Read Online Flesh and Blood by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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madness. The company's going to shit, but I've already sold."
"Congratulations."
"Yeah," he said. "Even traded the Honda for a Jag— Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful." He shifted in his chair, cracked his knuckles. "So what brings you here? Doing some teaching yourself?"
"No, I'm trying to locate a student named Lauren Teague."
"Locate as in . . . ?"
I told him about the seven-day absence, implied without spelling it out that Lauren had once been a patient, emphasized Jane Abbot's anxiety."Poor lady," he said. "So you were here and just dropped in?"
"No, I thought you might be able to help me. Lauren told her roommate she had a research job here, but that doesn't seem to be true. She was in four classes last quarter, one of them your Intro Social section. I'm checking with all the profs, see if anyone remembers her."
"Lauren Teague," he said. "I sure don't. Had five hundred plus kids in that class. What others did she take?"
I named the courses.
"Let's see," he said. "Herb Ronninger is out in the Indian Ocean somewhere studying violent preschoolers—his class pulls over six hundred, so even if he were here I doubt he could help you. De Maartens and Hall are young-buck new-hires, and Learning and Perception tend to be a bit smaller. Let me call them for you."
"I already tried their offices. Do you have home numbers?"
"Sure." He found and copied the listings, handed them to me.
"Thanks."
"Lauren Teague," he said, putting his glasses back on. He opened a bottom desk drawer, rifled papers for a while, pulled out a list of names and grades. "Yeah, she was enrolled all right. . . . Did well, too. Very well—eighteenth out of 516. . . . Good, solid A's on all her exams. . . . B plus on her paper." More scrounging produced another list: "'Iconography in the Fashion Industry.' Oh, her."
"You remember her."
"The model," he said. "I thought of her that way because she looked like one—all the basics: tall, blond, gorgeous. And when I read the paper, I figured she'd been writing from experience. She also stood out because she was quite a bit older than the average junior—pushing thirty, right?"
"She's twenty-five."
"Oh," he said. "Well, she seemed older. Maybe because she dressed maturely—pantsuits, dresses, expensive-looking stuff. I remember thinking, this girl has money. Kind of aloof, too. She used to sit in the back by herself, take notes constantly. Never saw her with any other students. . . . So why'd I give her a B plus on the paper? . . . If the students want them, I hand them back, don't know if she picked hers up ... but I do keep a comment card. . . ." Bending low, he began tossing papers out of drawers, created a high pile on the desk. "Okay, here goes." He flourished a stack of rubber-banded blue index cards. "My notes say, 'High on anger, low on data.' If I remember, it was a bit of a screed, Alex."
"Anger at the fashion industry?" I said.
"From what I recall. Probably the usual feminist stuff—woman as meat, subservient roles coerced by unrealistic conceptions of femininity. I get at least two dozen every quarter. All valid points, but sometimes they substitute passion for facts. I really can't remember this particular paper, but if I had to guess, that would be it. So she left without telling Mom. Is that an aberration?"
"According to Mom."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah, as a parent that would worry me." Placing his feet on the floor and his hands on his knees, he looked at me over the rims of the half-glasses. "It's funny—actually it's anything but funny—your coming around about a missing student. When you first told me, it gave me a start. Because something like this happened last year. Another girl—some kind of campus beauty queen. Shane something, or Shana . . . Shanna—I don't recall her exact name. Left her dorm room one night and never came back. Big stir on campus for a few days, then nothing. It affected me more than it might've because Jan and I had just sent our Lisa off to
"Congratulations."
"Yeah," he said. "Even traded the Honda for a Jag— Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful." He shifted in his chair, cracked his knuckles. "So what brings you here? Doing some teaching yourself?"
"No, I'm trying to locate a student named Lauren Teague."
"Locate as in . . . ?"
I told him about the seven-day absence, implied without spelling it out that Lauren had once been a patient, emphasized Jane Abbot's anxiety."Poor lady," he said. "So you were here and just dropped in?"
"No, I thought you might be able to help me. Lauren told her roommate she had a research job here, but that doesn't seem to be true. She was in four classes last quarter, one of them your Intro Social section. I'm checking with all the profs, see if anyone remembers her."
"Lauren Teague," he said. "I sure don't. Had five hundred plus kids in that class. What others did she take?"
I named the courses.
"Let's see," he said. "Herb Ronninger is out in the Indian Ocean somewhere studying violent preschoolers—his class pulls over six hundred, so even if he were here I doubt he could help you. De Maartens and Hall are young-buck new-hires, and Learning and Perception tend to be a bit smaller. Let me call them for you."
"I already tried their offices. Do you have home numbers?"
"Sure." He found and copied the listings, handed them to me.
"Thanks."
"Lauren Teague," he said, putting his glasses back on. He opened a bottom desk drawer, rifled papers for a while, pulled out a list of names and grades. "Yeah, she was enrolled all right. . . . Did well, too. Very well—eighteenth out of 516. . . . Good, solid A's on all her exams. . . . B plus on her paper." More scrounging produced another list: "'Iconography in the Fashion Industry.' Oh, her."
"You remember her."
"The model," he said. "I thought of her that way because she looked like one—all the basics: tall, blond, gorgeous. And when I read the paper, I figured she'd been writing from experience. She also stood out because she was quite a bit older than the average junior—pushing thirty, right?"
"She's twenty-five."
"Oh," he said. "Well, she seemed older. Maybe because she dressed maturely—pantsuits, dresses, expensive-looking stuff. I remember thinking, this girl has money. Kind of aloof, too. She used to sit in the back by herself, take notes constantly. Never saw her with any other students. . . . So why'd I give her a B plus on the paper? . . . If the students want them, I hand them back, don't know if she picked hers up ... but I do keep a comment card. . . ." Bending low, he began tossing papers out of drawers, created a high pile on the desk. "Okay, here goes." He flourished a stack of rubber-banded blue index cards. "My notes say, 'High on anger, low on data.' If I remember, it was a bit of a screed, Alex."
"Anger at the fashion industry?" I said.
"From what I recall. Probably the usual feminist stuff—woman as meat, subservient roles coerced by unrealistic conceptions of femininity. I get at least two dozen every quarter. All valid points, but sometimes they substitute passion for facts. I really can't remember this particular paper, but if I had to guess, that would be it. So she left without telling Mom. Is that an aberration?"
"According to Mom."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah, as a parent that would worry me." Placing his feet on the floor and his hands on his knees, he looked at me over the rims of the half-glasses. "It's funny—actually it's anything but funny—your coming around about a missing student. When you first told me, it gave me a start. Because something like this happened last year. Another girl—some kind of campus beauty queen. Shane something, or Shana . . . Shanna—I don't recall her exact name. Left her dorm room one night and never came back. Big stir on campus for a few days, then nothing. It affected me more than it might've because Jan and I had just sent our Lisa off to
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