I ignored that. “Why do you think Francois won’t betray you?”

“Francois follows, he doesn’t care about the direction. He also likes girls of a certain age, fourteen, fifteen. When we were in college he got carried away. She was small and he did damage. I gave Francois an ironclad alibi. We were in the library all night studying. That favor gives Francois the courage to take certain risks. I feed him the information. What teachers desperately need money. Which parents aren’t very attentive. He channels that information to the right people.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, easier said than done. He makes what I call the dark connections. He finds a Joey. Then Joey du jour finds a photographer who will take the pictures. A printer who will print them. The connections to sell these things. I work in the light. A teacher who can be corrupted. Selecting the children that are most useful to us.”

“Useful children. You make it sound like a commodity.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Micky. These aren’t the A students from the nice families. They’re yelled at or ignored at home. At best, they’ll grow into shallow, boring lives, finding some tubby husband to fix greasy food for. Or they end up on drugs, jail, welfare. No National Merit Scholars here.”

“How omniscient of you. You pick the worthless ones, get some use out of them, then throw them back on the trash heap. Like Cissy. Was she worthless?” I shot at him.

“She might be okay. But her father did dump her.”

“So you make mistakes. Mix in a few good children with your ‘trash’ kids,” I retorted savagely. At ten, I would have been one of the children he labeled trash.

“You really are after justice,” he sneered.

“Why the line from Marlowe?”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.” He reached into his desk drawer and took out a gun. “And the horses of the night are gone for you. You’ve been fun and challenging, Micky. But I wouldn’t be chatting like this if I thought you would be around to betray me.” Kessler picked up his trench coat, draping it over his gun hand for concealment. “Time to go,” he said.

“Warren, you’ve done such a good job of being bright and innovative, it’s a shame to see you descend to the cliché of the gun hidden under the trench coat.”

“I thought you were dead, so I’m improvising. Let’s go.”

“And if I don’t? Are you going to shoot me here in your office?”

“If I have to,” he said calmly. “You’ll be dead and I’ll claim you attacked me. Case closed. And if not, who’ll believe a dyke detective over an upstanding principal?”

The first morning bell rang, signaling that classes would begin soon.

“Shouldn’t we wait until the kids clear?” I suggested.

“No. Ms. Justice won’t try anything with children swarming about. Let’s go.”

“Why the boat?” I pushed. “Why bother with the real thing? That was a lot of work to hire Quince and his crew.”

“It was a tidy end. Joey was dead. You were supposed to be killed by Quince. He would have arrived in port with your dead body and six kidnapped kids. And wild stories about someone paying him for it all. I only put a little money up front, so it didn’t cost much. It was my grand finale. But not one that would ever be traced to me.”

“What an evil mastermind you are,” I said sarcastically.

“Now, get going,” he ordered.

I shrugged and headed for the door. It would be hard, but not impossible for Kessler to gun me down here. It would raise a lot of questions that wouldn’t be comfortable for him, but he might get away with it. Far better to take me somewhere remote and dump my body there. I wished I’d been a little more explicit in my note to Cordelia.

“That story you told me? Was any of it true?”

“About being molested? I read that in a book.” He opened the door and motioned me to go in front of him.

Several secretaries were about, but he hurried me past them into the hall. The kids were making their way to class, lockers were clanging, with the children talking above their din. I couldn’t try anything in this crowded hallway.

“Colombé knows about Francois,” I said. I wanted Kessler rattled and distracted by the time we got out of the building.

“Just walk. Don’t talk.”

“How poetic. The rhyming murderer.”

“Don’t talk.” He nudged me in the ribs with his gun.