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comma and obsessed over whether to give an A- or B+. "Are Comp 102 students still required to do portfolios?" I asked.
    I knew about these portfolios —or, as I always thought of them, "port folly os"—from my pre-Hollywood millionaire days, when I used to teach Comp 102 at the community college as an adjunct. At the end of the semester, I'd have to gather together five of each student's best essays for two other profs in the department to read. The profs could then fail the student, even if his actual teacher—in this case, me—had passed him.
    In theory, this was su pposed to introduce accountability to the grading process. But in reality, the portfolios had absolutely zilch impact, because no professors had ever had the social gaucherie to overrule their colleagues. The whole setup was just typical academic folly.
    "Yeah, we still have portfolios," Rosalyn said. "Which reminds me, I have to get my summer portfolios to the committee."
    "I'd like to take a look at what Susan Tamarack wrote," I said.
    No answer.
    "Rosalyn?"
    "I can't do that," she finally responded.
    "Why not?"
    "Wouldn't be ethical. Some of these students write pretty personal stuff. I promise them at the beginning of the semester, no one will ever see what they write except for me."
    "And two other professors."
    "Well, yeah."
    "Come on, Roz."
    "Hey, it's a privacy issue. Would you want random people reading your personal stuff?"
    "If it might help solve a murder and keep an innocent man out of jail, then sure. No problem."
    "I really don't see how Susan's portfolio could help you."
    In all honesty, I wasn't so sure it could help me either. But I had no idea where else to start my investigation and I was getting despe rate, so I kept my doubts to myself. "She was married to the man. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she did something."
    "I'm sorry, Jake —"
    "Get real, will you? These aren't exactly privileged communications. You're an English professor grading papers, not a Catholic priest taking a confession."
    "You'd be surprised. Sometimes there's not much difference."
    We went around in circles for another ten minutes before we hung up, mutually aggravated. I had half a mind to call up Sam and advise him to avoid commitment with this woman at all costs. She was too darn scrupulous. If they got married, she'd probably get on his case all the time about how he held his fork.
    Rosalyn did have a point, though: Comp students do write highly personal stuff. It always used to shock me how open they'd be. But I guess if your teacher assigns you an essay about, say, "An Important Event in My Life," or "My Most Embarrassing Moment," then you don't really have much choice about being open. Especially if you want an A.
    So who knows what I might find in Susan Tamarack's portfolio? Maybe I'd hit the jackpot and come up with something entitled, "Why I'm Planning to Kill My Husband."
    Unfortunately, without Rosalyn's help I wouldn't come up with anything .
    Or would I? Maybe I could convince Andrea to sneak into Rosalyn's office at school and get the goods.
    I broached the idea to her that night, during a moment of postcoital tenderness. But the tender moment died quickly, when it turned out Andrea shared her friend's scruples.
    "Come on, honey," I wheedled, "snatching the portfolio will be fun . Don't you want to be a private dick, too?"
    She touched me in the obvious place. "No, that's your job."
    "Seriously."
    She withdrew her hand. "I can't do it. If I broke into Rosalyn's office, I'd feel like I was betraying her."
    "The person you're betraying here is Will." I was pissed. It was lucky we'd already made love, because our argument was getting hot enough that it would have created some serious coitus interruptus .
    Just then the phone rang, giving us a welcome argumentus interruptus . I picked up. "Hello, Shmuck-dude," I said.
    "How'd you know it was me?"
    "Who else calls here at midnight? I tried to reach you before, but your phone was busy all night."
    "It was