Pendergast had not expected that. "Yes, that's my signature."

"Uh-huh. Well, if you take a look the last entry for your Visa card shows that you were there on Thursday, May thirty-first, the last night she performed and two nights before she was killed."

Alarm filled Pendergast's eyes. "Well, I guess maybe I was."

"Would you say that was the last time you saw her?"

"Yes. I left a few minutes after her show."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes."

"No buddies with you or a female companion?"

"No."

"Can you tell us how well you knew her?"

"Not well at all. Just casual chitchat at the club. She was very friendly and talked to everybody."

"Of course. I hear she took questions from the stage, and she was pretty funny."

"Yes, she was very entertaining."

While they spoke, Pendergast's computer monitor automatically switched onto an image of an old painting of a woodland setting with a woman with wild and flaming red hair on a white horse and a knight walking beside her, holding her hand. A ripple passed through the image, assimilating motion. Another passed through Steve's chest. "Nice screen saver. What's the image?"

"Oh, it's called La Belle Dame sans Merci, by Walter Crane, a nineteenth-century British painter."

"'Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried-"La Belle Dame sans Merci; Hath thee in thrall!"'"

"Wow, you know Keats. I'm impressed."

"I minored in English." Steve glanced back down at the photo of Terry Farina, her hair aflame and one leg wrapped around the pole. In a flash, he saw Dana.

"Did you ever see her after-hours, you know, go out for a drink or dinner?" Neil asked.

"I think the dancers aren't allowed to socialize with patrons."

"Yeah, sure, but you know what I mean. You see a babe who's available, and no club rules are going to get in the way, right?"

"Well, actually, I think they can get fired if word gets back. I had no romantic relationship with her."

Neil persisted. "But did you ever have contact with her outside of the club?"

Pendergast shot Steve a look. He probably suspected that they had talked to the other dancers. In a fit of blinking he said, "Look, I want to be perfectly honest with you gentlemen. I'm not going to lie. We went out to dinner once."

Steve looked at the computer monitor, wondering how fast they could move to get a court warrant for the cyber guys to check the hard drive. Jesus, this is looking good. "Have you ever been to her home?"

"Her home?" Pendergast's voice hit a nail. "I'm not even sure where she lived."

Steve studied his face but could detect no betraying micro-expressions. "Jamaica Plain."

"Oh, yeah." Pendergast dropped his face to his watch.

"It's a standard question, but I'm wondering if you can tell us where you were last Saturday between five P.M. and midnight."

"Saturday? I was home."

"Any way to verify that?"

"Are you saying I'm a suspect?" His features were stricken with fear.

Oh, yeah, Steve thought. "No, just a person of interest."

"I have no way to verify it. I didn't see or talk to anyone. But I'm telling you I was home wrapping up work before my trip."

"About what time did you go to bed?"

"I don't know, a little after nine I guess." He checked his watch again. "I really have to go."

Steve could have continued for hours, but they had no legal justification for watching Pendergast squirm. He nodded at Neil. "Well, I think that's it for now. We'll probably like to talk to you again. Thank you for your time. You said you're taking a trip?"

"Yes, next week I'm going to a conference in Wales, then I'll spend some time traveling."

"How long?" Neil asked.

"A month."

Neil nodded. "I'm wondering if we could have a DNA sample from you. It's a standard request of all witnesses."

That put Pendergast on guard. A refusal would make him appear all the more suspicious. He agreed, and Neil produced a swab and baggie and asked him to scrape the inside of his mouth. Then he slipped the bag into his briefcase and moved to the window. "Nice view."

"It used to be until they put up that eyesore of a building. Once we could see the Boston skyline."

Neil picked up a pair of field glasses from a shelf of books and focused out the window.

"There used to be beautiful marshes out there."

"Oh, wow! It really pulls it in."

Pendergast watched Neil. "They're great for bird-watching." He checked his watch. "I really have to go."

"So do we," Neil said, then he swung the glasses toward the building across the street. "What's the building?"

"A student dorm."

"Men's dorm? Women's dorm?"

"It's coed."

Neil turned the glasses toward the windows of the building. "They never had coed dorms when I went to school. Hell, I would have killed for that."

26.

"Bird-watching, my ass."

Neil turned onto 93 South toward Boston. The interview with Pendergast had elevated him from his funk of the last few days.

"He probably sits in the dark up there and watches the coeds undress."

"So," said Steve, "you think he had something going on with her?"

"What do you think? The guy's a cocksman plain and simple. A stack of student sex complaints plus a lewd and lash with a seventeen-year-old. The bastard can't keep it in his pants is all. Plus he's got a dozen behavioral indicators."

Steve decided to play dumb. "Like what?"

"Like what? The guy's a fucking mess of tics and blinks. He's lying about his relationship with her. Plus you saw his office. It's superorganized. The damn books on the shelves are arranged alphabetically."

"So he's neat."

"Not neat. Obsessive. And obsessive people are psychopathic, disorganized people are psychotic. He's the kind who plans, who's careful, and cleans up after himself."

"Except we've got nothing hard connecting him to her apartment."

Obsessive. Kinda getting close to home, pal.

"Not yet. But he's got a history of sexual offenses, which is a good start in my book."

Steve nodded. "Asking a student out is not a sexual offense."

"He got a year's suspension, so somebody thinks so."

"But schools are uptight about sexual harassment. Word gets out some professor's screwing his students and parents think twice about sending their kids. Plus consensual sex among adults isn't against the law."

"Then what about the Clark thing and the lewd and lash at UNH?"

"Yeah, but a big leap to murder one."

"It's a good start. Besides, one of his own students called him a pervert."

"Except someone might see a guy who likes attractive women and who wants them to like him. Plus he's got no record of violence. Terry Farina was killed in a moment of rage, not horniness."

Neil turned his face toward him, his black glasses filling his face. "The guy's a slimeball who's lied to us point-blank. We don't know the kind of violence he's capable of or what makes his dick tick. He could be another Ted Bundy is all."

Steve could feel the heat of conviction radiating from Neil. But his own confidence was rapidly fading. "He didn't lie. He just didn't fess up until he was aware we had something on him."

"You're splitting hairs. If he had nothing to hide, why was he so nervous?"

"Maybe because two homicide cops show up asking about a murdered stripper."

Neil looked over at him again. "What's your problem, man? He stinks of guilt."

What's my problem? So do I.

"I don't want to hang the guy because you don't like him."

"Yeah, I don't like him, but every instinct in me says he's our man. And if we don't arrest him, he'll be gone to England and wherever."

"Which is why we put in an application for his computers."

Neil nodded and tapped some text message notes into his PDA. "You ask me, he's just another fucking low-life with a bunch of college degrees."

"There you go, mincing words again."

Neil let slip a smile as he continued text messaging notes for the computer warrant. "Remember I've got a sixteen-year-old daughter."

"We won't tell him."

They drove in silence for a while as Steve stared out the window. In the distance the Boston skyline against the low gray clouds revealed a profile of glass slabs, needles, cubistic spires, a tower surmounted by a skeletalized dome, and redbrick town houses stacked up against Beacon Hill. Architecturally it was postmodern schizophrenia, but a cityscape he loved.

"So, what's happening with you and Dana?"

"Nothing's happening."

"What about getting back together?"

"She wants to live alone for a while."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Me, too."

"What do you think that means?"

"I think I need a makeover."

It means she's gearing up to meet other men.

"It means she wants to live alone."

"That's too bad. She's a nice woman."