Page 53 of Long Way Down

His expression smoothed, and the frown he’d worn since they entered returned. “Such a gentle girl. Kind and attentive. To be attacked as you say…” He looked genuinely troubled, she thought, as she shook off the clinging vestiges of memory. Anyone would have been, but a guilty man would have faked it, might even have been good at it.

“What about Lynn Wheatly?” Contreras asked. “Is she passionate? Kind? Attentive?”

Dubois hesitated a moment, lips compressing, before he said, “Yes, of course.” Smooth, but not smooth enough.

Contreras grinned and took a few slow steps around the ring of easels as the professor locked the last one into place. “You sure about that, Professor? I mean, come on. We’re not here to rate you online or anything. You can be honest with us. Everyone knows that some students are better than others.”

Dubois let out a slow breath that flared his small, neat nostrils. Chagrined. “Forgive me, Detective, but it’s my understanding that honesty with the police isn’t always rewarded. All sorts of things wind up in the papers that aren’t true.”

Contreras tipped his head. “Touché.”

“Lynn Wheatly’s parents have money,” Melissa said. “Would I be right in assuming they’ve made donations to the art department here?”

The chagrined look deepened, and through the lenses of his glasses, she saw something like warm approval in his eyes. Dark eyes, she noted with relief; a deep hazel not at all like Pastor Keith’s washed-out blue. “How perceptive of you, Detective Dixon. They have, yes.”

“To make up for Lynn being a flake?”

He made a displeased face. “I don’t like that word.Flake.” He said it as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Lynn is a lovely young woman – but not nearly as naturally gifted as Lana. She has training, but lacks innate talent, you see. All the study and instruction in the world cannot bridge the gap between true talent and eagerness.”

“That sounds a little…stuck up,” Contreras said.

Dubois snorted delicately. “The truth isn’t always gentle, I’m afraid.” Done with the easels, he strode across the studio toward a long table and picked up a stack of thick drawing paper as though it were a precious artifact.

It struck Melissa as absurd: the idea that this meticulous man, one who valued art above personal feelings, had written a note on a brightly-colored Post-It and left it with the unconscious figure of the girl he’d just raped. Even more absurd that he’d drawn inspiration from a second-rate 90s movie rife with stilted dialogue and awkward camera angles.

“I feel terrible about what’s happened to them both,” he said, and began arranging several sheets of paper on each easel. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you want from me, Detectives.”

Melissa wandered over to the supplies table and surveyed its orderly contents. The drawing paper he’d already pulled from, plus pencils in a variety of sizes and thicknesses. Trays of charcoal. A small, sharp knife for sharpening the pencils. She plucked a tissue from a box at the table’s edge and lifted the knife to the light. A mess of smudges marred the handle, countless sets of fingerprints, the professor’s doubtless among them…along with every student. She set it back down.

“Lana and Lynn were both attacked in their homes, and I don’t guess I have to tell you they live in very different neighborhoods,” Contreras said behind her.

“Of course.”

“In the process of narrowing down a suspect,” he continued, amusing Melissa with his out-of-character officiousness. Maybe he had a hang-up about professors. “We have to find commonalities. Lana and Lynn share some physical characteristics, but their main commonality is this class.Yourclass. They both have it together.”

“Yes. I see.”

“Whoever targeted them found them here, Professor. We’re hoping you might provide some insight into who that might be.”

“Ah,” he said, quietly, a wealth of understanding present in one syllable.

Melissa ran the tip of her finger along the table edge as she moved down the length of it, noting rolls of masking tape, a box of white erasers, clear cellophane sleeves, acrylic setting spray. And Post-Its. A dozen stacks of them. Pink, orange, yellow, blue, green.

Her pulse kicked up a notch.

As subtly as she could, she pulled out her phone and snapped a pic of the table, the Post-Its in the foreground.

Behind her, Dubois said, “I assure you that all my visa paperwork is well in order.”

She turned, frowning, and found the two men squared off: Contreras with his hands in his pockets, Dubois drawn up to his full, unimpressive height, standing with shoulders pressed back and hands linked dancer-fashion at his waist. He looked more defiant than frightened, a weariness pressed into the lines around his eyes.

“In case you’re thinking of threatening me with deportation,” he continued, “if I don’t cooperate to your liking.”

Contreras lifted his brows a fraction. “Are you planning on being uncooperative? ‘Cause right now” – he dropped the teaching routine in favor of his usual easiness – “we’re not threatening anybody with anything. We’re just looking for answers.” He swept an arm out in invitation. “Point us in a direction, Mr. Dubois. Any of the boys in class pester the girls? Stare at them? Did you see anything that looked suspicious?”

Dubois relaxed – but only a little. “I don’t wish to speak ill of my students.”

“That’s not what we’re after. But.” He fished into his breast pocket and came out with a photo. Melissa caught a glimpse of it before he passed it over: Lana Preston looking pale against her white hospital pillow, hair greasy and limp, eyes swollen nearly shut, skin around them black like a racoon mask with bruising.

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