Gertrude threw down her cigarette, pulled open the door to a stairwell, and ran up the stairs, the pounding of her wooden clogs echoing against the concrete steps. Di stomped out the cigarette, then followed her friend to the second floor.
The hallway was deserted. There were classrooms on both sides but no classes in session. Gertrude stopped by a door and looked in through the glass upper half, as though she were deciding what to do. She scratched the beauty mark on her right cheek. It made her look sexy, but Di knew better than to ever tell Gertrude that. Gertrude was an intellectual, not a sex object. She had no interest in attracting men, she’d said often enough. Fucking them was a different matter.
She tugged on the classroom door, shooting a quick glance at Di. “Okay, let’s go.”
They stepped into a room where a half-dozen students, mostly young men with mutton-chop sideburns and longish hair, sat in a semicircle. There was one pretty blonde girl, whose darting blue eyes and long neck made her resemble a fledgling egret. Di recognized her from the dorms. Linda something.
Di followed their gazes to the front of the room. A lean, good-looking guy with a white bandanna over wavy blond hair that reached his shoulders was perched on the desk. He had on torn jeans and a flowing white shirt that a Renaissance poet might have worn, except his was open almost to his waist, revealing a tanned chest with golden hair.
“Peace,” Gertrude said, holding up two fingers in the symbolic gesture. She went over to him and kissed him deeply on the mouth. Then she pulled away and said, “I brought my roommate. Di Hartfeld.”
The guy smiled at Di. He had clear blue eyes and an adorable cleft in his chin. “I’m Lawrence Lyndberger,” he said. “Welcome to the coolest group of revolutionaries on campus.”
The light was almost completely gone from the sky, and dark waves lapped against the rocks. Diana had once believed she knew Larry as well as she knew herself. The truth was, she didn’t know him at all. She wondered whether she ever had.
CHAPTER 12
The walk home from the park had done nothing to settle the disturbing questions in Aubrey’s head. Who had left the greeting card with the devastating threat? Was her father somehow involved? And how could she get answers without revealing that she knew about the note and putting Ethan at even greater risk?
The smell of garlic and sausage overpowered the usual musty one as she stepped inside the house. She followed the scent to the family room, where she hoped to find Smolleck.
He was a good place to start, but she would have to be cautious about what she said and asked, so as not to raise his suspicions.
She stopped in the entryway of the family room, disoriented by the unexpected brightness. All the lights had been turned on—something she or her mother rarely did—and the room had been further altered from when she had come by earlier. Portable whiteboards with writing and blowups of photos stood in front of the bookshelves. The coffee and end tables, which had been shoved against the walls, were heaped with Coke bottles, plastic cups, and pizza boxes. Several FBI agents were eating pizza at their makeshift work stations, temporary folding tables in the center of the room.
Aubrey stepped closer to the whiteboards and examined the enlarged photos. Ethan at the carnival. Photos her mother had probably taken. She wondered why they were here, then noticed in the background of each photo were crowds of people. One of them was very possibly Ethan’s kidnapper.
She shuddered as she imagined someone scooping up her little nephew, then carrying him kicking and crying to a nearby car or truck.
But that wasn’t likely. Ethan would have made a scene, and people would have interceded, or at least mentioned it to the police.
Which meant Ethan probably knew whoever had enticed him to leave the carnival.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” The clipped voice startled her.
She turned to face Special Agent Smolleck. He stood as though at attention, still in his suit jacket, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted tie.
“This is my house,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but this is an active investigation. It’s a breach of protocol for any family members to see what we’re working on.”
He was as arrogant as when he had interviewed her a couple of hours before.
“I understand,” she said. “But wouldn’t it help if you showed the family these photos to see if we recognize anyone in the crowds?”
His face colored. “I’ll get you and the others a set.”
“Thank you.” She softened her voice. If she hoped to get information from him, it wouldn’t be by putting him on the defensive. “Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
Smolleck studied her with a frown, as though he could read in her face that she was withholding something. She was surprised when he grabbed a closed pizza box, a bottle of Coke, and a couple of plastic cups, then said, “Let’s sit outside.”
She followed him out the French doors to the wrought iron table and chairs in the patio. The small area was lit by a rusting outdoor sconce that had at least two of its bulbs burned out. It cast shadows over the brick pavers and rock garden. Beyond were the lounge chairs where she had sat with her father earlier, but they were in total darkness.
Smolleck sat on one of the chairs and opened the box of pizza. “Have some,” he said, taking a slice for himself. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while.”
She hesitated, but the smell of cheese and sausage was too much to resist. She picked up a slice and took a bite.
“So this is where you grew up.” He took in the dimly lit bamboos, palms, and shade trees. “Nice.”
She glanced behind her through the French doors at the strangers in the too-bright family room. “Yes. It was.” She could hear the wistful note in her voice, but there was no time for thinking about what once had been. She needed information from Smolleck.
“I was wondering if you could give me an update,” she said. “Did you get any leads from Kevin and Kim’s press conference?”