Point Blank
Page 77
“But you did see her on Friday, didn’t you, Gordon? You took her to Winkel’s Cave, to murder her.”
Gordon looked like he might faint. He paled, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Ruth stuck her coffee cup under his nose. “Drink.”
Gordon was babbling now, waving his hands at them like a drunk conductor. “I didn’t, really, there’s no way I could do anything like that. I didn’t—”
Dix splayed his hands on his seat cushion and leaned toward his uncle. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Gordon. You’re going to give us written permission to search your home, your office, and your studio. If you cooperate, we’ll do it discreetly as part of the investigation. If not, we’ll get search warrants and post flyers on every tree on campus about the women you slept with, then subpoena each of them to come back to Stanislaus and talk to us—and the board of directors.
“You know now that you can’t expect to keep your affair with Erin under wraps for long, but they might let you keep your job, or help you get another one somewhere, if you tell them yourself. Think about it.
“And you’re going to tell us all about your other affairs—the names of the students and how we can reach them. We can turn the records at Stanislaus upside down to find them if we have to. Don’t make us do that, Gordon.”
Ruth pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “All right, I’m ready, Dr. Holcombe. Tell us about your talented Lolitas.”
“It wasn’t like that! You make them sound like teenagers, and they weren’t. They were all accomplished musicians. No, it was never like that. I loved all of them, in their time.”
“In their time,” Savich repeated slowly, his eyes steady on Gordon’s face. “Who lasted longest, Dr. Holcombe?”
Gordon froze. “I don’t want to talk about this. Dix, make them stop. I haven’t done anything.”
“Ruth has her pen ready, Gordon. Give her names. Who was before Erin Bushnell?”
There was a moment of tense silence. Gordon drew in a deep breath and said to Ruth, “Before Erin, there was Lucy Hendler, pianist, lovely long reach, incredible technique and passion, perfect pitch.”
A litany of attributes, nothing about Lucy Hendler the woman, the individual. “What were the dates?”
“What do you mean, dates?”
Ruth said, “Dr. Holcombe, surely Lucy wasn’t all that long ago.”
“She performed Scarlatti exquisitely in a recital a year ago February. She got a standing ovation, difficult to do, let me tell you, in an audience of accomplished musicians. She told me later she actually hated Scarlatti, that he was dated and boring, far too predictable. I thought it amusing and sweet, her lack of historical context. I mean, how could anyone dismiss Domenico Scarlatti, for God’s sake? She was only twenty-one. What did she know?”
Ruth said, “So you booted her because she wasn’t a Scarlatti aficionada?”
“No, of course not. Our relationship deepened. I remember we got a little cross with each other before she graduated. It was May Day and we had a Maypole on campus. I thought it would be lovely if we had a choral group seated around the Maypole singing Irish folk songs, and other students could dance around the pole, dressed up in peasant costumes. She laughed at me. Can you imagine that?”
“Where is Lucy Hendler, Dr. Holcombe?”
“She graduated in June. She was accepted into our performing graduate program, but she didn’t stay.”
“Let me guess, she changed her mind after the Maypole.”
“No, I’m sure that had nothing to do with her decision to leave Stanislaus. She had a friend up in New York she went to visit and decided to stay. Last I heard she was enrolled at Juilliard.”
Ruth nodded. “And do you feel responsible for Stanislaus losing a graduate student?”
Dix kept his mouth shut. Ruth was handling this like a pro, reeling Gordon in, getting him to spill information Dix doubted he’d ever be able to get out of him.
Gordon went on to tell them about Lindsey Farland, a student about two and a half years ago, a soprano with incredible range he met when she sang the role of Cio-Cio-San, the betrayed young wife in Madama Butterfly. She hardly looked the part, since she was black, but when he heard her sing and she hit the high C in “Un bel dì,” he fell in love.
“That is one of my favorite arias,” Ruth said, and everyone at the table knew she meant it. She paused, then asked, “Where is Lindsey now?”
“I don’t know. She graduated two years ago. She hasn’t kept in touch.”
Gordon looked like he might faint. He paled, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Ruth stuck her coffee cup under his nose. “Drink.”
Gordon was babbling now, waving his hands at them like a drunk conductor. “I didn’t, really, there’s no way I could do anything like that. I didn’t—”
Dix splayed his hands on his seat cushion and leaned toward his uncle. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Gordon. You’re going to give us written permission to search your home, your office, and your studio. If you cooperate, we’ll do it discreetly as part of the investigation. If not, we’ll get search warrants and post flyers on every tree on campus about the women you slept with, then subpoena each of them to come back to Stanislaus and talk to us—and the board of directors.
“You know now that you can’t expect to keep your affair with Erin under wraps for long, but they might let you keep your job, or help you get another one somewhere, if you tell them yourself. Think about it.
“And you’re going to tell us all about your other affairs—the names of the students and how we can reach them. We can turn the records at Stanislaus upside down to find them if we have to. Don’t make us do that, Gordon.”
Ruth pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “All right, I’m ready, Dr. Holcombe. Tell us about your talented Lolitas.”
“It wasn’t like that! You make them sound like teenagers, and they weren’t. They were all accomplished musicians. No, it was never like that. I loved all of them, in their time.”
“In their time,” Savich repeated slowly, his eyes steady on Gordon’s face. “Who lasted longest, Dr. Holcombe?”
Gordon froze. “I don’t want to talk about this. Dix, make them stop. I haven’t done anything.”
“Ruth has her pen ready, Gordon. Give her names. Who was before Erin Bushnell?”
There was a moment of tense silence. Gordon drew in a deep breath and said to Ruth, “Before Erin, there was Lucy Hendler, pianist, lovely long reach, incredible technique and passion, perfect pitch.”
A litany of attributes, nothing about Lucy Hendler the woman, the individual. “What were the dates?”
“What do you mean, dates?”
Ruth said, “Dr. Holcombe, surely Lucy wasn’t all that long ago.”
“She performed Scarlatti exquisitely in a recital a year ago February. She got a standing ovation, difficult to do, let me tell you, in an audience of accomplished musicians. She told me later she actually hated Scarlatti, that he was dated and boring, far too predictable. I thought it amusing and sweet, her lack of historical context. I mean, how could anyone dismiss Domenico Scarlatti, for God’s sake? She was only twenty-one. What did she know?”
Ruth said, “So you booted her because she wasn’t a Scarlatti aficionada?”
“No, of course not. Our relationship deepened. I remember we got a little cross with each other before she graduated. It was May Day and we had a Maypole on campus. I thought it would be lovely if we had a choral group seated around the Maypole singing Irish folk songs, and other students could dance around the pole, dressed up in peasant costumes. She laughed at me. Can you imagine that?”
“Where is Lucy Hendler, Dr. Holcombe?”
“She graduated in June. She was accepted into our performing graduate program, but she didn’t stay.”
“Let me guess, she changed her mind after the Maypole.”
“No, I’m sure that had nothing to do with her decision to leave Stanislaus. She had a friend up in New York she went to visit and decided to stay. Last I heard she was enrolled at Juilliard.”
Ruth nodded. “And do you feel responsible for Stanislaus losing a graduate student?”
Dix kept his mouth shut. Ruth was handling this like a pro, reeling Gordon in, getting him to spill information Dix doubted he’d ever be able to get out of him.
Gordon went on to tell them about Lindsey Farland, a student about two and a half years ago, a soprano with incredible range he met when she sang the role of Cio-Cio-San, the betrayed young wife in Madama Butterfly. She hardly looked the part, since she was black, but when he heard her sing and she hit the high C in “Un bel dì,” he fell in love.
“That is one of my favorite arias,” Ruth said, and everyone at the table knew she meant it. She paused, then asked, “Where is Lindsey now?”
“I don’t know. She graduated two years ago. She hasn’t kept in touch.”
