he backed up as Oster stepped close to him. Oster followed him into the room and made a point of looking at his watch. "Office hours one to two. I got 1:38."

Trailing them in, Thinnes said, "We can go anywhere we need to in a homicide investigation, Professor." He closed the door behind them.

"I spoke with my attorney. I don't have to talk to you."

"That's true," Thinnes said. He thought, It's funny how people use the word 'attorney' when they're trying to impress someone. "But if you don't answer our questions, we'll have to ask your colleagues and students. And we won't be telling them that we're here to get your professional opinion."

"Is that what you told Fred?"

"That's right."

Dennison thought about that for a minute, then said, "What do you want to know?" He looked more like Thinnes's idea of a gym teacher than a college professor, but his office looked exactly like the kind of place an anthropology type would hang out, down to the skulls on top of the bookcase.

"Tell us about the night David Bisti was murdered."

He didn't have anything to add to what he'd told Viernes that night. He hadn't seen or heard anything, and he'd been put out that they made him wait several hours to tell them so.

"Murder's inconvenient for everyone, Mr. Dennison," Oster said.

"Doctor Dennison."

"Yes, of course. We're reinterviewing everyone who was there that night in hopes someone might have remembered something more."

"Not me."

"What brought you to David Bisti's show, Doctor?" Thinnes asked.

"I heard he was using genuine Indian artifacts in some of his pieces, possibly illegally obtained artifacts. I wanted to see for myself."

"Was he?"

"They certainly looked it."

"So why didn't you go to the authorities?"

"After his death, the question seemed moot."

"Had you met Mr. Bisti before?"

"He brought me a piece-a very fine Anasazi pot-to get my opinion before he bought it."

Oster said, "Black-market stuff?"

"He said it was from private property."

Thinnes asked, "The real thing?"

"I thought so."

"You don't still?"

"I mean, at the time, I told him I thought it was authentic. I haven't had any reason to change my mind."

"Okay," Oster said, "so how much was it worth?"

"I have no idea."

"C'mon. You buy these things for museums."

"No. I don't. I...We don't buy things like that any more-it encourages the vandals to destroy sites to get more. And once they're removed from their original site, the pieces have no archeological significance."

"There wouldn't be a black market for the stuff if it didn't have any value, Doctor," Thinnes said.

"I didn't say they didn't have value, Detective. Of course most of them have intrinsic aesthetic worth. And even the poorest examples of Anasazi work will bring something from collectors."

"Somebody mentioned a group of preservationists," Thinnes said. "You know anything about them?"

"I'm not sure what you mean by preservationists, but anyone of good conscience would try to put a stop to the black-market antiquities trade."

"What can you tell us about that?"

"Just that it's responsible for the destruction of hundreds of archeological sites every year."

Oster asked, "What makes the pot of someone who's been dead a long time so much more valuable than the pot of a living artist?"

"Scarcity, perhaps. There won't be any more Anasazi pots. Or it may be like the difference between the man who wins the lottery and the one who's left with a handful of losing tickets-just luck. Maybe today's potter's work will be worth $25,000 after he's dead, too-if it lasts long enough."

"The stuff just had the luck or whatever to last?"

"Or someone saved it. Or it lasted because it was better." Dennison smiled. "The indigenous peoples of the Southwest were consummate potters, although they never developed the potter's wheel. The people who made the bowl Bisti asked me to look at used the coil-and-sc.r.a.pe method. They built up the sides of the piece with successive coils of clay, then worked the coils together with a sc.r.a.per-probably a shard from a broken pot-to make the finished sides smooth and thinner than the original coils. The designs were made of clay slip of a contrasting color, or with various indigenous mineral and plant materials."

"There's no test-for radioactivity or anything-to tell how old something is?"

"Only if it was once living-wood or bone. Then you can radiocarbon-date it. Ceramics and stone artifacts are usually dated by a.s.sociation. They're a.s.sumed to be the same age as the datable objects they're found with."

"Could they be faked?" Thinnes asked.

"I suppose it could be done. But why bother?"

"People go to a lot of bother for money."

"The people with the knowledge of the old techniques wouldn't do it. And contemporary artists-with the potter's skills-wouldn't have the knowledge."

"So these things can be counterfeited?" Oster asked.

"No." Dennison seemed startled. "Well-I guess. If they were successful, who'd know?"

Thirty-Six.

"Sometimes what you fear is what you most desire," their therapist had told them. "If you're angry enough with a loved one, you might develop an obsessive fear of his being killed because to wish he'd die is unacceptable." She'd smiled. "It gets confusing because sometimes your fear for the safety of a loved one is normal and justified."

Rhonda had taken the biblical command to forsake all others to heart. In therapy she'd finally admitted her rage at Thinnes-she'd sided with him against her family only to have him abandon her, emotionally, for the department. In the hospital, after he was shot, she'd told him, "I've been waiting for this since you joined the force. I guess now we can get on with our lives."

Now she was still a little distant, a bit distrustful, still afraid, he guessed, that things would go back to the way they were. She was like a cop who's been lied to too often. He thanked G.o.d-figuratively. He didn't actually believe G.o.d bothers much with those who don't help themselves-that he'd woken up in time.

So he was keeping his hands where she could see them-so to speak. He was on parole and he wanted to go straight.

When he woke up Thanksgiving morning, he felt panic as he realized Rhonda's place in the bed was empty. He located her across the room. She'd started to dress-gotten as far as taking off her nightgown-and was standing, looking out the window through a narrow gap in the drapes, holding the bra she planned to wear.

The sudden want he felt was painful. He crossed the room slowly, not startling her. She had one hand on the window sash. She didn't turn. He put his arms around to cup her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his hands. His own nipples brushed her back as he rested his cheek against her ear, then kissed the smooth curve between her neck and shoulder.

She leaned back against him.

Amazing! A year ago-h.e.l.l, six months ago she would have squirmed away or stood like a department-store dummy. Now, she rubbed her a.s.s against him and tried to catch his c.o.c.k between her thighs.

"Say it," she demanded.

He knew what. He kissed her neck again and let his tongue trace a path up to her earlobe. Why was it difficult? It seemed like a weakness, like admitting you were an addict-I'm John; I'm a Rhonda-holic.

"I need to hear it." She turned to face him as she said it. As she turned, he let his hands ride over her skin-still silky after all the years. She pressed against him. "I need to hear it."

When it was put like that, he couldn't help himself. He said it.

"I love you."

Thinnes parked his Chevy beneath the naked elm and maple trees overarching Forest Avenue. Wilmette. Snow dusted piles of leaves raked onto the street-between the parked cars-for pickup by the village crews. It caught in the cracks between the street bricks and the sidewalk squares. The winter-yellow lawn had an undercoat of snow.

Next to him, sprawled on the seat, Rob stretched and yawned and said, "Do we hafta go in?" Into the three-story gray stucco, with its imposing porch and tall windows. It was a rhetorical question.

"Look at it like this," Thinnes said. "You get through today, and you won't have to come back until Easter."

"Promise?" He had Rhonda's coloring and Thinnes's build, but his large hands and feet suggested that he'd be taller than both of them.

"Unless you want to fly down to Florida with them, over Christmas break."

Rob didn't bother to answer. He did laugh, and they both stared out the front window, not hurrying to get out of the car.

Thinnes had once heard Rhonda describe her parents' house as late nouveau riche. He didn't think it was that bad. They'd had the good sense to buy well-made furniture and had kept the bra.s.s and gla.s.s and the gaudy prints in trendy colors to a minimum. The overall effect was "We have money." The Coateses themselves were sort of like their house: basically decent, a tad too eager to impress. Bill got on well enough with Thinnes when they were alone together, but when Louise was around, he acted embarra.s.sed that he was enjoying Thinnes's company. Louise didn't approve of Rhonda's choice of husbands. Her own was the ultimate yes-man, though he usually said yes in a way that made whatever he was agreeing to seem like his own idea.

The bra.s.s knocker on the Coateses' front door was hidden under a bunch of Indian corn, and a fat gray squirrel with a blond tail was clinging to the ears, munching the kernels. When Rob and Thinnes got near the door, it took off, flicking its tail.

"Look, Dad, a rat with a tailcoat." Under one arm, Rob was carrying a case of Miller Genuine Draft for Thinnes. Rhonda had brought the food earlier.

Thinnes laughed. "You want to start trouble, just tell your grandmother that." He reached behind the corn bouquet to rap on the door with the knocker.

"I got a better one than that for Grandma."

"What's that?"

The door opened as Rob said, "At the first Thanksgiving, they probably served squirrels."

Bill Coates-six one, two hundred pounds, blue eyed, and gray haired-filled the doorway. He was wearing a red-plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt-L.L. Bean-and pressed designer blue jeans. He said, "Don't tell your grandmother that! h.e.l.lo, son." He meant Rob. He'd never called Thinnes "son."