Sarah Armstrong - 02 - Blood Lines by Kathryn Casey Page B

dinner with my professor in the student center, we worked a bit more, I guess until about eight or nine. I stopped and bought a latte at Starbucks, and then went home to do a little reading until sometime around eleven. Then to bed. It was, actually, a rather typical night for me. I gather it wasn’t for Ms. Collins?”
    “Why would you gather that?” I asked.
    “Why else would you be here inquiring about my whereabouts?” he asked, his voice restrained but with just a hint of pleasure. No doubt about it, this guy was enjoying the heck out of our visit.
    “When was your last attempt to communicate with Ms. Collins?” I asked.
    “That unfortunate letter that brought Sergeant Herald here,” Peterson said, with a slight laugh. “Right after that, I was hospitalized and prescribed my new medications. I haven’t had the urge to write her since. I trust you’re not here because she misses my letters?”
    “Nothing since then? No letters? No e-mails? No text messages?”
    “Nothing,” he said.
    Something about the man I didn’t trust. Still, I had no reason to believe Peterson was Argus. In fact, unless he had not only musical but magical talents, Peterson couldn’t have been the man we were looking for. The kid wasn’t in Las Vegas a week earlier, and he wasn’t in San Diego the previous night. That didn’t prevent me, of course, from wanting to know more about him.
    “Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Rather than talk here, where anyone can see us and wonder why you’re being questioned by two police officers, I’d like to continue this conversation in your apartment, where it’s more private. Sergeant Herald’s car is right outside. Why don’t we drive there together?”
    Peterson smiled that same unnervingly friendly grin.
    “That’s nice of you to be concerned, but it’s not necessary,” he said, softly. “There’s no one here but us. And if someone stumbles upon us talking, it’s not a problem. My doctoral advisor understands that I had a breakdown and that I’m better now. There’s no one to hide from.”
    “I would prefer going to your apartment to talk,” I said again, more forcefully. “I would consider it a sign of your cooperation on this matter if you’d accommodate me.”
    To my disappointment, Herald spoke up. “I don’t think we need to do that, Lieutenant,” he objected. “Mr. Peterson’s working, and we have enough, don’t we? We know he wasn’t in Las Vegas or San Diego.”
    I assessed the sergeant out of the corner of my eye, annoyed. “There are some things I’d like to discuss further,” I said. Turning my gaze back on the kid, I said, again, “Mr. Peterson, I would appreciate your cooperation. It would go a long way toward convincing me that you’re working with us on this matter.”
    Briefly quiet, as if considering my request, before long Peterson shook his head. “No. As the sergeant said, I’m working,” Peterson said, holding out his hand to shake mine. “But I thank you for stopping by to meet me. It’s always interesting to meet someone who has made front-page headlines. That’s quite a feat, don’t you think? So few people ever accomplish it.”
    “I can think of loftier goals,” I said, sizing him up and still feeling uneasy. “Perhaps writing a musical composition that brings joy to others?”
    “Of course,” he said. “But then, there is something to be said for fame.”
    Peterson never stopped smiling, never raised his voice. He’d remained composed and friendly throughout, even when he turned his back to return to his piano. As Sergeant Herald and I walked from the piano lab, I heard those same three notes the young pianist played when we first arrived, and then one more, a fourth, lower and richer than those preceding it. His alibis were airtight, yet as my visit with Justin Peterson ended, I felt more wary of him than when I arrived.
    Once Herald took off for his office, I called Rick Barron in Los Angeles from the Tahoe. “Justin