Murder 101 Part 3

Max looked at me and stuck her finger down her throat in mock disgust. I was a terrible liar, and she knew it; fortunately, Diane couldn't see my face turn scarlet as I concocted this untruth.

"Wow, that's really nice of you, Alison. I don't think any of the professors here would be so considerate," she said, making me feel even worse. "Yes, any soph.o.m.ore who is a resident will be in that hall. Males are on one and two and females are on four, five, and six. A group of displaced juniors are on three." She paused for a moment. "I can look up the names of the soph.o.m.ores you need if you want to save some time."

I hesitated a moment. I didn't have any Joliet soph.o.m.ores in my creative writing cla.s.s, so I would have to come up with other names besides Vince's on the spot. But getting his room number would save a lot of time in the long run. "Well," I said, "I've got Vince Paccione . . ."

I heard her punch some keys on her computer keyboard. "One twelve." She paused for a moment. "Didn't he date that poor girl from St. Thomas who was murdered?"

I noisily rifled through some papers on my desk, ignoring her question. "And . . ." I called out to an imaginary student at my door. "Be right there!" I returned to Diane. "Oh, Diane, I've got a student. Gotta run. I'll find the others when I get there. Thanks so much for your help!" She was still talking as I hung up the phone.

Max looked at me. "That was pathetic."

"Thanks." I stood up. "So what now?"

"Now, we break in."

We left my office through the back door and went to Max's car, which was parked in the lot at Regis Hall, right behind my building. I had no idea how we were going to get into Vince's room, but I was determined to find something that would either implicate Vince or exonerate me. Max drove down the avenue, cutting through the posh neighborhood that separated the two campuses. She drove to the back of La Salle Hall and parked her car next to a Dumpster, illegally.

We got out of the car, and she hit the b.u.t.ton on the key tag that chirped, flashed the lights, and locked the doors, all at the same time. Max stared at the back of the building. "One twelve, right?" she asked.

I nodded. We walked up and looked in the window closest to us. Each room had two sets of double-hung windows that faced the back parking lot. Max said that she had dated a guy in La Salle when we were in school and his room was the first one to the right-102. She counted down the windows until she pointed at what she thought was one twelve.

"How did you remember that?" I asked.

"I climbed in and out of that window a hundred times." She stood with her hand on her hip. "Back in the day, they didn't allow visitation after nine. Remember?"

I didn't. I didn't date a lot in college, and the guys that I did date always dropped me off before visitation ended. Rule-following nerds seek out other rule-following nerds; it's one of life's sure bets. Too bad I hadn't stuck to that in choosing a husband.

"Go inside and wait for me." I didn't move fast enough for her. "Go!" she said, and pointed to the door.

I was getting cold feet. I stood rooted to the pavement until she gave me a push. I went in through the back door and looked down the hallway, first to the right and then to the left. I didn't see anyone, so I made a left and tiptoed in my heels down the hallway. I stopped in front of 112 and waited. I didn't know what Max had in mind, but I did as I was told.

The hallway had the smell of stale beer, Doritos, and feet. I stared at the cinder-block wall in front of me and prayed that n.o.body would come down the hallway. I was so paralyzed by fear that I didn't even have the ability to produce sweat.

I heard Max's entrance. She came through the back window, rolled over onto something, cursed like a sailor, and landed on the floor. A few seconds later, she opened the door. She studied the bulletin board to my left. "Hey, Rufus Wainright is playing here next Sat.u.r.day," she said. "Do you want to go?"

I looked around nervously, and hissed, "Focus!"

"Get in here," she said, and grabbed me by the collar, dragging me into the room.

Vince's room, like every room in this dorm, was a double. Beds were on opposite walls, with built-in shelves above them. At the top end of each bed was a desk pushed against each wall and to the side of each window. The screen of the left window was open: Max's mode of entry. At the bottom of each bed was a closet. Max looked at me, and mouthed, "Vince?" as she pointed to the bed on the left. The bed was covered with a chenille bedspread and had two pillows.

I shrugged and went to the desk. A day planner lay open and I turned to the first page. Vince had scrawled his name in the front of it, along with his Staten Island address. I looked over at Max and nodded. I flipped to the day when my car was stolen, but Vince didn't have any entries for that day or any of the days that followed. Unfortunately, it didn't say anything like "kill Kathy, steal professor's car," or anything to that effect. Either Vince didn't see the advantages of using a planner, or he led a very empty life. Or both.

Max picked up Vince's mattress and looked underneath it. "See anything?" I asked.

She dropped the mattress and shook her head. She went into the closet, burrowing in like a pack rat. I could see her rear end and feet and nothing else. She tossed the closet in no time flat and came out. "Nothing."

I looked at the articles on the desk: a picture of Vince's family, his books, a bong, and his car keys. Not a thing that would link him to the murder or let me off the hook. I opened the top drawer gingerly and found a mess of papers, pens, pencils, and other detritus, but again, nothing incriminating.

I heard voices in the hall. I froze in place and looked at her, wild-eyed. She was by the closet, standing still and holding her breath. We stood looking at each other until the voices got softer and whoever it was moved down the hall.

"Let's go!" I whispered as loudly as I could. I was definitely going to confession-or jail-when this escapade was over.

She looked at me and pointed at the window. I jumped up onto Vince's desk and threw myself out the window and onto the pavement, rolling a few inches, ripping a huge hole in my panty hose, and sc.r.a.ping the h.e.l.l out of my s.h.i.+n. Max, better prepared for the break-in than I, in black pants and black-cotton turtleneck, hoisted herself out and perched on the sill. She put both hands on either side of her feet, deftly jumped onto the pavement like a gymnast, not a hair out of place, and landed flat on her feet, high heels and all. She pulled the screen down, and we made a run for the car.

We got in and looked around. There was n.o.body in the back parking lot or coming down the path from the gym. When we got in the car, I smacked Max's arm. "I can't believe I let you talk me into that!" I muttered through clenched teeth.

"Oh, calm down," she said, and started the car. "n.o.body saw us." She pulled a wide U-turn in the parking lot and headed off the campus.

"Not that we know of," I said, looking out the window. I pulled a hand across my sweaty forehead. "Jesus."

"Yes, Jesus saw us," she said in a patronizing tone, and made a left.

I started to reply but couldn't come up with an appropriate response and gave up. I breathed deeply and put my head on the headrest. "Nothing there," I said, disappointed. "Max, what am I going to do?" I asked, feeling tears well up in my eyes again.

She shrugged. "Don't know." She started the car. "Hey, you want to get some wings and a pitcher at Maloney's?" she asked.

I looked at her, incredulous. With Max, there's always time for food. When we were in college, Maloney's was our place of choice-two dozen wings and a pitcher of draft beer for $3.50 on a Friday afternoon. I still visited Maloney's occasionally with Father Kevin. After fifteen years, the price of a pitcher and a dozen wings had gone up to $6.50.

I was kind of hungry. "Sure."

She pointed the car toward Broadway and found a parking spot a few doors north of the bar. She eased the car into a very tight spot, parallel parking like a pro. The el rumbled above us as a train headed away from this final destination in the Bronx toward Manhattan. We got out and headed south on Broadway to the bar.

It was just after lunchtime, and the bar was empty, except for the ancient bartender, Sully, and one older man at the end. They were discussing the ever-controversial topic of the designated hitter. The bar was dark, dank, and smelly, but comfortably familiar. Sully looked up when he saw me; he had been bartending at Maloney's since Max and I were in school. "Hey, Doc," he said, wiping the bar down with a dingy, yellowed rag that was probably dirtier than the bar he was cleaning.

"Hi, Sully," I said, and went over to the bar. I leaned in and gave him a kiss. "How's things?" I asked. "Do you remember Max?"

He looked at her. "Sure, I do. Max Barfly?" he asked, breaking into a toothy grin. He had given her that nickname in our freshman year and it stuck.

She snickered. "That's me."

"The kids don't drink kamikazes anymore," he said, sadly. Max had been the kamikaze shot queen for three years running; a bout with mono in senior year forced her to give up her crown. He balled the rag up and threw it into the sink behind the bar. "What can I get you ladies?"

"Two dozen and a pitcher," Max said. She turned to me. "What do you want?" She laughed; this was something I had heard a hundred times while we were in school. "Just kidding."

I led her to one of the wooden booths across from the bar. I sat and stuck my right leg out to the side to examine the damage from my roll on the pavement; my stockings were torn, and I had a nice b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.pe on my s.h.i.+n. "I didn't stick my landing like you did," I explained as I got up to go the bathroom and wash up in the dark, dank, and smelly bathroom (Maloney's had found a decorating motif and was sticking to it). I pulled off my panty hose, stepping out of one shoe and then the other as I extricated myself from my hose. I didn't want to put even one bare toe on the bathroom floor; I had been to this bar enough times to know what went on in the bathroom and how infrequently the floor was mopped (never). I tossed my stockings into the garbage can and took some paper towels from the dispenser, wet them, and pressed them against the sc.r.a.pe on my leg, sopping up as much of the blood as possible and trying to get the area relatively clean. I ran the water in the sink and washed my face. When I was done, I emerged, cleaner and a little calmer than when I had entered.

Max was hunched over a big plate of wings when I returned and a pitcher of beer sat in front of her. She had poured each of us some beer into the plastic cups that Sully provided. Her mouth was ringed in orange wing sauce, and she had her sleeves rolled up almost to her shoulders. She took a swig of beer and left an orange imprint around the side of the cup. "So good," she murmured, as she tossed some bones onto the wing platter.

"Nice," I said, and picked up her bones with a napkin, creating a new burial ground for her discards. "Don't you remember anything? You don't mix old bones with new wings."

I picked up a wing and nibbled at it, not having as much of an appet.i.te as I originally thought. I put the wing down and pushed my beer away. I'm not a big beer drinker; when Father Kevin and I come for wings, Sully always makes me an Absolut martini from a private vodka stash that he keeps in a locked cabinet under the bar. "So what do you think I should do now?" I asked her.

She picked up a napkin and wiped her hands as much as she could; the paper ripped off and stuck to her fingers. "Keep thinking. I think the fact that your car was involved in this was random. But maybe not. Why would someone steal your car?" she asked.

"Because they could?"

"Probably." She drank her beer and refilled her gla.s.s from the pitcher. "s.h.i.+tty cars are easy to steal," she said, looking at me for my reaction, which was to reach over the table and playfully smack her cheek. "I'm kidding!" She returned to the wings, pointing one at me as she spoke. "I hope the police figure this out, because I certainly can't. And I'm pretty good at this stuff."

I didn't know what made her "good at this stuff," but I didn't argue. We ate and drank in silence, Max polis.h.i.+ng off twenty wings to my four. She drank the rest of the pitcher and proudly belched. "Let me wash up before I go back to work," she said.

While she was gone, I cleaned up the table, putting the chicken bones and discarded napkins onto the platter. My mind was racing with the thought that I was actually a suspect in a murder case and that I had just broken into someone's dorm room. But I had to figure out a way to show the police that I didn't have anything to do with this. Waiting around and hoping that they would come to that conclusion on their own wasn't enough for me.

Max came out of the bathroom, clean, full, and ready to go. She picked up her purse from the bench of the booth and riffled around in her wallet. She pulled out two twenties and tossed them on the table. "Thanks, Sully," she said. Sully was deep in conversation with the man at the end of the bar, the two still on opposite sides of the designated hitter debate. He gave us a quick wave as we departed.

Outside in the street, squinting at the glare, it took me a few minutes to make out the shape of Detective Crawford leaning nonchalantly against Max's car, his arms crossed and his eyes focused on something north up Broadway. I threw an elbow into Max's side, and, as her eyes adjusted, she stiffened.

Crawford turned and looked at us. "Ladies."

"It's Detective Hot Pants," Max muttered under her breath, and froze on the spot. I knew what she was thinking: we were in big-a.s.s trouble. I struggled to stay calm as I mentally considered myself in handcuffs and leg irons. Crawford eased himself off the car and ambled toward us, stopping just a few feet from where we stood.

We stood like statues for a few more seconds before Max said, "Gotta go," and went into a full sprint down the street, her legs pumping in her high heels. I was starting to think she could do just about anything in stilettos. She pulled her car keys out of her pocketbook as she was running and got into the driver's side of the car. She was out of the parking s.p.a.ce almost before Crawford realized what she was doing; he turned and watched her maneuver out of the spot and speed down Broadway, through a yellow light, and out of sight.

I stood there, under the el, listening to the trains come and go, weighing my options. Turn around and go the other way? Go back into Maloney's? Hail a gypsy cab? Die right on the spot? There was too much to choose from and not enough time to make a decision.

Crawford was in front of me before I could do anything. He smiled slightly: "good" cop in a bad mood. "h.e.l.lo, Dr. Bergeron. Long time, no see."

"Detective." I didn't think a neon sign with the words "I'm guilty" was flas.h.i.+ng from my forehead, but it was pretty d.a.m.n close. I tried to hold his gaze but cast my eyes down.

"What are you doing over here?" he asked.

I held up my fingers, which were still slightly orange from the wings, despite my best efforts with the Handi Wipes. "Eating wings," I said.

"They don't have wings up by you?" he asked, "up by you" implying that my school was so far away from Joliet. Twenty city blocks equals a mile.

I shook my head. "Not like Maloney's."

"Should I try them?" he asked.

"If you like wings, then yes." I looked around. "Where's Detective Wyatt?"

"He went to the cemetery," he said. He pulled on his tie. In my heels, we were closer in height, but he still had a good four inches on me. I had ice in my veins as it dawned on me that he had probably followed us and seen us break into Vince's dorm room. I imagined their conversation, Wyatt saying, "I'm going to the cemetery. You stick to the professor like glue." And Crawford responding, "I'll see if she does anything hinky." Or something like that. That's the way cops talk on TV.

"Anything you want to tell me?" he asked. He stared down at me, his green eyes boring into mine. This guy was good; I was about to wet my pants.

I shook my head; I guess he wanted to know about the "hinky" stuff, but I wasn't prepared to share. "I don't think so," I said.

The el rumbled above us and he looked up. "Can I give you a tip, Dr. Bergeron?"

I looked down at my shoes. "Put a five on Long Legs in the fifth at Yonkers Raceway?"

He didn't smile at what I thought was a pretty funny joke. "Breaking and entering carries a minimum five- to ten-year jail sentence, and that's if nothing was taken. And the definition of breaking and entering includes lifting up screens and going into dorm rooms." His face turned hard. "Don't ever do anything like that again."

Tears sprang to my eyes, but I kept silent.

He took me by the elbow. "Now, where is it you'd like to go?" he asked, steering me toward his brown Crown Victoria sedan, which was parked right behind the s.p.a.ce where Max's car had been.

I managed to get out, "Train station." I waited for him to push my head down into the car like I had seen the cops do to "perps" on TV, but he just opened the door and waited for me to get in. I looked out the window and clutched my purse to my stomach. If there was a cranky cop smell, this car had it. He got into the driver's side and sighed, saying, "Put your seat belt on," rather crankily. Now I knew where the smell came from.

He refused to pull away from the curb until I did so, so I obliged. We drove to the train station in silence, me looking out the window and blinking back tears and him breathing heavily in exasperation. When we arrived at the station, he pulled the car over and threw it into PARK. He turned to me, his face and tone softer. "Please stop crying," he said, and pulled a clean, folded handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his blazer.

I took it and blew my nose, then tried to hand it back to him. "I don't want it back," he said, giving me a slight smile.

"Thanks," I said, and put it into my purse.

He leaned down and looked at my leg. "Make sure you put some antiseptic on that when you get home. And keep it covered."

"Thanks," I said again.

He put his left arm over the steering wheel and turned his body to face me. "Listen. If you think we should be exploring any other angles, just call me and talk to me about it. Don't take matters into your own hands."

I nodded.

"Don't you think it occurred to us to look at Vince as a suspect? And at his dorm room? We've been all over that place," he said.

"So, why does he still have a bong in there?" I asked, regretting asking that as soon as it was out of my mouth.

He chuckled. "Must be a replacement bong. All the other stuff was bagged as evidence."

I cried some more.

"Would you please stop crying?" he asked again, running his hand over his face. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you." I undid the seat belt. "Thanks for the ride." I got out of the car and tiptoed across the gravel parking lot to the platform, not looking back. I sat on a bench facing the river and cried some more, using his handkerchief to blow my nose again and wipe my eyes. The train arrived five minutes later; I stood and waited for it to stop, turning around to look back at the parking lot.

Crawford was still there, in the car, watching me as I got on the train.

Six.

I woke up at six-thirty the next morning to the sound of a car idling in front of my house. I got up and looked out the window, but didn't see anyone. At that point, I was fully awake, so despite the early hour, I decided to stay up.

After a quick shower, I got dressed and went downstairs to make coffee. I opened the refrigerator to find that not only did I not have any coffee but also that the milk in the container was ten days past its sell-by date and now a solid rather than a liquid. Plan B was put into effect as I left the house and began my walk into the village to Starbucks.

I was still upset about the events of the previous day-especially the scolding from Crawford. Nothing like a good dorm break-in to make you seem really guilty.

I was also upset that I seemed to be falling apart. I had always thought of myself as a relatively strong person: I had weathered the deaths of both my parents before I was thirty, endured a marriage to a man who humiliated me with his actions at least once a year, put myself through graduate school while working full-time, and gotten a doctorate in the shortest amount of time possible. Now, I was involved in something totally out of my realm of experience, and the thought of it made me sick and more than a little crazed.

The weather was beautiful: bright, sunny, and clear, and in direct contrast to my mood: dark, cloudy, and complicated. I was furious at Max for leaving me on Broadway, and I was mad at myself for allowing her to convince me to do something I knew wasn't right. Kathy's death also weighed heavily on my mind. Parents sent their children to our school thinking they would be safe: a Catholic inst.i.tution, a long tradition of graduating strong, independent women (and a few men), and a peaceful setting all contributed to a feeling of safety and well-being. An occasional stolen car was all we normally had to deal with. Now, we had murder to add to the list of things people thought about when they conjured up St. Thomas.

I made a left and headed up the hill in the village to Starbucks. At a little after seven in the morning on a Sat.u.r.day, it was open, but not crowded. I went up to the counter and ordered a grande French roast-black, no sugar-and a banana m.u.f.fin. I paid and took a seat at a small round table near the back of the cafe.

I could feel myself coming dangerously close to sliding under a wave of self-pity as I watched couples come and go in the coffee shop. It also occurred to me as I sat there that probably none of the patrons were murder suspects. So, there I was, a divorced, earless murder suspect, eating alone in Starbucks. It doesn't get much sadder than that. Unless you're a nineteen-year-old dead girl in a Volvo casket, I reminded myself.