Prologue

Dead Week, the traditional quiet days of study before exams, takes on a whole new meaning at McCormick's law school. First comes an accusation of cheating, aimed at him by Professor Hawksworth. Is it just a matter of mistrust and misunderstanding, or some deeper malice? And as soon as those charges have been allayed, even more serious ones are raised: a floppy disk containing Hawksworth's final exam is found in McCormick's possession. Means, motive, opportunity—looks like an open-and-shut case for expulsion, except for the intervention of the LAPD, in the person of Lt. Frank Harper.

Hawksworth and his boss, Dean Thomas, aren't happy to see the charges made a public matter but that's the least of their worries. Theft is soon compounded by murder. Audra West, another law student, is found strangled the night after she was seen chatting with McCormick. At least he may be off the hook for that crime, with an alibi provided by Hardcastle. Then Randy Powers, a student who really was cheating, dies of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound.

With Dead Week getting deader by the minute, and exams only a few days away, a cloud of academic suspicion is still hovering directly over McCormick. Hardcastle forges ahead, drafting Mattie Groves as defense counsel in the upcoming university disciplinary hearing, while he scouts out witnesses who may be able to answer questions about the two deaths.

McCormick appreciates all the effort, but he's tired of swimming against the current of disapproval. He thought life, post-parole, would somehow be different. He goes to Hawksworth's office, hoping for one last chance to establish the truth before he gets kicked out of law school. But now Hawksworth is also dead, and Mark is standing over the body when Hardcastle shows up, with two other students in tow, a moment later.

McCormick is taken into custody, but soon released, as preliminary evidence surfaces implicating Hawksworth in the death of Randy Powers (Hawksworth's jacket tests positive for gunshot residue). There's still the matter of the stolen exam, though, with a forfeiture policy if the accused doesn't appear to present a defense. Is it merely a coincidence that someone in a dark sedan tries to run the Coyote off the road the next morning, as Mark and the judge are driving to the university?

Surviving that encounter, they find a cohort of McCormick's fellow students waiting for them outside the hearing room. Heartened by this unexpected show of support, and brilliantly defended by Mattie Groves, McCormick is found innocent of academic misconduct.

Dead Week draws to a close with McCormick reinstated, just in time to take his final exams. But there's a web of deaths and deceit still to be untangled, and what both Mark and the judge what to know is,

Cui Bono?

Chapter One

Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder at the first sound of the car approaching. Not the Coyote, of course—nothing like the throaty timbre of McCormick's finely-tuned vehicle. Still, it was a welcome distraction in the form of a venerable Mercedes, driven by Mattie Groves. He smiled, shut the book he hadn't been making much progress in, and went for the door, not even giving her a chance to knock before he had it open.

"Milt," she was smiling, too, though there was a hint of puzzlement to it, "how've you been?"

That wasn't the question, naturally. If she'd asked the one she'd been thinking it might've have gone "Why the hell haven't you called?"

He kept smiling, ignoring both versions as he stepped aside and waved her into the house. In truth, it had been nearly two weeks since she'd confronted the disciplinary board at McCormick's hearing and brought off a coup of sorts, with Mark exonerated of the charge of stealing a copy of Hawksworth's final exam.

Hardcastle knew Mark had thanked her; he'd looked genuinely grateful, both to her and his fellow students for their show of moral support at the hearing. But that momentary elevation of spirits had been quickly doused by cold reality. There were still two dead students, along with Hawksworth himself. And then there was the other small matter . . .

"How'd Mark's exams go?" Mattie asked casually as she strolled past Hardcastle and into the den.

He trudged after her shaking his head. "Aw, you know it hasn't even been a week. Takes longer than that. It's a lot of essays. Anyway, I think they like to see the kids squirm."

Mattie grimaced as she sat in one of the wingbacks. "Yeah, you might be right. Hey, I wonder who's grading Hawksworth's classes?"

It was an innocent enough question, though Hardcastle thought it was more likely an entry into the topic of the professor's untimely death, three days before the exam.

Like any good witness, he stuck to the facts. "They hauled in one of the emeriti, Kolper, remember him?"

"Clarence Kolper? I thought he was dead." Mattie frowned in memory. "He didn't give 'em the exam in Latin, did he?"

Hardcastle grinned. "Nah. McCormick said there weren't even too many 'thee's and 'thou's."

He'd glanced back toward the window, and then, realizing he'd done that, shifted his gaze sharply back to Mattie, his grin now more rigid.

"He's not around, huh?" Mattie said, looking perfectly willing to steer the conversation to this new topic of interest.

Hardcastle was quickly grasping that there wasn't much that was safe, except maybe the weather, which was sunny right now but had the feel of storm clouds just over the windward horizon.

"He's out," he said, trying to sound nonchalantly forthcoming. "Said something about visiting a friend, I think. Takes his mind off the waiting; you know how that is."

00000

They'd decided to brave the sell-back line at the campus bookstore, figuring it would be short enough by this point. McCormick had set his box down on the tile floor about twenty minutes earlier and was nudging it along a foot or so every five minutes. His companion, a cheerful brunette with an uncommon interest in the tax code, had her own shopping bag full of well-read volumes.

"You said we weren't going to talk about it," Amy London said, with a tone of disapproval. "No looking back, no second guessing, no 'What did you say for question number five?'"

"Right." Mark had the decency to look contrite for a moment, then quirked a quizzical eyebrow and said, "What did you say for number five?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "No.We're not going there. Anyway, what do you have to worry about? You're the guy with all the answers."

There was a pause, followed by a flustered, "Oh, my God, I didn't mean it like that." She and glanced around and dropped her voice. "We all know you didn't steal that exam."

Mark thought he'd schooled his expression not to react to even the intentionally hurtful remarks. This one though, coming out of left field and apparently unintentional, caught him unprepared.

He frowned. "Ah . . . yeah, I mean no, I know you—"

"We know," she interrupted, with more conviction. "Give us a little credit. We could spot a railroad job."

"Thanks," he said, trying to sound as sincere as he felt. "I know you organized that little sit-in at my hearings."

"And you can stop thanking me. It was pretty spontaneous. Mostly, anyway." She blushed slightly.

"I'll admit, you don't look like the arm-twisting type."

The line snaked forward another two feet and they took up the slack. The conversation seemed to have taken the same course, in fits and starts complete with awkward pauses, and dead halts. This was his first venture back into the collegiate waters, since the all-consuming week of exams, and he'd thought it would be easiest to start with his most stalwart supporter. He was grateful that the cashier was finally at hand.

He let Amy go first, helping her stack her books on the counter and then waiting patiently for the total. She made a face when she heard it. They both did. McCormick was on the Hardcastle scholarship program, but he tried to husband the judge's resources carefully. As he lifted his own box onto the counter he knew the news wasn't going to be much better.

"Maybe I'll splurge and get a steak dinner with this." Amy said ruefully as she tucked her wallet back into her bag. "Or use it as a down payment on one textbook for next term." She glanced over at the shelves as they passed the section labeled School of Law. "Wanna look?"

Mark hesitated, then decided to fudge the truth. "Might put a jinx on it. Better to wait."

She tsked. "Such a pessimist." But then she let him steer her toward the door, against the flow of incoming students. She glanced over her shoulder as they exited. "It's such a racket, you know. Really. All of it."

There seemed to be more to her statement than an assessment of modern textbook sales practices but he stuck to the surface meaning. "Yeah, I don't even highlight mine and I'm really careful with the spines."

She stopped abruptly, forcing him to halt, too. They were partway down the block, at a spot that opened into a small green, complete with obscure statuary and a couple of benches. She pulled him over to one of them, one that was well away from the light between-term foot traffic.

She turned to him, cocking her head as though she couldn't believe he was quite as naïve as he seemed. She finally leaned in slightly and said, "I'm not talking recycled textbooks here."

"An eighty-percent mark-up sounds like vigorish to me," Mark said dryly.

"Okay, well, textbooks too. But not just them. Sit," she said insistently.

He sat. He wasn't sure where this was going, but she had his undivided attention.

"You know my friend Heidi; she's second year."

He shook his head no, but she waved that away.

"Doesn't matter. She's seeing Joe—Joe Perillo."

That was a familiar name. He was the shining star of the recently-graduated class of '87, holding an easy plurality of the votes for "most likely to succeed."

"Sure, Joe." Mark tried to make it sound casual, though he'd only met the guy once, and that had been outside his own disciplinary hearing.

"Well, turns out he's got a job as Professor Kolper's law clerk—you know, ease him back into the flow, make sure he doesn't take a fall on the stairs."

Mark nodded. Nobody wanted to see an octogenarian take a header down the steps of the law school.

"And one of his jobs—Joe's, I mean—is getting Kolper to and from all the meetings lately—and he says there've been a whole lot of those."

Mark shrugged. "Sure, end of term—heck, beginning and middle of term, too, I guess."

"No, not just meeting meetings. I mean end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it meetings. At least that's what Joe says. Dean Thomas is having kittens about this whole Hawksworth thing."

Mark grimaced. "You mean he's not all that worried about the two murdered students, just why a member of the faculty keeled over?"

"So far it only sounds like he's worried about Hawksworth taking the blame for shooting Randy. He likes the desperate-student-suicide-version better, with you as Randy's arch-nemesis."

"Ugh. I almost bought into that one myself. There's something about blood spatters on a note—adds a lot to the presentation."

"You were there—you and the judge, right after he was shot?"

Mark nodded. "Seems to be happening a lot lately."

"Yeah, first Randy and then Professor Hawksworth." She winced. "Now that one the dean really would like to be a murder."

"No cause of death from the ME's office yet. When it takes this long it's usually 'cause they don't have anything obvious and they're waiting for the toxicology report."

Amy looked at him slightly askance. "You really do know a lot about this stuff."

"Not exactly a hobby. Uh, an avocation? Does that make it sound better?"

"I think that's just a fancy word for 'hobby'."

"Okay, it's what we do, me and the judge." He paused for a moment, but then felt compelled to explain. "We followed Randy that night because we knew he was involved somehow. We were parked outside his place when we heard the shots fired. And the Hawksworth thing—I went to talk to him because, well . . ."

Amy sat, listening attentively. She made no effort to rescue him from his hesitation.

He finally cleared his throat and went on. "I knew he'd framed me. The first accusation might have been just prejudice, but the second one—Hawksworth knew that diskette was in my briefcase; that means he knew someone had put it there. And all the people directly involved with that were dead."

"So you were going there to what, threaten him?"

"No, not exactly. Hell, that sounds bad, doesn't it? I've been really hoping the ME would come back with a verdict of coronary—or a nice stroke or something."

"Hah, then they'd just say you scared him to death. 'Them' being anyone who didn't personally know Hawksworth." Amy sighed. "Well, just in case you're wondering what Dean Thomas is hoping for, he's telling people that Hawksworth must have been poisoned—dying so suddenly like that without even time to call for help. The phone was right there."

"Not suicide, though."

Amy shook her head decisively. "Not if Thomas has his druthers. He's not naming names—he knows his way around the California Civil Code—but everybody knows both you and Judge Hardcastle were in Harksworth's office that day."

"So were a lot of people. For that matter, his secretary spent all day there."

"Good God, not Mrs. Trask." Amy gave him a look of shocked disapproval.

"Why not? I've got a couple of aunts who say it's always the least likely suspect. Anyway, it wasn't Hardcastle." Mark sighed. "Poison is definitely not his MO. Too subtle."

"I don't think you should joke about this, Mark," she said sternly.

"I wish I was. I've been hauled in for questioning twice for this mess already. I'm so damn convenient."

He sat, frowning silently for a moment, before he noticed the concern on his companion's face. "Sorry," he said, drawing himself up a little straighter, "the wallowing gets ugly, but I try to keep it brief." He forced a smile, got one in return, and felt his own become a little more natural. "And I really do appreciate the heads up. When the other shoe drops, I'll at least be able to duck."

"Uh-uh. Throw it back at them. Hey," her smile broadened just a little, "maybe I know how."

00000

Dean Thomas had been put on hold. It was not a familiar situation for him. Under most circumstances it would have been his secretary who handled connections, his own time being much too valuable for such mundanities. This, however, was a sensitive matter, and it wasn't as if he'd forgotten how to dial a phone.

But to be put on hold. He sniffed. He considered hanging up, but, no . . . this was too important. And then, as if to reward him for his self-control, he heard a click and a familiar voice on the other end.

"Thomas? I thought we'd agreed this was not a good time to confer." The man's tone was severe.

"I . . . but," Thomas stopped and cleared his throat, feeling he hadn't gotten off on the right note. "Look, Winston—"

"Dean Thomas," the man snapped, "recent events give the distinct impression that you do not have things under control at your institution."

"I think that's—"

"An unfair assessment? Perhaps three separate ongoing police investigations is your idea of a well-oiled clock; we had something less baroque in mind. And on top of everything else, it is my understanding that the entire class, excepting the deceased, were permitted to take the examinations last week."

"I couldn't help that. I was outvoted."

"In other words, you couldn't even control a simple disciplinary hearing."

"'Simple'?" Thomas heard his voice rising. He tamped it down and hissed, "Judge Groves was there—along with nearly a third of the student body. And the 'evidence' Hawksworth found wouldn't have stood up in a first-year moot court exercise."

"Hawksworth was regrettably shoddy. I was . . . disappointed."

The voice at the other end of the line had gone remarkably chilly. Thomas felt a shiver, and he was not the shivering type.

"The ME's report, on Hawksworth," Thomas swallowed again, "do you think it will show he died of natural causes?"

"I doubt it."

"But the coat, the swabs for gunpowder residue—the evidence that he may have been involved in that Powers student's death—"

"I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you," the man said dryly. "These things have a way of working out."

"Ahh . . ."

"I don't think we'll be trusting this to another disciplinary hearing, do you?"

"Well," Thomas said, feeling his way toward a small but steady light, "a felony conviction would result in automatic expulsion."

"Precisely. And I don't want to hear from you again until this matter is settled."

"No, certainly not." Thomas paused, then asked, very circumspectly, "But things are in motion?"

The only response was the disconnecting click from the other end. He held the phone out for a moment, feeling dissatisfied. Then he hung it up, sat back slowly, and permitted himself a smile. It was a cautious one, with a remaining hint of uncertainty, but Winston was the kind of man who got things done.