Either he wanted to hit me over the head or insert it in places rain gear simply wasn’t meant to go. Both choices caused mental images that had me wincing. Pocketing the keys, I climbed out of the car and was instantly soaked. The houses on this street were all close to the curb. The majority of them were prewar and two and a half stories high with elaborate lacy moldings and stained glass. They were nearly as pristine as they must have been when they were new. With a definite pride of ownership, the neighborhood was the type that would abound with professors, artists, overgrown houseplants, and a thousand flavors of tea.
Resting a hand on the wrought-iron railing, I walked up the stairs that led to the sidewalk. “Get a move on, kiddo.”
With coat pulled over his head and a scowl darker than the lowered sky, Michael followed. When we both stood on the porch, I rang the bell. I could hear the faint ripple of musical notes through the front door. I heard a murmur at my shoulder. “What are we going to tell him?”
I glanced over to see an annoyingly dry brother, his hair and face untouched by the rain. But was he manly like me? I didn’t think so. “We? I thought the resident genius would come up with a good story.”
He barely had time to flash me a vexed look when the door opened to reveal a wiry man in a charcoal gray sweater and black pants. Equally black eyes took measure of us from behind rimless glasses. “Can I help you?”
I held out my hand and gave my best professional smile. From the blanching of his skin, apparently it was a shade too much of my old profession. I tried to tone it down, from wolflike to that of a friendly German shepherd. “Dr. Bellucci? I’m Peter Melina, freelance journalist. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
He shook my hand cautiously. “Ah . . . perhaps you should’ve called first. What’s this about?”
“An article I’m writing regarding the ethics of genetic manipulation,” I responded smoothly. “Specifically the ethics of a certain Dr. John Jericho Hooker.”
At that, his caution disappeared and a crusading light blossomed as red patches high on his knife-sharp cheekbones. “That bastard. He’s done as much to sully the name of the field as Mengele.” Pulling off his glasses, he used them to wave us in. “Come in.” After looking me up and down, he added, “I’ll get you a towel.”
I closed the door behind us and waited obediently on the small hooked rug as Bellucci disappeared down a hall. Beside me Michael was entangled in the vines of an amorous potted plant. Pushing them aside with exasperation, he whispered to me, “If you’re a journalist, then who am I?”
“An eager-to-learn high school intern,” I replied absently as I looked the place over, taking in the polished wood, high ceilings, painted ceramic tile, and the lush quiet that came from an empty house or really thick walls.
“Clever,” he said. “You’re a good liar.”
“And I didn’t even have to take a class.” Lying well wasn’t a talent most boasted of, but there were times it did come in handy. The fact that Michael probably had in all actuality suffered through such a class only made me want to put Jericho in the ground all the more.
Bellucci returned with a thick towel and handed it to me. Thanking him, I dried my face and scrubbed at my hair to blot up the water. “We can talk in the study,” he offered, and led the way, sliding paneled doors open to reveal what looked more like a sunroom than a study. The walls were only a framework to support the many windows. In fair weather the room would be awash with bright sun. It was nice. I could picture lying on the large leather couch and taking a nap in that bright spill of light.
Instead I sat on it and took a small notebook from my pocket to rest on my knee. I’d bought it with the map at the gas station, having already formed a vague idea of the story I was going to feed the scientist.
“Dr. Bellucci, this is Daniel,” I said in introduction as Michael settled on the arm of a nearby chair. “He’s an intern. Actually, he’s my sister’s kid, but he is on his high school paper. I had my arm twisted to let him tag along.” I gave a sheepish shrug of my shoulders. “Family. What can you do?”
“Helping your nephew is admirable,” he said, but it was obvious neither his heart nor brain was behind the statement. The entirety of his attention was on Jericho. He was Bellucci’s bête noire, as a distant junior high school English teacher of mine would’ve pompously labeled him. Our good friend Fisher Thieving Lee would no doubt have called him the stick in his craw. Whatever you wanted to call him, from the moment I mentioned the name Jericho, he was all Bellucci could think about.