Griffin waved a hand toward the voice. "Professor Salazar, I presume?"

"Yes, that is he, and he is not going to like you, pas du tout." Gabrielle gave him a wicked smile, and sashayed away, hips at full throttle. Griffin smiled after her since he wasn't dead, and followed her mobile b.u.t.t and swinging hair toward the noise. He'd hoped to find the professor alone, but that was not to be.

He stepped into a long, narrow living room to see a half-dozen women, though none in shorts like Gabrielle, all chatting and laughing as they filled plastic tubs with dirty plates and gla.s.ses, emptied overflowing ashtrays, rearranged furniture. How did the good professor manage to pull off a cleaning crew like this? And in this weather? Griffin was impressed.

Professor Salazar was the only man in the room. Griffin hadn't taken the time to check up on Salazar before he came over. He wanted to get a sense of his character before knowing anything else about him. He was tall and dark, his black eyes heavily lidded-smooth-looking was the word that came to Griffin's mind. His haughty dark brows and high-bridged nose were set in a face that hadn't seen forty in a good long time. He had thick black hair, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples, and beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers. All in all, Griffin thought, he managed to carry off the European aristocrat look rather well, but sadly, he also reminded Griffin of a complacent lizard sunning on a rock, fully aware that his rock was the most important anywhere around. He was wearing dark slacks, moccasins, and of all things, he wore a smoking jacket. A cigarillo dangled between his fingers. Maybe he was trying for the Barcelona Bohemian look. Griffin wanted to tell him he was an idiot to smoke.

He was staring toward Griffin, not moving. He did not look happy. And why was that, since his house was getting cleaned for him?

"Oh, hi," said another young woman, stepping in front of him. She came to his armpit, a little fairy with long glossy light brown hair kept back from her face with a gold band. She was wearing sweats and sneakers. "I'm Gloria. I play the viola." She lowered her voice to a whisper, "My goodness, I can't believe Professor Salazar actually asked you here to help clean up. Why haven't I ever seen you before?"

"I just got into town."

She brightened. "What is your instrument?"

"Sorry, no instrument." He pulled out his creds again. "He didn't invite me. I'm from the FBI, here to see the professor."

Gloria blinked up at him as she quickly stepped back. "I swear we didn't smoke anything but a little weed last night, and Professor Salazar didn't know about it, well, maybe he did, but he didn't have any-I didn't see any cocaine or anything really illegal like that, really."

"I'm here because of Delsey Freestone." He'd raised his voice a bit and the room fell silent, every face fastened on his. "Have you heard what happened to her?"

Griffin saw Professor Salazar straighten when he said Delsey's name. He hurried over, introducing himself in midstride. Griffin showed him his creds and the good professor waved them away.

"What do you mean about Delsey? Something's happened to her? Is she all right? She left last night without telling me. I looked for her, but someone said she slipped out the back door. I tried calling her this morning to see if she wanted to come over, but there was no answer, only voice mail. Why is the FBI here?"

Griffin told them Delsey was in the hospital with a concussion because she'd been struck down in her apartment late last night, a.s.sailant unknown. He said nothing about the blood in the bathtub. "No one called any of you? Apparently, it's all over town."

Salazar said, "Our little party ended rather late. I gather many of us have hardly been out. But she will be all right, will she not?"

Griffin nodded.

"I'm so sorry," another young woman said, this one thin as her black pigtails, and wearing six rings on her fingers. She reminded him of Abby on NCIS, but without the tattoos. "Delsey's a sweetheart. Was it a robbery?"

"We're not sure yet."

"Can we see her?"

"She has a concussion, so she's not up to visitors yet," Griffin said.

"Please tell her we're all hoping she gets well soon."

"Thank you."

"It's awfully cold out. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I prefer to wait for Barbara and that Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte."

There were nervous laughs.

"This is terrible," Salazar said, stubbing out his cigarillo in an ashtray held out to him by another woman, this one about Delsey's age. Salazar's accent grew exponentially thicker as he said, flapping his hands, "My beautiful Delsey, how could such a thing happen here in Maestro? This is hardly New York, where robberies take place every second. Who would do this? She should have been safe here, but then again, this is America, and who knows what can happen anywhere in America? There is too much violence on your television. It is disgraceful.

"Poor Delsey would have stayed here if Elliot had left her alone, but no, he was all over her, getting her to drink his deadly margaritas-and that is why she went home and interrupted a robbery, is this correct? It is his fault this happened." Salazar caught himself when he realized every ear in the living room was wide open and receiving.

"We don't know yet whether or not it was a robbery."

Salazar shrugged that off. "Come with me, Agent Hammersmith. We will go to my study and I will answer all your questions." He gave a general nod to the women in his living room and walked out.

Griffin smiled at the women. "After I've spoken to the professor, I'd like to speak to each of you. Please don't leave."

"We cannot leave at all until we finish cleaning up this pigsty," Gabrielle said.

Skinny Black Pigtails said, "How did this stain get on the sofa?"

Gloria, the little fairy, sang out, "Who could even get in Delsey's apartment? She has a gazillion locks on the door."

She got that one right, Griffin thought. Delsey always locked up tight ever since a kid had broken into her apartment in Santa Monica, looking for dope. Delsey, of course, had walked in on him, belted him with a lamp, and called the cops. Last night she never realized the back door had been broken open.

Gabrielle said, "I know who you are now, Agent Hammersmith. You're Delsey's brother. She looks like you. She also talks about you all the time." She turned away, said to no one in particular, "Perhaps she was involved in something very bad, I think, knowing she has this beautiful FBI brother to protect her." He heard her add, a bit of venom lacing her words, "You know she is all about trying to steal other women's men. I wouldn't be surprised."

Sounds like you've got an enemy here, Delsey. Who is she jealous about?

Griffin followed Salazar down a short hallway and through a soundproofed door on the right. It was a music room, not a study. Four different beautifully crafted antique cla.s.sical guitars, all polished to high brilliance, were placed with obvious care by a loving hand throughout the room. A music stand with open music on it stood by a shining black baby grand piano, and folding chairs were lined up side by side against a wall, as if Salazar practiced for an audience. Probably the group in his living room.

Griffin walked to the small fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me what you know about Delsey. You said someone called Elliot was showing her too much attention at your party last night. Who is that, Professor Salazar?"

Salazar gave a Gallic shrug to rival Gabrielle's and walked to the grand piano. He paused a moment, pulled a white handkerchief out of his smoking jacket pocket, and lightly rubbed it over a small spot on the piano lid, then moved to stand behind a small, hypermodern ebony desk in the corner. "I am as sorry about Delsey as you are, Agent, believe me. You have my sympathy. As for Elliot, I suppose you will find out soon enough. I was speaking of Dr. Elliot Hayman. He is the director of Stanislaus and also my brother-my twin brother, to be exact. We are fraternal twins and so are not mirrors of each other."

"I understand the two of you grew up apart."

"That's right. I was a teenager before I saw him again, in Madrid, but we are brothers, and thus when he invited me to spend a year at Stanislaus, I accepted. Now, I will tell you that what happened last night is not unusual. This time Elliot focused on Delsey, gave her margaritas he made himself. I must say that Elliot is entirely too familiar with female students here, despite his position. I have told him as much, but he ignores me. As for the Stanislaus board, they pretend not to notice. You would think they'd be more watchful, since Dr. Gordon Holcombe, the former director of Stanislaus, left under, let us say, a very black cloud."

The pot and the kettle. "What cloud was this, Professor?"

"There were murders here at Stanislaus last year. It is believed Dr. Holcombe murdered his longtime secretary and lover. He fled. No one knows where he is. I doubt anyone is looking for him, since I was told there isn't enough evidence to send him to jail."

So this was the horrific trouble Ruth and Dr. Chesney had spoken about. He wanted to know more about it, but not now. Griffin asked, "So Dr. Hayman was asked to become the director of Stanislaus after Dr. Holcombe's departure?"

"Yes. He plays the piano rather well on the international stage, and that gives him the stature for his position, and a certain cachet, I suppose. But withal he has the soul of an administrator, so he was taken to be a good choice by the board."

Griffin said, "Your brother invited you here, yet you don't get along?"

Salazar drew up. "I am not criticizing my brother. I merely state facts."

"You mean it's a fact that Dr. Hayman seduces Stanislaus students?"

Salazar spared him a condescending glance. "I know it is difficult for you, but you must try to understand. It is not at all uncommon among musicians-these attempts to connect with those who share our pa.s.sions, to keep our balance, and, shall I say it, to gain a certain release. It happens everywhere. Music is a haunting mistress that can consume the souls of the truly gifted."