by Dale Mayer
“What else would they be caused by?” he asked, with a wry smile. “I know people are idiots sometimes, but not everyone is all the time.”
She chuckled at that. “No, that’s very true, but, in this case, they’re all different people.”
He nodded. “Every time you hear of a new one, it just brings back the pain of the old ones.”
“It does, and that’s been a real hard cross for you to bear, I’m sure.”
“When you try to get a pattern like that changed, hoping to save lives, and you fail …” He shrugged. “Let’s just say a failure that’s once in a while is one thing, but a failure that you’re constantly reminded of? That’s a different thing entirely.”
“In this case,” she said gently, “it’s a different story.”
“How so?” He looked down at his cell phone, and she could see him checking the time.
“Actually, sir, she was murdered.”
He froze, his gaze widening, and he stared at her. “Good Lord, are you sure?”
“Yes, I am. The other accident at the same location, just days earlier, involving Sally Hardgens, it was also a murder.”
He leaned back in his chair, stunned. He shook his head. “No, no, no, that is not good news.” Then he straightened. “But it’s not on university property, so the negative impact should be minimal in terms of fallout for us.”
“I get that’s really your priority,” she said, with heavy emphasis on your, “but my priority is the victims.”
He had the grace to flush at that. “I’m not trying to be insensitive, Detective, but we do need to try to keep that conversation out of the media. Public confidence in keeping our students safe is paramount.”
“And yet, two have been murdered. And I don’t know, but there may have been many others over the years.”
At that, his expression changed to a frown, and he looked quite puzzled. “I don’t understand. Has there been any suggestion that—that the others were—that there were other murders I don’t know about?”
“Not confirmed. We’re looking at connecting a few scenarios that we thought were accidents that may not be.”
“It’s still very disturbing.” He put on a very fatherly concerned expression.
“It is, indeed, but do you have files on anybody who complained about other students’ behavior? Any accusations? Not just Brandon.”
“Brandon, yes.” Dr. Agress automatically looked at the file cabinet beside him. “He certainly has been a bit of a challenge. The RCMP opened a file on him after the last set of complaints.”
“I’m sure he has been problematic,” she said smoothly. “I understand he was removed from other universities before he came to you.”
“We don’t usually get the problem-child students. We’re considered a much better bet than that. But, every once in a while, when the parents have run out of any other options, they’ll come our way. Brandon’s brilliant, you know that, right?”
“That’s what he told me. That he doesn’t have to worry about exams, doesn’t have to study at all. Schoolwork is easy for him.”
“Yes, and that’s often a problem.” Dr. Agress sighed. “Students need to work and accomplish something. Otherwise life becomes boring, and they go looking for a challenge in other ways. That is exactly what’s happened to Brandon, and that’s not good news.”
“No, and he also has this group of other young people with him.”
“Yes. And guys, like Brandon, they tend to collect people he would consider beneath him, people who won’t challenge him in any way.”
“But that just perpetuates the same issue, doesn’t it?” She went on. “Still no challenge and completely bored, so he gets them into trouble with him.”
“Perhaps because it’s more fun that way because he can watch the downfall of their careers,” he said quietly.
“It really sounds like Brandon needs to talk with somebody about his life goals and his methods of handling the challenges of life.”
“Not all kids from rich families are useless, but all too often we get those who have had a far-too-easy pathway in life. In this case, because he’s already very smart—which is something that money didn’t buy him—but it goes right along with it.”
“Right, so, if he applied himself, he could really be a huge asset to the family and to the university—and to the world in fact—but why bother, since he’ll never have to work for a living anyway.”
He nodded slowly. “Exactly.”
“So, about that complaint file?”
He looked at his file cabinet again. “I know we’ve had a few,” he said cautiously. “I just can’t have any of this become public.”
“We are the police, and I am looking into multiple problems on this campus.”
“That’s what concerns me. If I were to let you have that information, what are the chances that it would get out into the public or that you’d be questioning people, after this was done in confidence?”
She responded, “Whenever people write letters complaining about others and hand them over, it’s not in confidence. I can get a warrant, but it would be much better if I didn’t have to.” She quietly studied him. “I get that you’re all about trying to be effective and about protecting privacy and the reputation of the university, but what about protecting everybody else? What about protecting the ones at risk, but who don’t even know about all these problems?”
“Let me go through them, and I’ll hand you any that appear to be possibly relevant.”
She winced at that. “The trouble with that is, something you think I should look at and my own interpretation are likely to be very different.”
“I still need to go through them first,” he said firmly. “I can’t just hand over this information blindly.”
“That’s fine. I want it by tomorrow close of business then, or do you want me to go through the RCMP and have them process this through official channels?” He stared at her, and she stared back. “It’s that important,” she said quietly. “We don’t want to lose any more students.”
He swallowed hard at that. “You’re serious? Is that a possibility?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m serious. I am concerned that there could be more deaths.”
He swore. “Fine.” He picked up the phone. “Noreen, please reschedule my afternoon. I’ve got some things I need to do here.” With that, he hung up, then, turning back to Kate, he said, “You can expect a call from me.”
“It’s an email I want, with attachments. Scan in the information and email it all to me by tomorrow at six p.m.” Then she stood, laying her card on his desk, and nodded to him. “Thank you very much.”
And she turned and walked out.
*
His day had been pretty decent. Simon appreciated a break from all his weird psychic symptoms. Today he had grabbed the tools of the trade and had worked on the roof of one of his buildings, with the rest of his rehab crew. Then he came down, nodded at the foreman, who looked at him with added respect, and headed home.
As he walked toward his penthouse, he heard the sound of a bicycle. He was now finally able to pinpoint what that weird background noise had been—the sound of somebody pedaling a bike—and he heard the faintest of whirs as the wheels turned. Even now he wasn’t sure why that’s what he’d been hearing, but it had gone on and on in his head, like somebody doing miles and miles. He felt the breathing, the hard breathing of somebody moving on a bike. Yet no sound of gravel or wheels on pavement. No slowing down or stops and starts. Yet maybe not someone on a bicycle outside. He frowned at that. It was just odd. So maybe it was a stationary bike? Then he realized it was likely her. “Hello?”
But he got no answer. What did he expect? It’s not like anybody was listening to him just because he was listening to them. That was always the trick, realizing when you heard somebody versus somebody who heard him. Still, he was walking and listening, and then he heard the hard breathing and the harder breathing yet again. And finally a heavy sigh, a
lmost a groan in his mind. And he knew how she felt. Whatever it was she was doing was really exhausting. He smiled, mentally gave her a high five. “Good job.”
Then more heavy breathing came, as if she were slowing, yet out of breath. She never talked—well, except for one word earlier. That was the thing he found odd. And, even now, he had no vision to go with the sounds, with her feelings. He had connected with her emotions, but he couldn’t see anything, just that shadowy world out there again. He struggled with that because, at least with the boy from the pedophile case, Simon could see something clearly.
With this, the longer he tried to peer into the darkness, the less he saw. It was frustrating as hell. He just kept sending her positive thoughts and happy affirmations. And finally she calmed down, drifted away. He wasn’t even sure that she knew what she was doing—projecting psychically—and suspected that she had no clue she was transmitting or that he was receiving.
The longer he was connected to her, the more he started to connect with her literally. He didn’t think that was terribly healthy, but, hey, it was what it was, so he had no choice but to take whatever he got and carry on. As soon as he returned to his apartment building, he walked inside, and, sure enough, there was Harry again. “Hey, how are you doing, Harry?”
“I’m good, but how are you? That was a hell of a run you had the other day.”
“Yep, like the devil was after me.” He gave Harry a big grin.
“Hey, I don’t—I don’t joke about the devil,” Harry said. “A little too scary for my liking.”
Simon chuckled at that. “Isn’t that the truth? Sometimes it makes you wonder if the devil isn’t in us.”
“I know it is,” Harry said. “I’ve seen some bad shit in my life, and trying to be a good person doesn’t always work out.”
“No, it doesn’t. And sometimes we have really shitty starts, and we spend the rest of our lives trying to earn forgiveness.”
At that, Harry looked at him in surprise. “We always tend to think of the people in this building as born with a silver spoon in their mouths and having perfect lives.”
“And you would be wrong,” Simon said quietly. “Some of us came from the bottom and worked our way up.”
“See? I knew I liked you for all the good reasons,” Harry said. “I’d much rather know a man who did that than somebody who stepped out of his daddy’s home into a fancy car his daddy bought for him to hang with the beautiful people, and everything else was just handed to him.”
“That’s definitely not my story.” Simon grinned and waved, as he headed to the elevator.
Harry called out, “By the way, the wife loved the wine. Thanks again.”
“You are welcome,” Simon called back. As he entered the elevator car alone, that weird sense of smell showed up again. He froze; then he realized it smelled like curry. As the door shut, he asked the mystery woman in his head, “Did you ride to get curry? You want to pick me up some?” he joked. “I didn’t bring any food home.”
He didn’t think he’d grocery-shopped at all this week. Then he remembered Kate had said she was still out of groceries too and probably still was. Hell, she always was. He pulled out his phone and typed a text message and sent it off. I’m home, about to have a shower, get changed, and then maybe go grocery shopping. Dinner?
He could only hope she’d say yes. But he also knew the current case she was working on was driving her a little bit bonkers. But he couldn’t imagine any case not doing that. She wasn’t the kind to sit back and to let the world go by; she wanted to do something and to make an effective change. He just wasn’t sure that was always possible in her line of work. Hell, in his line of work too. By the time he hopped into and out of the shower and got changed, he found a text message from Kate.
Pick me up. I need groceries too, and it’s a deal.
In response, he called her. “I’ll meet you outside your place, unless you are still at work. Or, if you’ve got any idea what you need, I’ll go shop for both of us.”
“Coffee for one thing.”
When she yawned, that made him happy that he had offered.
“Other than that, groceries. Something fast and easy to pick up and eat on the run.”
“One of these days, you’ll have to get real food.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with,” she said.
“I’ll see you in about an hour.” And he hung up.
He didn’t really give her a chance to back out. He also knew that, if he gave her an inch, she’d take a mile, and she’d probably find a way to avoid meeting him. And that was something he wasn’t prepared to let happen. There were so many good things about her that he couldn’t walk away from her. Hence the state of their relationship as it stood right now—her fighting it every step of the way, and him not giving an inch and ignoring all her efforts at sabotage.
One of these days she would say that he mattered. He wouldn’t wait for it, but he knew it would happen. He might have to wait a hell of a long time for it, but, if there was one thing he had, it was patience. At least where Kate was concerned.
Good things came to those who wait. And even better things came to those who made it happen. He’d be damned if he would let her walk away from this. One of these days she had to give in and had to realize just how important she was to him.
And how important he was to her.
Chapter 17
When Kate got home, exhausted after her workout, Simon stood in front of her apartment, juggling multiple bags, as he tried to open the door.
“I’ll get that.” She walked rapidly toward him.
“Good.” He held up a bobby pin. “I was about to unlock the door and let myself in.”
“Not a good idea. We detectives have words for that.”
“We haven’t discussed exchanging keys.” He put added emphasis on the last two words. She completely ignored it because that was the last thing she was ready to talk about. If she gave him access to her place, he would want to give her access to his, and his place was beautiful and made her feel so uncomfortable.
As she opened the door and let him into her cramped one-bedroom apartment, she scooped up a couple bags of food from the floor and brought them in with her. With all the groceries now sitting on top of the kitchen counter, she looked at it in wonder. “I didn’t mean for you to buy out the store. I meant just a few things.”
“Yeah, well, just a few things ended up being more than just a few. And every time we’re here, we don’t have any food to eat.”
“I know. It’s a fact of life, isn’t it?”
“Short of having a chef who delivers or living on a property where we have somebody cook our meals, we are responsible for putting food on the table.”
“I guess we could do takeout every night.” She tilted her head, gave him a one-arm shrug. “Lord knows, sometimes I can go weeks and weeks that way.”
“Not the healthiest of diets,” he noted in admonishment.
“No, and you’re also used to having whatever you want. I’m just not in that league.”
“You might not be, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of doing more than you are.”
She snorted. “Go ahead and criticize me,” she snapped, “and see how much food you’ll get.”
He shrugged. “I brought pretty-easy-to-fix stuff. If nothing else, I’ll slap together a sandwich. Go have a shower and an attitude change, and, when you’re done, you’ll probably feel better.”
Glaring, she stomped off to the bathroom, muttering, “Who needs an attitude change?”
She did, clearly, but she wasn’t about to acknowledge that. She quickly stripped down, stepped into the hot water, and stood here for a long moment, trying to figure out why she was so cranky, tired, and irritable. Well, from the looks of it, he had just spent hundreds of dollars on groceries, so now she felt beholden to him. If she tried to pay him, he’d be insulted, but she would give it a good shot anyway. She had asked him to pick up a few things, although he had p
icked up way-the-hell more than a few.
And yet he had also done it out of kindness, plus the fact that he too wanted to eat, which had turned her back around to being cranky.
When she stepped out of the shower, she quickly toweled off her hair, then ran a comb through it. Walking back into her bedroom, the towel wrapped around her chest, she found some clothes. Just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Dressed again, she padded out to the kitchen in bare feet to find that he had already put away most of the groceries.
“How much do I owe you for today’s haul?” she asked in a crisp voice.
“Nothing.”
Exactly what she had expected him to say, yet it didn’t make her feel any better. “I’m happy to pay for the groceries. You know that.”
He waved a hand. “And I’m happy to bring some groceries and have a meal with you. If I were to go to a high-end restaurant, it would take a couple hundred dollars to do a couple meals. This way, we’ve got lots of meals here.”
“Are you cooking then?” she teased, something about his words hitting her funny bone.
“I can cook”—he turned to look at her—“in case you didn’t think I could.”
She shrugged. “I can cook too. That doesn’t mean I make a big fancy meal out of it though.”
“I don’t do five-star-restaurant stuff by any means, but I can throw a steak on the barbecue, steam some vegetables, and make a salad.”
Her stomach growled at the mention of food.
Hearing that, he laughed. “The trouble is, you don’t even have a barbecue, do you?”
She shook her head. “The best I have to offer is a cast-iron skillet.”
He frowned and considered the idea. “You know what? A cast-iron skillet does a hell of a job on a steak.” He rummaged around in her cupboards, while she put on coffee, and, when she turned around, he had pulled out a large cast-iron pan, looking at it approvingly.
“Don’t know where you got this, but it’s exactly what we’ll use.” He put it on the burner, while he unwrapped steaks.
Those, to her, looked like they probably cost thirty dollars apiece. “Those are very expensive-looking steaks.”