Chapter 3

Thursday 5:55pm

Steve had driven away from the hospital puzzled and mildly unsettled by his father's uncharacteristic behaviour. Police work was in his blood; he found it a natural outlet for his talents, and he loved the constant challenges it offered, but the one drawback to the occupation was the constant worry it afforded his father. Mark almost never mentioned his fears, but, since Steve had suffered his first life-threatening injury in the field, he had noticed the occasional shadowing in his father's eyes as he left for work. Steve hated causing that relentless, gnawing worm of worry that undermined Mark's peace of mind. He wished he could promise that he'd never be hurt again, but such a reassurance would be meaningless. While Steve would never indulge in heroics for their own sake, he was constitutionally incapable of standing by while someone needed his help.

Mark had always understood his son's need to protect and serve, and so rarely displayed the anxieties that the job engendered, that Steve was curious as to why his father's fears had broken through his habitual reticence on that particular day, especially since they echoed his own inchoate sense of unease. There didn't seem to be any obvious threat connected to the current case that might have sparked concern, but Steve trusted his father's instincts, and he was determined to proceed with extra vigilance.

His time at the station researching the case had proved fruitful. Mark had been correct about Gilman's involvement in a lawsuit with his former partner, Brain MacKay. Judging from the newspaper reports, it had been a bitter fight with Gilman emerging victorious. Gilman had bought out his partner's share of the business when MacKay had been in desperate need of cash to pay off some gambling debts. Gilman had then turned round and launched a new software program, simultaneously going public with the company and becoming an instant multi-millionaire. MacKay had sued for a share of the profits, citing his input in the programming, but the judge had ruled that he forfeited all rights to the company in the sale. Brian MacKay was now the head of the Computer Science department at the University of California, Hilton Heights. He had been in a seminar all afternoon, but the department secretary expected him back in the office after it ended at 6:00, and Steve had driven fifty miles out of the greater Los Angeles area towards the San Gabriel mountains in the hopes of catching the professor before he left for the day.

UCHH was one of the oldest campuses in the state's higher education system. Originally built near an affluent neighbourhood, the money had long since drained out of the district, leaving it run-down and impoverished. The university was all that was left of its former glory. Its architecture was impressive; elaborately constructed towers and columns adorning formidable stone edifices.

The computer science department was obviously a more recent addition to the campus, and its design was considerably more modern. Steve climbed to the third floor, observing with nostalgia the trappings of academia. Posters festooned a plethora of notice boards, advertising everything from protest rallies to pep rallies, from roommates to chess tournaments. Steve stopped for a minute to peruse one of the boards, lost in a pleasant haze of reminiscence. His job exposed him to the underbelly of society, and he constantly faced humanity at its worst. It was refreshing to recall the high ideals of youth and see evidence of its guileless innocence. Somehow, even the smell of the building seemed to pull him back to the halcyon days of football games and infinite possibilities. He resumed his climb with an extra spring in his step.

He only had to endure a short wait outside MacKay's office before the professor arrived. The secretary, barely more than a teenager herself, had been sneaking glances at him laden with avid curiosity. Now, she leapt up to introduce the two men. MacKay hitched the pile of books and papers he was carrying against his left side and proffered his hand. As Steve shook it, the first thought that entered his mind was that MacKay did not fit the stereotype of the computer nerd. Although not quite as tall as Steve, he had an athletic build and a firm grasp. His only concession to a sedentary lifestyle in front of a computer was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

The secretary handed MacKay his messages. "You also had several calls from some woman, but she refused to leave her name," she informed him.

"A student wanting an extension on a paper, I'm sure," MacKay remarked dismissively. "Lieutenant, please come in."

The professor preceded Steve into the room and placed the stack of books on the floor next to several other similar mounds, permitting Steve a brief chance to assess the surroundings.

The walls of MacKay's office were liberally adorned with framed awards and shelves containing trophies. Steve knew it was traditional to display a degree certificate in a professional situation, but this seemed a gratuitous overabundance of conceit. The ostentation hinted at a man with something to prove to the world.

Something vaguely familiar caught Steve's attention on the desk, but before he could focus in on it, his view was blocked by MacKay, who hitched his hip on the front of the desk. Such a position might look informal, but it also gave him a considerable height advantage on the man sitting in the chair, and Steve got the impression that it was supposed to imbue MacKay with an aura of authority. It might work on students, but Steve was too experienced to feel anything but amusement at this obvious power play.

MacKay launched into a smooth offensive. "I thought I'd get a visit from the police when I read about Jack's death in the newspapers. A terrible shame. I suppose you know about the lawsuit?"

Steve inclined his head in affirmation. "It does seem like a good motive for murder," he remarked without emphasis.

"Ten years ago maybe, but not anymore," MacKay scoffed. "Oh, I admit at the time I was furious, but everything's different now. I've found my niche here. I'm well respected in my field, and I enjoy what I do. I even make a quite respectable salary."

"Not exactly in the millions though, is it?" Steve asked dryly.

"Killing Jack wouldn't change that. In fact, if you're looking for a financial motive, killing him would scupper my last chances of acquiring my share of the company." MacKay sat back, anticipating the effect of that pronouncement with enjoyment.

At Steve's raised and slightly skeptical eyebrow, he explained the conditions of their business deal that Jack had insisted upon. If Gilman had died first, the company would be left to Lisa. But if she predeceased him, control would revert back to MacKay on Gilman's death. "So," he concluded with a smile. "I really had no reason to wish Jack dead, at least not while Lisa is alive."

If this were true, and Steve didn't think he would lie about something so easy to verify, it did cast doubts on MacKay's motivation. However, Steve wasn't willing to capitulate yet.

"Would you mind telling me where you were last night?" he asked, mentally calculating how many times he had phrased that question in the last few years.

"Not at all; though I'm afraid it won't be of any use, one way or another. I was at home watching Law and Order while I graded papers. If I had known I would be needing an alibi, I would have invited someone over, but as it is, I'm sorry to say there is no one to corroborate my story. However, feel free to talk to my neighbours; they might remember that my car was there all evening."

MacKay's answers were too suave, almost practiced, and, although Steve accepted that the man was an experienced lecturer and presumably had the ability to extemporise plausibly, he still felt an instinctive distrust of him. He tried to remain objective to prevent his personal impressions of the man from clouding the facts, but his instincts told him that MacKay was involved even if there was no hard evidence to support his theory. He wished that Mark had been able to accompany him to the University. He could do with some of his father's "boundless sagacity" right now.

After a few more routine questions into MacKay's earlier business dealings with Gilman, the phone rang again, and Steve took it as a sign to leave. MacKay shook hands with an easy smile and a promise of future cooperation if needed, and picked up the phone as Steve walked away, unsatisfied with the progress he had made during the interview. He contemplated the long ride back home with a sigh, feeling a sudden spasm of hunger. At least the drive over the Soledad Canyon Bridge wouldn't be so bad now the rush hour was over.

Once down in the parking lot, he pulled out his phone on an impulse, automatically pressing one on the speed dial.

"Dad. It's me," he greeted his father as the phone was answered.

"Steve! Where are you? Is everything all right?"

Steve caught the immediate anxiety in his Dad's voice and hastened to reassure him. "Everything's fine; except I starving." He ignored the sardonic muttering from the other end. "I'm just about to leave the University. How about I grab some Chinese and bring it to the hospital, and I'll catch you up on the latest developments during your break?"

Mark's response was immediately enthusiastic, and Steve promised to bring enough for Jesse and Amanda too. He was happy to hear relief easing into the tone of his father's voice at the prospect of his imminent return. "I'll see you soon, Dad," he said in farewell, the words casual, but with a deeper assurance understood between them.

As he replaced the phone, some instinct told him he was being watched, and a brief glance upwards revealed MacKay at his window. There was something menacing in his silent regard, and, for a moment, Steve was tempted to return to question him some more, but the desire for food and good company won out, and he got into his car.

The dilapidated buildings on either side of the road created a depressing backdrop to his thoughts as Steve drove through the old Main Street of Hilton Heights. His mind was focused on the interview he'd just finished, and as the car started to jiggle slightly, he automatically dismissed the bouncing as a result of potholes or possibly an excessively deflated tyre. However, the motion rapidly deteriorated into a strange swerving lurch that had him mentally cursing the mechanic who had recently serviced his car. His professional racing experience had left him confident in his ability to handle most driving situations, so it didn't occurred to him to be concerned until, looking up at the street ahead, his stomach gave a lurch of alarm at the loss of his sense of equilibrium. The car swerved out of his control as the road seemed to quiver like gelatin, and, for one horrifying moment, he feared he was having a stroke. His ears were filled with a dull roaring, and everything in his vision was swaying queasily. It was only as the car veered into a telephone pole beside the road with a sickening crash that the truth hit with an equally forceful impact. Earthquake!