Malik found his pants balled under the bed between empty bottles of beer and empty packets of Chinese noodles. The dorm room was a mess, a testament of last night's drunken romp when Malik had hit the jackpot. It was a pleasant turn of events to find someone looking for a fuck without useless sentiments. They'd chatted after class then the guy invited Malik over.

The one night stand, a blonde psychology freshman, was snoring. This was how Malik's romantic life was going to be. He will settle with a bore like Liz, and his insatiable appetites will be met in dank bars. His desire for a partner that would understand him and appease his parents, lost between hotel sheets.

Malik shook his head to clear it and slipped out, leaving the one night stand undisturbed.

Though not the scholarly type, he headed for the college library. The WiFi back at his place wasn't installed yet, plus the library was free.

Malik jacked up his phone to upload a video to his channel. It was a brief overview of college life, tips on settling in and there was a giveaway for a protein-shaker for the new viewer milestone.

Then Malik set to work, typing two words to see what would come up in the search engine.

Noah Davis.

Hundreds of profiles came up. The most popular was a deceased American painter and installation artist who died at the age of thirty-two. Unless Noah was using a miracle aging cream, Malik doubted this was his man. A further search proved there was no social media presence.

A click on the College site and Malik found the staff announcements. It was a long shot so when he didn't find one welcoming the campus' youngest janitor, he considered taking out the big guns.

The librarian, a stuffy man in a faux tweed jacket, was buried behind shelves, stacking them in an order he understood and caused him to regard students who were not able to find reference books, imbeciles.

Malik stooped under the chair, his muscular legs semi trapped under the computer table. He launched the app on his phone and several pop-up windows came up. They offered him the required passwords which he copied and pasted with ease. He was in the College server in seconds.

Rami you're a genius.

Were a genius...

Employee files contained academic transcripts and personal information of Professors, assistants, administration, and some managers. The cleaning staff had not been fully updated. Malik, however, caught a Noah C. Davis on the payroll. He frowned at the paycheck for a moment. Malik would rather strip at a club if cleaning shit paid like... well shit. He'd enjoy the job more too.

Damn it. All this fancy-ass tech and he got an extra "C". Should he try for another run on social media?

He could hit up his address and ask his neighbors questions.

Yeah, Malik thought, because they'd be rad about a wannabe detective punk snooping around.

Rami had been the real rebel. He'd developed a user-friendly hacker app for people like Malik. If he were here, he'd have had something on this guy. While Malik understood Noah's anxiety issues, he didn't understand how someone could slit their throat out in the open. In a fucking park. Was he a schizo? An insane brat who made things up as he went?

A week has passed since the reveal of "drugs''. They were to meet again at Windsor. Perhaps Malik can flat out ask him questions?

Are you a nut?

Are you a drug dealer? An addict?

Malik remembered the fiery anger he'd felt about being duped. He was certain he'd fly off the handle the second he'd seen 'Jude'. Instead, he'd bought him a fucking milkshake.

Why do you have an effect on me?

Suppose he could go snoop at the temple?

Malik didn't think Noah would spill his beans to the people there but he didn't know what else to do. He walked out of the library, erased traces of his cyber invasion, and revved up the engine to his Jetta.

He cruised the streets. Sundays had been reserved for church and while Malik skipped it in Mid City, he never slept in. If only his pious mother could see him now; off to a Sikh temple. Her son was not just a sexual deviant but a godless sexual deviant.

He followed the right procedure. Standing in line and taking off his shoes before stepping on the holy ground. There was no free feast this day. He asked for some of the volunteers. A guy in an impressive turban and thick black beard knew Jude. Sadly he told Malik what he already knew. Jude was reserved, spoke when spoken to. He often ate at the temple at least twice a month.

Malik thanked the man and set off to his apartment. A wrong turn took him to the swanky side of downtown. The shops did nothing to pique his interest, a modern art gallery however, lit up light bulbs in his mind.

It was the same gallery Noah had regarded with interest on the day he met. It was another long shot yet every thread could be a lead.

Contrary to the temple there were no lines. The ticket box was automated. Malik punched in the choices for the hour visit. The machine hummed as it accepted his credit card. It printed a laminated white ticket with a code which he swiped against the gallery's entrance.

Malik stepped into the vast room. He squared his shoulders sashaying on the parquet floor. There were signs highlighting the different rooms and the art is exhibited. Modern Art, Inspired by Old Masters and Special Exhibitions.

He should've surfed the internet. The hung paintings were a language Malik didn't understand. Failed bodies, colors bleeding onto one another, none of them made any sense. He waltzed from the Modern section into the Inspired by Old Master. If he thought the art couldn't get worse; it did. A couple of students were sketching rotting fruit or gazing lovingly at portraits of plump saints.

Malik trudged to the second story. There was a sign with the exhibition opening. The sign included the name and a picture of the featured artist.

She was a bird of a woman in her early to mid-thirties. Pale skin against hair as dark as coal. He startling blue eyes were solemn, posing for the camera.

In italics her artist bio was displayed:

Patricia Davis is an American painter, sculptor, and printmaker.

In the Tale of Shapes, Patricia –who has helped redefine contemporary painting, pushing the medium into drawing – has created a collection inspired by matter. The Tale of Shapes is Davis' highly personal exploration of shape and the ever-shifting boundaries of modern art.

"A fan?"

It was the girl drawing fruit from the Master-whatever section.

"Sure," Malik said," you like her?"

The girl nodded. "Yeah. She's great. Her sculptures remind me a little of Giacometti's."

"Uh-huh," Malik pretended to know who this was. "Reminds me of Noah," he accidentally said out loud.

"How so? I find her style very different from his."

Malik arched an eyebrow at her. "Come again?"

"Noah Davis." The girl said, "his style is different."

"You know Noah?"

The girl bobbed her head," Yeah. I'm majoring in art. Davis was a revolutionary artist."

Say what?

"The way he rebelled against using photographic images in a formulaic way," the girl said.

"He rebelled against those. Yeah.'

He knew Noah scribbled in his sketchbook but the girl must have been refereing to artist on Google.

"Are you an art student too?"

"Nah," Malik said and felt his phone vibrate.

A text from an unsaved number on his home screen said: I miss you.

"I gotta go.' He said to the art student. He jogged out of the useless gallery.

He must've been wasted to give his number to blondie. From experience, if he tapped the same ass twice, it turned sour.

Malik's phone continued to buzz with notifications. He groaned as he slid behind the wheel. He expected the flood of messages to be from blondie. A closer inspection however proved him wrong. The messages came from the economics students' Whatsapp group. There had been an assault last night. There were fist marks in the walls of a dorm and a girl had been taken to the hospital. Throughout the hundreds of messages, one of them stood out.

The guy doesn't go here. He had this cool tattoo.

Malik grinned. The chase was on.