He sat in his car along the street outside Nathan Briessen’s apartment. He had his window down, needed a feeling of openness, a sense of forward movement. The traffic noise did not bother him, but the odors of sweet rolls and doughnuts and bread coming from the bakery made his stomach growl. I need to walk, he told himself.
Four minutes later, with a cup of coffee in one hand and half of a pumpernickel roll in the other, he walked north on Mulravy Street. The street slanted uphill toward the college, through a residential neighborhood of older two-story houses, shingled and vinyl-sided working-class homes. Dogs chained in side yards barked at him. Old women peeked out from behind faded curtains. All of this registered on DeMarco along with the soft, yeasty warmth of the fresh roll and the rich bitterness of strong black coffee, but he kept it as background to the thoughts that scrolled through his mind.
He hides the manuscript to protect it, he told himself. Because it’s an original copy, valuable, one of a kind. In which case he isn’t really hiding it but securing it somewhere. In a fireproof box? No such container was found in his office. The small safe from the house had already been opened. Passports, social security cards, birth certificates, a copy of the deed, and titles to the vehicles. A few pieces of Claire’s best jewelry, including a gaudy diamond ring that had probably belonged to her grandmother. A copy of her parents’ will, a copy of the Hustons’ will. An old gold watch that had probably belonged to Huston’s father. No manuscript.
Okay then, he hides it because…because he’s superstitious? He thinks it’s good luck to put the manuscript away in exactly the same place every day? A place only he knows about?
Or he hides it because he doesn’t want it read? Doesn’t want his wife to know about his visits to the strip clubs? Doesn’t want anyone from the university to know—especially anyone who might take delight in tarnishing Huston’s image?
Whatever the reason, the manuscript, if one existed, could be anywhere. But the forensics team had already turned over every rug, vacuumed every carpet, luminoled and black-lighted every surface. The desk in Huston’s offices had practically been torn apart, every closet emptied, every cubbyhole probed. No manuscript.
The early forensics report had identified black nylon fibers of three different kinds in every bedroom and Huston’s study, consistent with nylon socks, a nylon warm-up suit, and nylon batting gloves. No such fibers were found underneath Huston’s chair at his home, however, where he himself might have left them, which indicates that they came from somebody else, somebody who had stood near his desk and chair and in fact walked all around it. But who? The boy? Claire? Somebody else? Forensics was currently attempting to match the fibers to clothing taken from the house. Similar black fibers had also been found just inside the back door. Unfortunately, probably dozens of people passed through that house every week. The kids’ classmates. Neighbors. Newspaper reporters. Impossible to identify and track all of them down.
Okay, forget the fibers for now, DeMarco told himself. Let’s say that Huston hides the manuscript because he’s afraid that it might be damaged by two active children and their friends. Occam’s razor—the simplest answer is the best answer. The manuscript is the sole record of his current project, everything he’s been thinking about for the past few months. So he hides it for safekeeping. But in this case, he just needs to secure it out of their reach. A filing cabinet will do. A desk drawer. The top of an armoire. A bookshelf. All places already searched. No manuscript.
DeMarco went back to the university and spent another fifteen minutes inside Huston’s office at the college. Poked around in every crevice large enough to hold a tablet or sheaf of papers. Nothing.
He used his cell phone to call Nathan Briessen. “I’m hitting a wall here, Nathan, and I think you’re the only one who can help me get through it.”
“Whatever I can do, just ask.”
“This manuscript you told me about. The work in progress. I can’t for the life of me figure out where it could be. Where did Professor Huston do his writing? At home, at the college, in his car, at the local coffee shop maybe?”
“Home and university office to be sure. The other places? I doubt it. He likes solitude when he works. Maybe a little music but nothing else.”
“He told you this?”
“It’s something every student asks him sooner or later. Every interviewer. How does a writer work?”
“So the manuscript could be in either place? Either the home office or the university office. He carried it back and forth with him?”
“That’s right, yes.”
“Well…it’s not here in his office. And our previous searches didn’t uncover it at his house. It’s apparently not anywhere it might logically be.”
“I really don’t know where else to tell you to look. I’m sorry.”