Page 144 of Homeport

Once he was back in the house by the cliffs, he removed the moustache, took off the wig, gratefully blinked out the contacts. The precaution had been necessary after all, he thought as he happily removed the ridiculous shirt.

Apparently Cook had forgery on the brain.

That was fine. When the job was over, having Cook’s investigation slanted toward most of the truth would be an advantage.

Now it was only mildly unnerving.

He removed the makeup from his face, throat, and hands, brewed a pot of coffee, and settled down to work.

There were eight students who’d used the foundry in those critical two weeks. He’d already eliminated three off the top, as their projects had been too large.

Now thanks to good old Babs and Pete, he had the one he wanted. It didn’t take much time to go back into the records he’d already accessed from the Institute. And there he found Harry’s class during that final semester. Renaissance Bronzes, The Human Form.

And Miranda had taught the course.

He hadn’t figured that, he realized. He’d wanted to see another name. Carter’s, Andrew’s, anyone he could concentrate on uncovering. Then he realized he should have expected it. The David had been hers, The Dark Lady had been hers. She was the key, the core, and he was beginning to believe she was the reason.

One of her students had cast a bronze David. The bronze David, Ryan had no doubt.

He skimmed further, calling up final grades. She was tough, he thought with a smile. Miranda didn’t hand out A’s like candy. Only four out of her twenty students had rated one, with the edge slanted heavily toward B’s, a scatter of C’s.

And one Incomplete.

Harrison K. Mathers. Incomplete, no final project. Class dropped.

Now why would you do that, Harrison K., Ryan wondered, when you went to the trouble to have a bronze figure cast ten days before the due date, unless you’d never intended to worry about the grade?

He looked up Mathers’s records, noted that he’d attended twelve classes at the Institute over a two-year period. His grades were admirable . . . until the last semester, when they took a sharp nosedive.

Taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number listed under Harrison’s personal information.

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is Dennis Seaworth in student records from the New England Institute. I’m trying to reach Harrison Mathers.”

“This is Mrs. Mathers, his mother. Harry doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh, I see. We’re doing an update on our students, trying to gather input for next year’s classes. I wonder if you could put me in touch with him.”

“He moved out to California.” She sounded weary. “He never finished his classes at the Institute.”

“Yes, we have those records. We’re hoping to discover if and why any of our former students were dissatisfied with the program here.”

“If you find out, tell me. He was doing so well there. He loved it.”

“That’s good to know. If I could talk to him?”

“Sure.” She recited a number with a San Francisco area code.

Ryan dialed the West Coast number and was told by a recording the number had been disconnected.

Well, he thought, a trip to California would give him a chance to see his brother Michael.

“Harrison Mathers.”

With the most recent plans for the exhibit still crowded in her head, Miranda frowned at Ryan. “Yes?”

“Harrison Mathers,” he repeated. “Tell me about him.”

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