Free Coyote by Rhonda Roberts Page A

I shifted uneasily.
    â€˜Oh, really?’ Des eyed me with amusement. ‘Well, there’s always a first time for everything, isn’t there?’
    â€˜I am not rushing into anything!’ I insisted, now annoyed more with myself than him.
    â€˜Hmm …’ Des studied my expression. ‘Daniel’s a good man, Kannon … You can trust him.’
    I straightened up at that. ‘I’m going home. You can stay here and talk to yourself!’
    â€˜Before you go … What’s that famous Marine motto?’
    â€˜ Semper Fi ,’ I replied. ‘Always faithful.’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s it,’ he said with satisfaction and drove off.
    I stood there for a moment, listening to the rain and wondering about Daniel. I had absolutely no idea how to handle him.

8
CRIME AT THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
    The rain was still pounding on the roof when Spud woke me up by sticking her cold, wet nose on my warm cheek. She was big and sleek — a mix of too many breeds to identify but more like a Ridgeback than anything else I’d seen. Her black coat was like velvet and her eyes honey-coloured. Those same eyes implored me to do my duty. I levitated out of bed and took Spud for her morning run on the beach. I came back soaked; showered and changed, and climbed into the car. I’d get breakfast later.
    The traffic up from my old beach house near Half Moon Bay wasn’t too bad, given the wet roads, and twenty-five minutes later I was in San Francisco. Following Highway 80 I got onto the Bay Bridge and headed for Oakland. I stayed in the left lane and once off the bridge took the eastbound exit for the University of California, Berkeley.
    One of Des’ San Francisco cop buddies had done his degree at Berkeley and did the occasional lecturethere on police procedure. He told Des that Jackson River had an office on campus — in the Department of Criminology at South Hall. But first he’d said I should talk to whoever was in charge of the Kershaw Archives, which were held in the university’s de Vivar Library.
    I followed the signs, turned into University Avenue and paused at Oxford Street to take in the view of the oldest university on the West Coast. It looked it too. Distinguished … august … manicured. And just a little sodden. No rubbish blocking the gutters in this place.
    Now came the hard part — finding a parking spot. The road was packed with circling cars doing the same thing and tempers were short from the miserable weather.
    There was nothing in sight so I turned left and started my circumnavigation of the campus. Nothing on Hearst, nothing on Gayley or Piedmont, but just as I was heading back down de Vivar Way a red sedan surged out in front of me and I had to brake to stop from hitting them. I got into the empty space before the car behind me could push its way in, bought a ticket and stuck it on my dashboard.
    I opened my umbrella, got the map out of my satchel and plunged into the wet flock of students doing their morning migration onto campus. It was mid-November and they were all chirping about the Thanksgiving holiday. According to the map, I just had to find the big bell tower at the centre of campus and the de Vivar Library was right near it.
    Through the pouring rain I could just make out a tower, with big clocks on each face, in the distance. I kept it in sight and eventually emerged into a busy plaza surrounded by stately buildings. To my right, the bell tower stretched up over my head.
    I checked the map as I went — that meant de Vivar Library was to my left. I searched the buildings ahead and came to a sudden halt …
    In the midst of all these stately white buildings, the de Vivar Library was an earth-red pueblo. It was square, three storeys high, and had a round pueblo tower rising out of the side that faced the plaza. The tower, wound around with a spiral of slit windows, rose up another three storeys in