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glanced to him. His dour look turned a bit sheepish. “Okay. Point taken.”
    Monk folded his arms, hardly satisfied.
    Kids. Think they know everything.
    Shaking his head, Monk turned his attention outside as the cab crossed onto the Princeton campus. It was as if a verdant chunk of England had been dropped into the middle of New Jersey. Autumn leaves spread across rolling green lawns, ivy climbed walls of stately gothic stone buildings, even the dormitories looked like something out of Currier and Ives.
    As they glided through this bucolic world, it did not take them long to reach their destination. The cab pulled to the curb, and they climbed out.
    The Carl Icahn Laboratory occupied a corner of a wide green expanse. While many of Princeton’s structures dated to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the laboratory was only a few years old, a stunning example of modern architecture. Two rectangular buildings stood perpendicular to one another, housing the main labs. Joining them together was a two-story curved atrium, facing the parklands.
    That’s where they were to meet Dr. Henry Malloy.
    “Ready?” Monk asked and checked his watch. They were five minutes late.
    “Ready for what?”
    “The interview.”
    “I thought you’d conduct the debriefing of the professor.”
    “Nope. It’s all you, Doogie.”
    Creed sighed heavily through his nose. “Fine.”
    They entered the building and crossed into the atrium. A curving two-story wall of glass faced the park’s lawn. Forty-foot-tall louvers sectioned the windows and were timed to move with the sun. They cast shadows deep into the atrium, dappling across chairs and tables. Spatters of students sat and chatted, their hands permanently glued to coffee cups.
    Monk searched and spotted where he was supposed to meet Dr. Malloy. It was hard to miss. “This way,” he said and led his companion across the atrium.
    Off by a set of stairs rose a one-story sculpture. It looked like a half-melted conch shell. Even if not informed about it, Monk would have recognized the architectural design as Frank Gehry. The conch shell sheltered a small meeting place within its folds. A few people were already seated at a square conference table.
    Monk crossed to join them. As he approached, he realized they were all too young. In his briefcase, Monk had a photograph of Dr. Malloy. The man was definitely not here.
    Maybe the professor had come and gone already.
    Monk stepped out of the conch and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the man’s office number. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.
    If he’s already left, and I came all this way for nothing…
    Monk dialed a second number. It was for the doctor’s assistant.
    A woman answered. Monk quickly explained about Dr. Malloy’s absence.
    “He’s not there?” his assistant asked.
    “No one here but a lot of kids who look like junior high students.”
    “I know,” the woman said with a laugh. “Students just keep gettingyounger, don’t they? And I’m sorry, but Dr. Malloy must still be in his lab. That’s where I last saw him, and he never hears his cell phone. He can get so focused on what he’s doing that he’ll work right through a scheduled lecture. I feared as much today, so stuck around. He’s very excited about what he’s discovered.”
    Monk perked up with her last words. Had the professor figured something out, something that might help the case?
    “Listen,” the woman continued, “I’m just across the street in my office, finishing some work with my lab partner. There’s an underground walkway that connects my building to yours. Ask one of the students. I’ll borrow a keycard from the administrator and meet you down there. Dr. Malloy’s lab is on the basement level. I imagine he’ll want to show you the DNA assay himself.”
    “Okay. I’ll meet you there.” Monk pocketed his phone and waved his briefcase at Creed. “C’mon. We’re heading directly to the guy’s lab.”
    After getting