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Professor Devane. The discrepancy between what she wrote and the way she acted on TV. In the book she basically tagged all men as scum, you’d think she was a major-league man-hater. But on the tapes she comes across as a woman who likes guys. Sure she thinks we’ve got some things to work out, maybe she even pities us a little. But the overall attitude isfriendliness, Alex. She seemedcomfortable with men—more than that. I guess to me she came across as the kind of gal you could have a couple of beers with.”
    “More like champagne cocktails,” I said.
    “Okay, granted. And not at the Dewdrop Inn. Paneled lounge at the Bel Air Hotel. But the contrast is still dramatic. At least to me.”
    “You know,” I said, “you could say the same thing about the resume. The first half was all by-the-book academic, the second was Media Star. Almost as if she were two separate people.”
    “And another thing: Maybe I’m not the best judge, but to me she was sexy on the tube.
    Seductive, the way she made eye contact with the camera, gave that little smile, crossed her legs, showing a little thigh. The way she said plenty by not saying anything.”
    “Those could have been shrinks’ pauses. We learn to use silence to get others to open up.”
    “Then she sure learned well.”
    “Okay, what if she was sexy?”
    “I’m wondering if she was the type to get involved in something dangerous. . . . Am I pop-psyching myself into a corner?”
    “Maybe what you’re really talking about is compartmentalization. Separating aspects of her life.
    Putting them in little boxes.”
    “Maybe little secret boxes,” he said. “And secretscan get dangerous. On the other hand, could be we’ve got something stupid—a stone nutso who saw her on the tube and God told him to kill her. Or a psychopath out stalking blonds on the Westside and she just happened to be in the Page 19

    wrong place at the wrong time. God forbid. . . . Okay, I appreciate the time, Alex. Gonna be working late right here, if you think of anything else.”
    “I’ll try Ed Gabelle on that conduct committee, call you if it gets interesting.”
    “It’s already interesting,” he said. Then he cursed.

CHAPTER
3
    Ed Gabelle was an aggressively casual physiological psychologist with a thick thatch of gray hair, a tiny mouth, and a whiny, singsong voice that sometimes veered toward an English accent.
    His specialty was creating lesions in cockroach neurons and observing the results. Lately, I’d heard, he’d been trying to get grant money to study drug abuse.
    It was just after lunchtime and I found him leaving the faculty club wearing blue jeans, a denim shirt, and an outspoken yellow paisley tie.
    His obligatory greeting faded fast when I told him what I wanted.
    “The police, Alex?” he said, pityingly. “Why?”
    “I’ve worked with them before.”
    “Have you . . . well, I’m afraid I can’t help you on this. It wasn’t a departmental issue.”
    “Whose was it?”
    “It was . . . let’s just say Hope was somewhat of an individualist. You know what I mean—that book of hers.”
    “Not well-received in the department?”
    “No, no, that’s not what I’m getting at. She was brilliant, I’m sure the book made her money, but she wasn’t much for . . . affiliation.”
    “No time for colleagues.”
    “Exactly.”
    “What about students?”
    “Students?” As if it were a foreign word. “I assume she had some. Well, nice seeing you, Alex.”
    “The committee,” I said. “You’re telling me it was solelyher project?”
    He licked his lips.
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    “What was it all about, Ed?”
    “I really can’t get into that. It’s a closed issue, anyway.”
    “Not anymore. Murder changes everything.”
    “Does it?” He began walking.
    “At least tell me—”
    “All I’ll tell you,” he said, stretching the whine, “is that I can’t tell you anything. Take it up with a higher power.”
    “Such as?”
    “The dean of students.”

    When I