Dr. Hayman answered the door himself. He looked the part of a Euro-aristocrat even on Sunday, Griffin thought, all duded up in GQ-casual running-suit elegance, down to expensive sneakers that, Griffin thought, hadn’t ever slammed their soles on a roadtop. Was he trying to emulate Professor Salazar after all?

“You are late, Agent Hammersmith.”

Griffin said, “I was held up unexpectedly at Breaker’s Hill. A couple of kids with their snowboards strapped to the roof of their car skidded into a snowdrift, and I helped get them out.”

“You should have called me.”

Maybe so, but more fun to see you go all haughty and pissed off. Griffin nodded and stepped forward, forcing Dr. Hayman to take a quick step back.

There was no bungalow coziness on the inside, either. Inside was all aggressive and ultramodern. It struck Griffin between the eyes. All high style and dash, but no particular charm. He said, “Did you redecorate?”

“Yes, I had to. Though they kept the house nicely on the outside, the inside was a disgrace. I’m told an eighty-year-old spinster with a dozen cats originally lived here. When she died, she donated the house to Stanislaus.

“What I have done suits me now. I must admit to being pleasantly surprised by the workmanship here in Maestro. Come into the living room, Agent Hammersmith.”

Hayman waved him into a large square room with wide windows that gave onto the front yard. He pointed to a deep burgundy sofa and moved to stand beside the fireplace. He crossed his arms over his chest, then crossed his feet. Too bad Griffin wasn’t a photographer; this was a pose for posterity, and again, it reminded him of Professor Salazar, only Dr. Hayman did it better, with more natural grace.

“How is Delsey?”

“She is better.”

“I will look forward to seeing her back with us. Now, what can I do for you, Agent Hammersmith? I’m afraid I’ve already told you everything I know that might be helpful. As I think we all told you, Delsey left the party without telling anyone.” He looked down at his watch. Who was he expecting?

“Tell me what special ingredients you put in the margaritas Delsey drank Friday night.”

If Hayman thought that an odd question, he didn’t show it, and answered readily, “It was a very fine tequila—Patrón Silver—that should not have made her ill. Naturally, I used an excellent Cointreau, lime juice, and a bit of additional triple sec.”

“What was your special ingredient?”

“Nothing more than a dash of Tabasco sauce.”

Not very original at all. “She was sick enough to leave. How many drinks did she have?”

“I did not count. Three, I believe. Although the Patrón Silver is an excellent tequila, it is potent.”

Probably enough alcohol to flatten an elephant. “Do you think someone could have added something to her drinks, Dr. Hayman? Something to make her ill?”

“There is no reason for anyone to do that, Agent.”

“And what about your brother, Dr. Salazar? Whatever your own intentions toward Delsey, I got the impression the man is far more a hedonist than an ascetic. He uses his students, particularly the women, treats them like his own personal servants.”

“A hedonist? Because he enjoys life and takes advantage of what life offers to him? Well, yes, he does take advantage and that isn’t something I admire, but still, Rafael is a fine musician, no matter his small character flaws. He is both admired and respected. Have you ever seen him perform onstage?”

“I didn’t ask you about his musical abilities, Dr. Hayman,” Griffin said. “You don’t seem to care for him much, and since he is your brother, you certainly know him. You are the director here, responsible for the behavior of faculty at an academic institution. Why would you bring someone with such flaws in his personal life, someone who is something of a predator, to Stanislaus? Why would you take that risk?”

“Perhaps he has not behaved quite as I expected. At any rate, whatever his habits, his questionable behavior, this will be his last semester here.”

“Why do both of you appear to want to get close to my sister? Is there some sort of competition between you?”

“I am not at all like Rafael, and I do not compete with him.”

“Did he pressure you into inviting him to Stanislaus for the year? Or did someone else?”

“He is my brother, Agent Hammersmith. I was not pressured, but perhaps it is true that I listened too kindly to our mother. She is never reticent about what she feels and wants. But Maria Rosa is a lovely lady who perhaps cares too much for Rafael. Perhaps she has indulged him too much over the years. After my parents divorced when we were boys, she took Rafael with her to Spain, her homeland, where she married a rich Spanish industrialist, Carlo Salazar, now happily passed on.”