"Thank you for that. Would it be possible for us to access it?"

"Mm," he says. "We'd have to be assured that this is in fact your safe deposit box..."

"My understanding is that it belonged to Mr. Douglas Henslowe, who entrusted its contents to Mr. Winston. If it would help, we could put you in contact with Mr. Henslowe, or with Mrs. Winston-Rogers."

"We do have the key, and are accessing it with Mr. Henslowe's permission and on behalf of the Winston estate?"

Mr. Burlington is very busy and the First Bank of Long Beach is #252 on a very very very long to-do list. He could help them, which is fast, or he could throw them out, which is even faster.

"Mm," he says noncommittally. 

>.< 

"If you could tell us what documentation we need, we can return later with it."

"Some form of proof of ownership," he says.

No one in LA ever does their job!

"Isn't the point of the key that it only works if it's the right one? Shouldn't the key and letter constitute such proof as is?"

"We do have the key with us." She proffers the key. "I can provide documentation of our employment by the Winston estate, and that letter you saw documents that Mr. Henslowe provided the key to Mr. Winston for him to access the box. If you need more proof of ownership, we could get it, but it might take a while." She smiles at him with her best winning smile. "It would really be a tremendous help if you could let us just try the key. We've had a very hard time tracking this down, and if you could be kind enough to give us a chance, we'd really appreciate it. We want nothing but to get what we came here and get out of your hair."

"All right," he says. "I'll arrange to have the safe deposit box sent to the offices tomorrow, to save you the trip. It's very far away."

"Thank you so very much! What time tomorrow should we return?"

"9am. Let's get it taken care of. I'm sure you girls are glad you don't have to go all the way to Long Beach."

Nervous laughter. "Yes, going all that way sure would be a trouble."

Meanwhile-- 

UCLA has a beautiful campus full of neoclassical buildings. Everywhere they turn it seems like there’s another beautiful person, tall and tan and well dressed.

Anemone heads to the front desk and ask where she'd go to talk to the anthropology department faculty. The secretary hands her the university directory. A George Ayers, professor of anthropology, has offices at 213 Dodd Hall.
 
 
 
 

Oh good.

When they knock on the door, a man with dark brown hair opens the door and says crossly, "Office hours are Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I'm working on my book."

"I'm not a student. I'm investigating the death of a Ramon Echavarria, some ten years ago."

"Well, I don't know anything about that. Never met a Ramon Echavarria."

"Have you met a Lev Aarons?"

"Uh, no? I'm sorry to be so unhelpful with your murder investigations but I am an anthropologist."

Hm. He's about a decade too young to be Lev's dissertation advisor.

"Lev Aarons was an anthropology graduate student here a little over ten years ago. He reported that a George Avery was his thesis advisor. Is there someone else here who was around then who might remember who he was and what happened?"

"Ayers."

"Right, Ayers. Couldn't remember exactly."

"Oh, George Ayers," he says. "That explains why you're bothering me. This is his office. I'm Dr. Roman."