Love Can Be Murder

frowned. "Scratch that, too. And stop asking questions."
    After he closed the door, they stood in the darkness until their vision adjusted, then slipped off their shoes. The air in the house was deadly quiet and cold, with a chemical tang, probably left by forensics. Creepy stuff.
    "His office used to be in the library," she whispered. "If I remember correctly, it's ahead and to the left."
    They found the room, and Capistrano gently removed the police tape across the door. Then he walked the perimeter with a penlight, closing doors and shutters before turning on a desk lamp. She scanned the room, skimming over the carpet where white tape crudely outlined the shape of Carl's body where it had fallen next to the ottoman. The disturbing crime scene photos flashed ill her mind, but she inhaled and chased them away.
    The room was lined with bookshelves, and studded with nice furniture—a mohair couch, a leather club chair, a massive cherrywood desk. She thought she detected the faintest scent of Carl's cologne, but she might have imagined it. To think that only two days ago he was alive.
    "You take the desk drawers," Capistrano said, "and I'll start on the bookshelves. Leave your gloves on."
    She nodded, removed her hat, and set to work before she could think about the ethics of rooting through the personal papers of an ethics professor. The bottom drawer was filled with CDs and headphones, so she moved to the next drawer. Receipts and check registers, a calculator, and files for bills—nothing special, unless you counted the sizable charges on his phone bill to 900 numbers. The thought of Carl dialing for sex on top of exploiting female students put a rock in her stomach.
    The other drawers revealed nothing of import—files of class grades and minutes of faculty meetings. She closed the last drawer with a sigh. "Nothing here."
    "Nothing here yet, either," he said from the bookshelf. "Why don't you start on the other end?"
    She did, experiencing a pang of sadness that Carl's carefully collected volumes would have to be moved to a new home—probably the university library.
    "He had some nice editions," Capistrano murmured.
    Roxann lifted an eyebrow at his broad back. So his reading repertoire extended beyond commercial thrillers. The man had layers.
    Systematically, she removed each book and flipped through pages to see if Carl had hidden anything inside. For thirty minutes they flipped and shook and reshelved. Then she reached a collection of Shakespeare with spectacular navy spines. She pulled out the first volume and stopped. "Detective. I think I've found something."
    He joined her. "False books?"
    She held the book-inside-the-book she'd removed up to the light. "It's a journal—1980 to 1985."
    "More than one," he said, removing another falsie. "Nineteen eighty-six to 1990."
    She thumbed through the pages, scanning entries, and realized quickly that some of Carl's literary efforts were bent toward erotica. She skipped the body-part words to look for names—would he be so bold? Apparently so.
    Janeese L... Carlo B... Marie A.
    "Are there any for 1992 and up?"
    He pulled out the last two volumes. "Yeah. Let's take these with us."
    "Isn't that stealing?"
    "Technically, it's called burglary. Let's go."
    They returned the false books, extinguished the lamp, then opened the shutters and doors. Replacing tape where necessary, they retraced their steps to the front door. He locked the door from the inside, then pulled it shut with a click.
    "Wait," she said, wincing. "I left my hat."
    To his credit, Capistrano only sighed. "Stay here, I'll get it." He handed her the journals, then broke in for the second time and disappeared inside.
    The bitter cold reminded her why she lived in the south. She shivered and moved from foot to foot to keep the blood flowing.
    She smelled him before she saw him. Then the motion-detector light came on, revealing Frank Cape, his menacing face framed by a black knit cap. Her pepper spray, she realized miserably, was safely tucked in her purse inside the Dooley.
    " Capis—"
    Cape clapped his hand over her mouth, then stuffed a cloth in her mouth. "This is good," he said, jerking her forward and down the steps. "Thought I was going to have to shoot that guard of yours and leave another body here for the police to find."
    Her eyes flew wide.
    "Oh, yeah, I killed the teacher man—lot of good it did me. Nobody keeps their word these days."
    She grunted and fought to release one hand, kicking at