I scanned the riverbank as I drove, looking for boathouses, wondering whether Dowling, who’d used the river as a road the night of the money drop, might have traveled it again the night he died. Stands of high cattails blocked my view. By the time I found a parking place in the Square, I was eight minutes late for my appointment with Chaney’s enemy and department chair, George Fording. I donned my jacket, smoothed my hair, and then dodged Rollerblading students over the cobblestone paths, wishing I’d worn sneakers and a fuller skirt. I had no trouble entering the building or making my way unchallenged to the third floor. The olive-skinned young man behind the desk in Fording’s outer office gravely informed me that Fording was also running behind schedule. It would be another five minutes, possibly more. I told the young man I’d be back, then retreated down a flight of stairs. I sat on a bench underneath a poster advertising an upcoming lecture in Askwith Hall. The subject: “Theory vs.
