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the long approach between the brick pillars, past the Pineapple Room Restaurant and the greenhouse, to the museum’s parking lot.
    Was the freak watching? Did he know my Honda Civic?
    I parked in the shade of an elm tree. Keeping my arms low, I double-checked the safety on my Desert Eagle before shoving it into my jeans, where it’d go unnoticed beneath my black T-shirt and the untucked button-down.
    A dangerous combination, me and guns, I’m well aware. My heart pounded as I climbed from the car, and I cautioned myself to keep cool.
    “Ready or not.”
    The tranquil scenery lent a hand at calming my senses. Slopes of grass swept beneath Japanese maples and curled around terraced gardens, providing bright green contrast to tulips, violas, and pink and yellow trillium. From the herb garden, spicy whiffs mixed with the fragrance of roses, while bubbling fountains enhanced the serenity.
    I’d done some quick reading at the Cheekwood Web site, gotten some history and an idea of our rendezvous point. Fewer surprises the better, right?
    Annually, the estate draws over 130,000 visitors with its trails, gardens, and statuary. Totaling thirty thousand square feet, the original Cheek Mansion displays European and American art, a collection of Worcester porcelain, and rotating temporary exhibits.
    While the Cheeks may not be familiar to most Americans, the source of their fortune is: In the 1920s, Joel Cheek developed a blend of coffee that was served in Nashville’s premier hotel, the Maxwell House. Postum, now known as General Foods, bought the business from him for forty million dollars, enabling the family’s purchase of this vast woodland on the west side of town.
    Forty mil. And here I was, trying to pay off loans at my espresso shop.
    I surveyed the rolling hills that surrounded the mansion and narrowed in on the massive structure. If this confrontation resulted in any damage, the Cheek family and their art foundation could afford the repairs.
    I checked the museum’s rows of windows as I made my way along the curved drive. Was AX already up there? The gun—fully loaded with ten rounds in the clip, one in the chamber—poked into my stomach with each step. Overhead, clouds had formed a cast-iron lid over the Cumberland Basin, and the day’s heat simmered.
    Cautious steps carried me through the entry into a two-story foyer, where an English mantel clock showed I was a few minutes early.
    My cell rang. It was the number at Black’s.
    “Hello?”
    “Aramis. Diesel here. Guess who’s standing at the counter.”
    “Listen, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”
    “It’s Professor Bones. In the flesh. Get it?”
    “Ha, ha.”
    “Says he needs to talk to you. You must’ve missed class one too many times. Here he is.”
    I sighed and waited.
    “Hello, Mr. Black.”
    “Professor Newmann?”
    “You know, as we speak I’m indulging in one of your famed white mochas.”
    “Glad you like it.”
    “Of course, this’ll play no part in your final grade.”
    “Sure.” I followed the foyer staircase to the second-floor landing. “Professor, not to be rude, but I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”
    His voice was reedy, breathy, like a woodwind instrument barely holding its tune. “I stopped in, hoping to speak with you in person. It could wait untilMonday evening, I suppose, but the classroom setting’s never ideal for one-on-one discussion.”
    “Am I supposed to know what this is about?”
    Tension filled the silence. “Excuse me,” Newmann said at last. “Listening ears, you understand.”
    “Not exactly.”
    “Were Desmond to know what I have to share with you, it might only increase the pressure on him to achieve scholastic excellence.” He paused again. “I’ve received threats from his father.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “I’m half inclined to report it to the university’s president.”
    “You should. But why’re you telling me?”
    “Because Mr. Hillcrest mentioned your