“This sounds like Alice talking.”
“She thinks I’m not living up to my potential.”
“How many lawyers do you think are practicing in this country?”
“I don’t know. A million? Two million?”
“And how many homicide detectives?”
“Not so many.”
“Way fewer. Because not many people can do what we do. You tell that to Alice.” She stopped, stared at the map on her phone, and pointed. “It’s that way.”
“What?”
“Harthoorn’s office. And we’re late.”
Twenty minutes late, in fact, but Prof. Aaron Harthoorn did not seem to notice their tardiness when they walked into his office. He was so preoccupied by the papers on his desk that he merely glanced up and waved them toward two empty chairs.
“I’m Detective Rizzoli,” said Jane. “And this is—”
“Yes, yes, I saw you on my schedule. I’ll be with you in a minute. First let me finish grading this atrocity.” He flipped to the next page. In his late seventies, he was old enough to have retired a decade ago, yet here he was, a seemingly permanent denizen of an office crammed with books. Twin towers of stacked volumes loomed on either side of him, like chess rooks guarding his desk.
He gave a snort of derision, scrawled an F on the page, and tossed the paper into his out basket.
“Was it that bad?” said Frost.
“I should report that student for plagiarism. Did he really think I wouldn’t recognize a paragraph from a book that I myself edited? The first time they do it, I give them an F. But the second time?” He cackled. “There’s never been a second time. Not after I’m through with them.”
And that’s why he hasn’t retired, thought Jane. Without his students, who would he have to terrorize?
“Now,” he said, giving them his full attention. “You said you have questions about Amy Antrim?”
“She told us you’re her senior adviser,” said Jane.
“Yes. A shame about the accident. She couldn’t graduate with the rest of her class, but she can finish her coursework in the fall, if she chooses to return. Have you caught the driver who hit her?”
“I don’t believe there’s been any progress.”
“But isn’t that what you’re investigating?” He looked at Frost and then Jane, head swiveling on his skinny neck like an ostrich searching for prey.
“No, we’re here on a different matter. It seems someone is stalking Amy, and it’s possible it started on this campus.”
“She never mentioned it to me.”
“She only became aware of it in the last few weeks, when he approached her at a local cemetery. Then he popped up again, on Newbury Street. He’s an older man, in his late fifties, maybe early sixties.”
Harthoorn scowled. “Hardly what I consider older.”
“Take a look at this footage,” said Frost, pulling up the CCTV video on his tablet. He slid the device to Harthoorn. “It’s from the cemetery surveillance camera. Maybe you can recognize him.”
“How? I can hardly see the man’s face on this video.”
“But maybe there’s something about him you recognize. His clothes, his gait. Does he look like anyone you know on campus?”
Harthoorn replayed the video. “I’m sorry, I don’t know him. Certainly he’s not anyone in my department.” He handed the tablet back to Frost. “When you said someone was stalking her, I assumed you were talking about someone younger, like one of her classmates. I can see how Amy might attract attention. Unwanted or otherwise.”
“And has she? Attracted unwanted attention?” asked Jane.
“I have no idea.”
“You’re her faculty adviser. Did she ever mention anything about—”
“Her adviser in academics. It’s not as if students come in here and spill their guts about their personal lives.”
No, I can’t imagine they do, thought Jane. Who would confide in a cranky old fart like you?
“Amy’s bound to have an admirer or two. An attractive young woman like her.” His gaze drifted toward a ceramic figure perched on the bookcase, the bust of a voluptuous woman in a toga with one breast spilling out. “Not that I ever pay much attention to such things. My meetings with Amy were purely about academic matters. Her prospects for grad school. Employment possibilities, given her field of study.”
“How is the job market?” asked Frost.