Read One Coffee With for Free Online Page A

plaster, Later Sigrid would learn that these sculptures were not the handiwork of art majors but had come out of a workshop course that the Art Department gave to teach predental students dexterity in using small tools in a confined space.
    At the moment, however, most of her attention was focused not on the plaster sculptures atop the file cabinets but on the cherubic-faced man who waited for her in front of them. He carried a folder, and past experience told her it must already hold the rough beginnings of timetables, character sketches, floor plans and anything else that had caught his attention.
    “I’ve made a few notes, Lieutenant,” he said anxiously.
    Detective Tildon—inevitably rechristened “Tillie the Toiler” by his colleagues—found it very difficult to make comparisons, draw parallels, formulate theories or see beyond the obvious; but to compensate for his lack of imagination, he followed the book to the letter, and he was scrupulous about detail. Tillie’s reports were sometimes officialdom’s despair, sometimes its salvation. Legend had it that he once used three sheets of paper to describe one ordinary cocktail glass found at the scene of a murder—but the detective in charge wouldn’t have thought twice about the triangular-shaped chip of glass embedded in the heel of the murderer’s shoe if he hadn’t remembered Tillie’s sketch of the cocktail glass’s missing chip.
    Plowing through Detective Tilden’s mountains of verbiage could be exasperating; yet, on the whole, Sigrid approved of his thoroughness. Occasionally he was too anxious to please, and his feelings were easily hurt, but Sigrid preferred him to the hotshot macho types who bordered on insubordination when required to take orders from her.
    Now Tillie described the situation to her in low undertones. He explained his sketch of the department, filled her in on the people he’d talked to so far and told why he’d detained these particular seven to wait for her questions. He had lis ted them in order of seniority:
    Prof. Oscar Nauman, Chairman, Color and Basic Design
    Assoc. Prof. Albert Simpson, History of Classical Art
    Assoc. Prof. Lemuel Vance, Advanced Printmaking
    Asst. Prof. Piers Leyden, Life Painting
    Asst. Prof. Andrea Ross, History of Medieval Art
    Asst. Prof. Jake Saxer, History of Modern Art/Slide Curator
    Miss Sandy Keppler, Secretary
     

     
    No one was better than Detective Tildon in preliminary interviews. Witnesses were so disarmed by his cheerful, bumbling manner that they often said more than they’d intended. And Tillie wrote it all down in a neat, precise script.
    Sigrid seated herself at Sandy Keppler’s desk and slowly reviewed his notes. She’d seen the raised eyebrows when Tillie called her by her title and decided the witnesses could use the extra time to get used to the idea that a female police officer would be conducting the investigation. Her height and her no-nonsense appearance helped. At fiveten, her dark hair braided into a knot at the nape of her neck and wearing a loose, rather poorly tailored pantsuit, she looked efficient and capable of command.
    At last she lifted her head from Tillie’s notes and spoke in the quiet voice that always warranted attention. “My name is Lieutenant Harald, and I’ll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. First, is access to the Chemistry Department very convenient from here?”
    She sat erect behind the desk, her hands neatly folded, her gray eyes watchful; and all seven—with the possible exception of Oscar Nauman—were suddenly reminded of certain teachers they’d faced in elementary school. Piers Leyden cheekily raised his hand.
    “If it’s poisons you’re looking for, why go all the way over to Chemistry? We’ve got a decent supply of our own right downstairs.”
    “State your choice,” agreed Lemuel Vance. He had exchanged his ink-stained lab coat for a disreputable brown cardigan. “I’ve got nitric, acetic, sulfuric and