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vandals got in the lab.”
    “Coincidence?” Captain Thomas asked.
    Harris shrugged. “Maybe. Unlikely.”
    “Walker? What about him?”
    “He’s got a solid alibi. Besides, my gut says he didn’t do it. I was there when he told the mother. He cried right along with her and if it wasn’t genuine, the Professor deserves an Oscar. His grad students I’m not so sure about. On one hand, they’d know how not to goof the cyanide concentrations of the stomach and cup. But then again, they might have purposely made the mistake thinking it would shield them from suspicion. I’ll watch them.”
    “Any video cameras around?”
    Harris sighed. “Yep, but somebody had turned them off. I’m looking into that, too. I’ve got the lab checking out the kid’s notebook. It all looked like Greek to me, but they’ll be able to read it. All of their alibis check out, although Nate Bass’s girlfriend sounded a little too rehearsed. I did get the printout of the key card reader. Nobody besides Darrell Roberts came in or out of the lab between the time Tanya Meyer left and Walker showed up. Whoever came in, Roberts opened the door and let him in.”
    Captain Thomas stood up. “Find out who else is a player here. Check out the kid’s family, his friends outside of school. Let’s get a few suspects on the board, Wes.”

Chapter 3
    St. Pete, Wednesday, February 24, 5:30 p.m.
    “Daddy.” Megan’s voice lifted over the quiet strains of Bach. The sober music suited his mood. “The phone’s for you.”
    Christopher opened one eye and looked at his daughter standing in the doorway of his study, still wearing the black dress she’d worn to Darrell’s funeral. She was a good girl, he thought, pride mixing with the sadness that hadn’t given him a moment’s peace in a week. She’d stood by him today, her hand in his, even though at thirteen she’d started pulling away from such public displays of affection.
    “Can you take a message, honey?”
    Her brown curls bounced as she shook her head. “It’s that private detective again. He’s called four times since yesterday afternoon. Maybe you should just talk to him so he’ll go away.”
    Christopher pushed out of his easy chair with a sigh of extreme irritation. “Him again? I’ll take it in here.” He switched off the stereo and picked up the phone at his desk, turning the ringer back on. He’d turned it off to have some peace and quiet, but it didn’t look like he was going to find either. “This is Christopher Walker,” he said briskly.
    “Dr. Walker, my name is Richard Snowden.”
    “And you’re a private investigator,” Christopher responded impatiently, pulling his tie off. “You’ve called me five times, harassed my daughter, my staff, and my boss’s secretary.” They’d told him so today, at Darrell’s funeral.
    “I didn’t harass your boss’s secretary or your staff, Dr. Walker,” Snowden said mildly. “I merely asked them if your biography listed your hometown and high school.”
    Suspicion prickled at the back of Christopher’s neck. “Can you please state your business, sir? Because this is really not a good time.”
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Walker. I understand condolences are in order. I’m sorry for the loss of your student.”
    “Thank you,” Christopher said tightly. This guy knew about Darrell. The press had been everywhere—outside his office, his gym, even outside the church during the funeral, looking for information about the investigation, which so far hadn’t turned up any leads on Darrell’s death. For two days Christopher had been looking over his shoulder, expecting Detective Harris to jump out from behind a palm tree and arrest him, and his nerves were fried. “Look, if you’re a reporter, you can go—”
    “I’m not a reporter, Dr. Walker. I’ll make this brief. I’ve been retained by one of your former high school classmates to locate you.”
    Christopher almost laughed. “High school?” After the dark events of