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to cover it up.”
    “Then along came Prince?” I said.
    Crosby nodded.
    “He can’t stay away from the female students. You know, famous professor, handsome, good dresser in a fluty kind of way. Got that fake English accent that they used to teach movie stars in the thirties and forties. Lot of girls are happy to hook up with him. He’s scored a bunch of them. But he wants to score all of them. We have complaints of sexual harassment, sexual innuendo, inappropriate touching, stalking, offering to swap grades for sex.”
    “And how does the university feel about that?”
    “They don’t like it. But he’s a tenured professor and a well-known international expert on some kind of art.”
    “Probably low-country realism,” I said.
    “Sure,” Crosby said. “It’s how I got to know him. I was bringing him in and talking to him so often we got to know each other pretty well.”
    “How did he behave when you spoke of his behavior?” I said.
    “He was shocked—shocked, I tell you.”
    “Denied it?”
    “Denied it absolutely,” Crosby said. “Said the girls must be either vindictive that he spurned them—his words—or they were fantasizing and allowed the fantasy to overcome them.”
    “All of them?”
    “All,” Crosby said. “He absolutely rejected every complaint. Said he had an attorney, and if we brought charges he would sue the girls, sue the university, probably sue me, for all I know.”
    “Do you know the name of the lawyer?”
    “No, but the university counsel does.”
    He swung his chair sideways and picked up a phone and punched in a number.
    “George,” he said to the phone. “Mike Crosby. Who’s the lawyer that Ashton Prince used to threaten us with?”
    He waited, then nodded and wrote down a name on the pad of yellow lined paper on his desk.
    “Thanks, George,” he said. “No, nothing. Just sorting the case out for myself. Sure, George. Mum’s the word. Thanks.”
    He looked at me.
    “That’s the motto of our department. Lot of departments have like ‘to protect and serve’? We have ‘Mum’s the word.’ ”
    He ripped the sheet of paper off the pad and handed it to me.
    “Morton Lloyd,” he said. “In Boston.”
    I folded it and put it in my pocket.
    “So the university decided to do nothing about Prince,” I said.
    “No, they decided to keep it quiet,” Crosby said. “That’s doing something.”
    “In loco parentis,” I said.
    Crosby nodded.
    “Ain’t it something,” he said.
    “Can you do me a favor?” I said.
    “Long as mum’s the word,” Crosby said.
    I smiled.
    “Prince was teaching a seminar called ‘Low-Country Realists’ when he was killed,” I said. “A teaching assistant is finishing it up. Class meets from two to five on Tuesdays.”
    “You want to sign up for it?” Crosby said.
    “I want a list of the students,” I said.
    “Sure,” he said. “You got a fax?”
    “Of course,” I said. “I’m a high-tech sleuth.”
    I gave him my card.
    “I’ll fax it to you this afternoon,” Crosby said. “Why do you want it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Just blundering around in the brush here, see what I kick up.”
    Crosby grinned.
    “That’s called police work,” he said.

14
    I called Rita Fiore in the morning. Rita had once been a Norfolk County prosecutor. Now she was a litigator at Cone, Oakes.
    “Tell me about a lawyer named Morton Lloyd,” I said.
    “Mort the Tort,” she said. “Got his own firm, Lloyd and Leiter, offices downtown, Milk Street, maybe. What are you looking for.”
    “Wish I knew,” I said. “What should I know about him?”
    “He’s smart. He’s tough. I don’t think he tests out so good on ethics, but if I were going to sue somebody, Mort would be my guy. You want to sue somebody?”
    “Nope. I’m just nosing around,” I said.
    “I hear you’re involved in that art heist and murder,” Rita said.
    “Who says?”
    “I’m sort of friendly with Kate Quaggliosi,” Rita said.
    “Isn’t she