A GW police cruiser, lights flashing, showed up a minute later. To their credit, while it seemed like an hour since I'd called from the road, in reality it couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen minutes. Lousy response time for a MPDC unit, but if they were triple-booked like the switchboard said, not too shabby. Two cops got out of the cruiser, a man and a woman. They looked wary and ready. I let them get a good look at me and my hands and waited for them to approach me.
"Detective Singer? I'm Officer Hatcher," the female cop said. She was about five-eight and wide as a truck's front bumper. She had a full-moon face that squeezed her eyes almost to a squint. Her hands hovered near her belt, ready to go for baton, spray, or gun as necessary.
"I'm Singer," I said. "I've already been inside. There's no sign of anyone, but I've got a hunch that Ms. Lane is holed up between floors in one of the elevators."
The two exchanged a look. Uh oh, I thought. I knew that look. I'd used it myself.
"Can I see your badge, Detective?" the male cop asked. He was black, thin but athletic, slightly balding, late thirties. His nameplate said "E. Robinson."
I shook my head. "No badge, sorry. I came straight from home when Ms. Lane called me."
"ID?"
"Sure," I said. "But would you mind if we get the poor girl out of the elevator first? Or maybe see if she's not alone in there?"
That last part seemed to spark a fire. Robinson went in and headed for the elevators. Hatcher arranged it so she could watch her partner while also staying square to me from fifteen feet away, with her hand resting on the butt of her gun. It was good technique and I said so. She wasn't impressed with my observation.
The cruiser's flashing lights were attracting attention and people stopped to gawk. Something about my stance and Hatcher's body language looked like a take-down in progress, so bystanders were now gathering on the sidewalk, unsure which part of the criminal equation I was on. A gaggle of kids whispered and laughed to each other. A studious looking man with a beard and in need of a haircut raised his head from a book, glanced around, then kept walking. A thin, aging skinhead--dressed in shredded jeans and sporting too many tattoos--watched with an impassive gaze, hitching a backpack up on his shoulder every few seconds, waiting for some action. I ignored them, focusing on the lobby.
Robinson fiddled with his keys, then popped open the door of a control panel that I'd mistaken for another brass decoration. He switched out one set of keys for another, inserted them into some kind of mechanism in the panel and then held it there while he turned and watched the elevator. The numbers began to count down.
I frowned. Robinson was taking things too casually. I hadn't been joking about Amanda not being alone in the elevator. I shifted my weight so I was facing the inside of the building and mentally walked through the steps of drawing my gun. Hatcher flicked her eyes to watch me, but didn't say anything.
The elevator bonged and the doors opened. I tensed, ready for anything.
Robinson said something and a few seconds later, Amanda appeared out of the back of the elevator. Alone, safe, and looking very unhappy.
I started forward and Hatcher said, "Hey!", but I ignored her and went inside. I walked over to Amanda and the cop. She looked up at me, eyes moist and shiny, but no tears.
"You okay, kid?" I said.
"Marty," she said. Then she had me in a bear hug, squeezing tight and shuddering without making a sound. It was like holding onto a sapling shaking in the wind. I let her go for a minute, patting her on the back, then gently pushed her away. The skin around her eyes and nose was a bright pink.
"You all right, Amanda? Did you see anybody, anything?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I got in the elevator like you said. I thought I heard footsteps in the hallway, but I got the doors shut before they came too close."
"You think you heard?" Robinson asked. "You're not sure?"
She glanced at him. "No, not absolutely."
His lips twitched. "So we don't know if anyone is there or was there? Or might still be there?"
I looked at Amanda. "How likely is it that someone would be in the building this late?"
She rubbed the back of her hand across her nose like a child. "Any of the faculty could be. But with the rally going on and mid-terms coming up, most people are at home finishing up. It was too crazy at my friend's house for me to work, so I came in."
The two cops traded glances. Hatcher spoke, not looking real happy at the situation. Or maybe just unhappy with me. "Great. Anything else we can do? Get a cat out of a tree, maybe?"
"Look, this wasn't a bullshit call," I said, angry. "It's not going to kill you to check things out when there's a report. What the hell else is a patrol for?"
"We left an assault because of your call, Detective," the woman cop said. "We got puked on by a couple of drunk twenty-year olds, broke up a fight, cuffed two of them, took them to a station for processing, then busted ass to get over here, to find out you don't have a badge, a suspect, or a crime. What you've got is a girl you conned into locking herself into an elevator--"
"Hatcher," Robinson said. She closed her mouth like she was a switch that had been turned off. He turned to me and held out a hand. "ID."
I pulled my wallet out and gave him my license. He glanced at it, then passed it to Hatcher. "Check it out, will you?" She stomped out with it in her hand and he turned to Amanda. "How do you know this man?"
Amanda glanced at me, then back at Robinson. "He was the detective in charge of my mother's murder. I've asked him to help me."
His eyebrows went up. I stepped in and explained the situation with Wheeler and the potential danger Amanda was in. He seemed mildly interested, as if I was reading him something from the back page of the newspaper. Hatcher returned from doing a background check on me, looking simultaneously sour and triumphant.
"He's retired MPDC," she said. "Homicide division. No priors. No PI license, either."
Robinson turned to me. "You want to tell me a story?"
"I needed you guys to move fast. It's not like I wasn't a cop."
"So you call our switchboard, impersonating an MPDC officer, to get us to trim a minute off our response time? Nice."
"I didn't call you guys for kicks, Robinson," I said. "Just because you didn't see anything doesn't mean there wasn't something going down. What happens next time if it's real?"
"You can call and we'll come. But don't tell us it's the MPDC to try and make us jump, all right? I don't care if you're the head of the FBI, we don't need you telling us how to do our job."
I made a face then nodded. He had a point.
"Wait a second," Hatcher said, her complexion pink going to red. "This asshole claims he's a cop, wastes our time, and we're going to let him skate?"
"What do you want to do, call MPDC and tell them to come lock him up?" Robinson said. "Not worth it. Just drop it."
Hatcher gritted her teeth. I could see her drafting the complaint letter in her head already. Robinson could see it, too, and he shook his head.
"If you're not going to arrest me," I said. "Is that it?"
"Well, since you were good enough to call the matter into the main office, we have to go up and check the entire floor, room by room. Appreciate that."
I grunted. I might be sorry for claiming to be a cop, but I wasn't going to cry them a river while they did their job. "You ready to get out of here, Amanda?"
"Yes...wait, no," she said. "I left my books and my pack up there."
"I'll go with you," I said. I turned to Robinson. "You mind?"
He shrugged. "Come on up. It's already a damn party."
He punched the elevator button and the four of us waited for it in an awkward, silent clump, our reflections peering back at us grotesquely from the gleaming elevator door. Hatcher and Robinson were in front of us and turned slightly away from each other. No love lost there. Amanda was hugging herself and had her head bowed, staring at her sneakers. I stood there feeling fine. It takes more than a false
alarm and a couple of pissed-off campus cops to make me uncomfortable.
We rode the elevator to the ninth floor. Robinson turned to Amanda.
"What's your office, ma'am?"
"201-B."
"We'll take a look there first, then do the door to door thing," he said, shooting me a look. The two cops set off down the hall, shining flashlights down each branching corridor.
Amanda and I got off the elevator and trailed behind the other two. Displeasure was coming off her in waves. I glanced over, but she wouldn't look at me. "Want to talk?"
She stopped, putting her thoughts together. Her face was pinched, anger and fear washing over it. "I feel exactly how I didn't want to. Like a victim. Like prey. I was scared shitless, trapped in that elevator. It was like something out of a horror movie, waiting for it to start moving, then watching the doors open. I was huddled in the back corner when it got to the lobby and I swear I saw Michael standing there."
We both stood there for a moment, digesting what she'd said. The low, industrial hum did little to fill the void.
"What else?" I asked. "Are you angry that I made you feel this way?"
She studied the floor. "Yes."
"Even though it could've been for real?"
"I know it's not your fault," she said. "You're doing exactly what I asked you to do. I just wasn't prepared to act or react this way. I told you before I refuse to be a victim. I'm not going to be bullied into fear."
"I get it, Amanda, but your attitude has consequences," I said. "There's no such thing as under-reacting to a situation like tonight. If he'd been here, the bit we did might not have been enough. There's not always going to be an elevator around. I might not be fifteen minutes away. If we do any less next time--if there's a next time--then he wins."
"I know."
We stood there for another half minute. Sometimes you can't talk situations away. Sometimes you have to be quiet.
"That's why you came here to grade those papers, isn't it?" I said. "You could've done them anywhere. A coffee shop, the student union, the library. But you came back to the office, knowing it was deserted, knowing your name's on the door."
"Yes," she said, the word dragged out of her.
"Amanda, you can't do that. Or, more to the point, I can't do it. You want me to protect you, to get to the bottom of this, all right let's get it done. But I can't fight you and Wheeler at the same time. You have to be smarter than that."
She nodded. I was about to say it all over again, to make sure we were clear, then realized repeating myself would only be to make myself feel better, to feel righteous about making my point. There was no need. She got it. She'd done something stupid and she knew it. I reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Let's get your junk and get out of here."
We headed down the hall, our footsteps sounding loud. I had the desire to creep heel-to-toe again. Hatcher and Robinson were out of sight. We got to the third "T" intersection and Amanda turned, stopping at the second office door on the right. Her name was penned in beside two others on a piece of paper taped to the wall.
"Don't you have your own office?" I asked.
She shook her head. "All the TA's have to time-share offices. We're like indentured servants."
I poked my head in. Robinson was standing by the desk, shining his flashlight on the surface. He glanced up as we came in. "Is this your stuff?"
Amanda gasped. I pushed past her.
A small desk lamp was still on, highlighting an eight-inch tall stack of papers. A red felt pen, uncapped and resting where Amanda had dropped it, lay on a test paper. Her laptop lay open, an inane screen-saver of swimming fish casting an erratic secondary light across the back of the closet-sized office.
And scattered over everything, like a crisp December snow, lay handfuls of white petals.
Chapter Fourteen
We both stared at the desk, and what was on it, for a minute, then Amanda moved forward, as if to pick up some of the petals.
"Wait," I said, my voice sharp. "Don't touch anything. Let me make some calls first, see if I can't swing a favor or two and get someone to look into this."
Robinson looked up, confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I'd already pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Kransky's number. I motioned Amanda to tell Robinson what was going on, then walked out to the hallway to get some privacy.
Kransky answered on the third ring. I summed up the situation, keeping my voice low and glancing up and down the hall. I knew rationally that Wheeler wasn't around anymore, but I couldn't shake the feeling he was in the next room over and was counting to ten before he jumped out.
"Not my department but, still, I should be able to get someone over there with a kit in half an hour," Kransky said. "You know how it goes: if there's no blood, there's no rush. Plus I'm going to have to let GW in on it, naturally. What'd you say the two cops' names were?"
"Robinson and Hatcher. You'd make Hatcher's day if you put me in cuffs when you show up."
"For what?"
"Impersonating a police officer."
"That a joke?"
"Kind of," I said. "She hates my guts for pulling her away from a frat party."
He huffed, a lame grunt that tried to sound amused for my sake. I said goodbye and hung up, then leaned back into the office. Robinson passed me coming out, telling me he was going to clue Hatcher in on what was going on. I motioned Amanda into the hall to get her away from the evidence.
"What now?" she asked.
"That was my old partner," I said. "He's still on the force and can swing a unit over here."
"What for?"
"If we're incredibly lucky, Wheeler left his prints around when he threw those stupid flowers on your desk. Or he snagged a thread, or left some mud on the floor, or shed some DNA on something that we can pin him down with. If we get a positive ID, then we've got leverage to ask MPDC for a full investigation. And if for some reason it's not Wheeler, then we've got a hell of a lot more information than we had before."
She was quiet, then said, "So, what you said back at the elevator means something completely different now."
"Yeah?"
"It wasn't a false alarm, it wasn't me being scared for no reason. It really happened. You said there's no such thing as under-reacting to a situation like this, that we couldn't afford to do any less." She said the words like she was discovering something for the first time. "And if we hadn't, if I hadn't gone into the elevator like you said, he would've been right here. Coming for me."
"Don't dwell on it. He didn't and he won't. This is a reminder that we've got to be smarter than he is, that's all. And, as scary as it is, this might be a break. If he screwed up and left something Kransky can use, we might be on the downhill side of the problem."
"What if he didn't?" she asked. "I can't stop teaching and I can't run and lock myself in an elevator every time someone walks down the hall. And where am I going to stay?"
What I said next surprised both of us. "Stay with me."
"What?"
I frowned, trying to figure myself out even as I answered her. "Stay at my place. I know it sounds weird, but it's the only safe house we can be sure of."
"But Michael came here, to the office, not where I was staying."
"He only has to follow you once to find out where you're living. If you're careful when you go to class and don't pull a stunt like you did tonight, you'll be ten times safer at my place than at a friend's house."
She didn't answer and I felt the heat crawl up my neck. When's the last time I'd blushed? "Look, I might not be able to run down here or to your friend's house or the middle of campus if something comes up again. And it will happen again if all he has to do is follow you from your class to a friend's house."
She nodded, or I imagined she did.
"The safest thing would be to tuck you away in some no-name hotel in Crystal City, but that's talking a lot of cash. It could be a while before something comes to light."
&n
bsp; "Or never."
"Maybe. But we have to deal with what we know, what we've got in the short term. And that means keeping you safe."
She was quiet again. I felt uncomfortable. In thirty years as a cop, I'd never extended myself like this, never brought a victim or someone affected by a crime this close. It was stupid, something you learned in your rookie year to avoid at all costs. And now here I was helping the first damsel in distress to come knocking. Or was I trying to play make-up? Twelve years ago, I hadn't allowed--or forced--myself to find out what had happened to Amanda after her mother had been murdered. I'd let the frustration and disappointment of the case fade away and let the system take care of the rest. Including this girl.
Oh, and I was a fifty-three year old single guy asking a twenty-four year old woman to stay at his house. Whatever the reason, despite the best of intentions, I now felt like the worst kind of middle-aged creep. "Look, forget it. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, I understand--"
"Yes."
"Sorry?"
"I think it's a great idea," she said. She had a tentative, thread-thin smile so fragile it looked like it would float away at any second. "I don't have many places to go, anymore. They've…they've all been taken away."
"You're sure?"
"I am. Thank you, Marty."
The knot of anxiety and embarrassment I'd felt melted away. Something tugged at the corners of my mouth and I said, "You're welcome."
. . .
The forensic crew showed up not long after that, beating the half hour Kransky had set for them. The team was a cop named Owens and an evidence collection expert named Benkov. I filled them in on the basics, told them what we'd touched and hadn't, then let them get to work.
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 10