by Rob Thomas
CHAPTER EIGHT
Veronica arrived on the Stanford campus just after noon the next day. The sky was cloudless, the blue a perfect contrast to the dark red tile roofs. College kids shot around on bikes or ambled past in little groups. A few sat on picnic blankets with books piled around them, taking advantage of the mild spring weather. The air smelled like grass clippings and earth, and she could hear the distant hum of landscaping equipment as the grounds crew made their rounds.
It was surreal to be back on the farm—she instantly snapped back into her old grooves, taking familiar routes through the corridors of the Mission Revival buildings that, for a while, had been her home. It almost felt as though she’d been gone for a very long summer break and returned to a newer, younger student body.
She glanced around, scanning the crowd in case she caught a glimpse of Chad Cohan’s crop of reddish-blond hair. She hadn’t called him ahead of time to set up a meeting; she wanted to surprise him. If he was as controlling and jealous as Hayley’s friends described, she wanted to find out what she could about him before he had a chance to put his guard up.
Veronica and Mac had stayed up until 2:00 a.m. the night before dredging up anything they could about him—his schedule, his grades, his extracurriculars. Anything that might give them an idea what they were dealing with. What they’d found had been a portrait of a high-achieving student, a clever, talented boy with plenty of advantages—according to his file his mom was the CEO of an outdoor clothing company in Seattle—and a fierce, focused drive. He was the star attacker of the lacrosse team. His grades were in the top 5 percent of his class. He’d just declared his major as political science, and he was in the process of applying for internships in Washington, D.C.
And, as luck would have it, he was taking a small social psychology seminar with Dr. Will Hague, Veronica’s one-time academic advisor.
Hague’s office was in Jordan Hall, a large sandstone building on the main quad. She felt another rush of nostalgia as she pushed her way through the double doors, the familiar dusty scent burning in her nostrils. She’d spent so much time in this building as an undergrad. In addition to fulfilling her prelaw requirements, she’d gravitated to psychology—it was comforting to crunch numbers from clinical studies and analyze data. It was a way to solve puzzles without all the mess and drama.
Hague’s office was on the second floor. It looked the same as ever—copies of scholarly articles were tacked to the bulletin board outside, along with a hodgepodge of New Yorker cartoons, art postcards, and a single dry red maple leaf, broad and crumbling beneath the pin. The door was closed, and no light shone underneath. But Hague had a notorious habit of hiding from his students during office hours. She rapped softly on the door.
Silence answered. She stood there uncertain, waiting. Then she saw a shadow moving under the door. A knowing smile spread over her lips.
Gotcha.
“Dr. Hague?” she called softly. “It’s Veronica Mars, one of your old students. I was wondering if I could speak to you.”
For a long moment nothing happened. She started to wonder if she’d miscalculated. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her. The thought sent a surprising ache through her chest.
Then the door jerked inward, and Dr. Hague filled the entryway.
The first thing anyone noticed about Will Hague was his height, a perfectly ludicrous six foot six. He was beanpole thin, a series of jutting angles strung together with tweed like some academic scarecrow. An overgrown goatee hung from his chin, gray shot through with a few lingering strands of red. A startled, pleased expression lit his eyes when he saw her.
“Well, well,” he said. “Veronica Mars.”
“Hi, Dr. Hague.” She smiled up at him. The top of her head was more or less level with his armpit. “Sorry to drop in like this. How are you?”
He checked his watch and grimaced. “I’d be fine if not for the faculty meeting this afternoon. If I have to sit for another hour listening to Hobbes drone on about the budget …”
Veronica grinned. In her time as his research assistant and occasional administrative aide, she’d helped Dr. Hague dodge more meetings than he made. “Tell them you’ve got food poisoning. Or … have you tried conjunctivitis?”
“Alas, Zhang threatened to send security to my office with manacles next time.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. “But I have a few minutes before I have to slink my way over there. Come in.”
He walked behind his desk and pulled open the blinds, allowing sunlight to fill the little office. Heavy books lined his floor-to-ceiling shelves. A blue-and-gold Rothko poster hung on one wall, his thirty-year-old Schwinn parked beneath. On the desk was a small pile of dark blue yarn. Hague was a compulsive knitter, sometimes even knitting straight through a meeting. He claimed it helped him think, and perhaps it did—he was one of the foremost research psychologists in his field. All Veronica knew for certain was that he was patently terrible at the knitting itself, the evidence clear in the misshapen sweaters and lumpy scarves he wore daily.
He sat down in his chair, pivoting back and forth a little. “So what brings you back to our beloved institution, Veronica? Last I heard, you were still in New York. You must be done with law school by now, yes?”
“Um, yes. I am.” She sat down across from him.
“So, how’s life as a big-time lawyer?” His voice dropped. “Or are you in Quantico now? I always suspected you’d end up with the Bureau, especially after the work you did with me on risk aversion in antisocial personalities. You’ve got exactly the kind of mind they need there.”
Veronica gave a weak smile. “Well … I’m still working with antisocial personalities.” She cleared her throat. “I’m actually working as a private investigator now. In Neptune.”
Dr. Hague’s surprise writhed around his face before settling into a confused smile. Veronica stifled a sigh. Why did every man in her life have to look at her like she was a personal disappointment?
“A private … well, that’s interesting.” He took off his glasses and made a show of cleaning them on the edge of his shirt. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. Hague’s background was in deviant behavior and psychopathology. Throw away a $150,000 education in order to track down deadbeat dads, bail jumpers, and philanderers? Didn’t get any more deviant than that.
“Very interesting,” he repeated, putting his glasses back on. “Are you … are you enjoying that, then?”
“I’m actually here on a job, Dr. Hague. And I was hoping to ask you a few questions about one of your students. Chad Cohan?” Veronica held up a photo she’d found of him online.
He blinked. “Chad Cohan? He’s in my social psych class Tuesdays and Thursdays. A lacrosse player, right? He’s the one who misses half my classes for away games.” He snorted. “I’m supposed to pass him anyway. Apparently he’s a big deal on the field.”
“I take it you’re not impressed?”
“Oh, he’s clever enough. He does good work when he’s in class—just turned in a strong paper on social cognition.”
“But?” she prodded.
He hesitated. “What exactly is this about, Veronica? What do you think he did?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment, measuring her answer.
“I’d rather not say, Dr. Hague. I don’t want to color your findings.”
His face lit up in a sudden, brilliant grin. “Perhaps you are in the right line of work after all.” He picked up his knitting absently, winding the yarn around the needles. “Well, I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I only see him twice a week, at most. He’s smart, a little full of himself. Frequently seems to have an entourage. His work is competent—he’s making an A. He wouldn’t be if I were allowed to dock him points for missing class, but …” He shrugged.
Veronica leaned forward a little. “Do you happen to remember if he was on time for your class on the eleventh of March? It was last Tuesday.”
“My TA keeps a roster.”
Hague leaned over and picked up a canvas satchel that was propped next to his desk. He pulled out a jumble of paperwork, shuffling through until he found what he was looking for. “The eleventh? That was the day I asked everyone to hand in their lab reports. Yes, he was there.” He held up the attendance roster to show her the neat little checkmark by Cohan’s name.
“Did anything strike you as out of the ordinary that morning? Did he seem strained, or tired, or distracted?”
Hague frowned a little, trying to recall. Then he shook his head. “I honestly didn’t notice anything like that. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. This is helpful.” She smiled earnestly at him.
He cast a quick glance at his watch and made a face. “I hate to run, but I do have to get to this meeting or they’ll release the hounds.”
She shot to her feet. “Of course. Thanks so much for your time, Dr. Hague.” She stuck out her hand, and he shook it warmly.
“Give me a call the next time you’re in town. I’d love to catch up more.”
“I will.”
Back out in the balmy afternoon air, she took a deep breath, Hague’s words ringing in her ears. Not what he’d said about Chad Cohan—but what he’d said about her. Perhaps you are in the right line of work after all. She hadn’t realized how desperate she was to hear that from someone. The gratitude, and relief, she felt at his words was almost embarrassing.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now.
It was time to track down Chad Cohan.
CHAPTER NINE
Veronica found Chad as he left his three o’clock international relations class. She recognized him from his Facebook pictures—a tall, wiry boy with light hair, a sharply defined jaw, and wide, sensual lips. He walked for a ways in a small cluster of other students, all talking animatedly. Veronica wasn’t close enough to make out what they were saying; she hung back, walking slowly but keeping Cohan in sight.
He broke off from his group as they passed the library. Veronica followed him through Canfield Court, where groundskeepers were blowing leaves off the walk, and then up another narrow street. In front of the New Guinea Sculpture Garden he paused to talk to a slender girl in a knit beanie before turning up the walk to his dormitory and disappearing through its wide double doors. Veronica found a spot on a bench outside and sat down, pulling out her phone and pretending to text. She wanted to give him a few minutes to get to his room and start to feel safe. Cohan liked to be in control. If she caught him off guard, he might reveal something he hadn’t intended.
After about ten minutes, she stood up. She followed two girls holding hands up to the double doors; they swiped their passcard, and then, assuming she was a student too, held the door open for her.
“Thanks!” she chirped.
Mac had gotten Cohan’s dorm number out of the Stanford databases—he was on the first floor, at the end of a dimly lit hallway. Veronica walked slowly down the corridor. A few doors were propped open with concrete blocks. Inside kids sprawled across their beds highlighting passages in enormous books or hunched at their computers, playing games. Music floated through the dorm from a dozen different places, Kanye West, Vampire Weekend, and the Indigo Girls weaving together a clumsy mashup. No one seemed to notice Veronica, or if they did they gave her brief, distracted nods.
Chad Cohan’s door was decorated with clippings of his lacrosse wins. A few articles had pictures of him in his red and white uniform, hurling the ball toward the net, face obscured by his helmet. The whiteboard on his door was covered in doodles, well-wishes, and enigmatic bro-speak.
Good luck Chad-Chad!
SPANK THE DUCKS
THIS WEEKEND!!
Where are you?
Veronica took a deep breath and knocked softly.
A few seconds passed, and the door opened. Chad Cohan stood in the doorway, looking politely startled. His pale blue eyes flitted over her face, his brow furrowed.
“Hi, Chad.” She offered up a disarmingly bright smile. “Sorry to bother you. My name’s Veronica Mars. I’m assisting in the search for Hayley Dewalt, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
He blinked rapidly three, four times. Then he seemed to shake himself into action. “Of course.” He opened his door a little wider to let her in.
The room was fastidiously neat. The bedspread was smooth and tight against the mattress, and the shelves were devoid of clutter—no toys or tchotchkes, no mementoes. A few framed nature prints in black and white hung on the walls, perfectly centered.
“Are you a police officer?” he asked, turning to face her. “I talked to the sheriff on the phone the other day. I already told him everything I know, which unfortunately isn’t much.”
“No, I’m actually a private investigator. I’ve been hired to assist with the case.”
His face remained almost still, a mask of civil curiosity, but she thought she caught a flicker of skepticism as he looked her over.
Fine. Let him underestimate me. I can work with that.
“Do you have any new information about what may have happened to Hayley? I still can’t get over that she’s missing,” he said, closing the door.
“Not yet.” She moved slowly around the room, looking at the books on his shelves, the few framed photos perched on top of the dresser and desk. They showed Chad, smiling with friends and family in fancy restaurants, on the steps of Mayan ruins, outside the Paris Opera House. There was one of Hayley, sitting on a boulder and looking out over the ocean, her hair whipping in the breeze. Veronica picked it up. Chad stiffened almost imperceptibly, as if having a stranger handle his belongings physically pained him.
“Did you take this?” She held it up, baiting him. “It’s great work. I’m something of an amateur photographer myself.”
“Um, yeah.” He moved closer to her, gently taking the picture from her hands and setting it back on the shelf exactly where it’d been, just as she suspected he might. “I did. Hayley was a great subject.”
“She’s a pretty girl.” Veronica smiled as he gave the photo one more minute adjustment. Textbook control freak with a side of OCD.
He sat down on the edge of his desk. His long, slender fingers tapped a quick syncopated rhythm against the top. “Look, I want to help find Hayley, but I’m not sure what I can tell you. We actually kind of broke up before she went to Neptune.”
Veronica gave him a wistful, sympathetic smile. Between the smiley faces and loopy handwriting on his whiteboard and the way Hayley’s friends had described him, she guessed that Chad was used to solicitous female attention. “That’s what I heard. And I’m sorry if this is painful for you. I didn’t come to open up any wounds—I’m just trying to get a better sense of who Hayley was, what she was like. I was hoping you could help me fill in a few of those blanks.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Sure, if it’ll help you find her. I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“Thanks.” She held his gaze for a moment, then took her notebook from her purse, flipping to a blank page. “How long were you and Hayley together?”
“Five months, on and off.” He glanced at the photo on the dresser, as if checking with Hayley’s image to affirm this was right. “We met at a Hey Marseilles concert. I saw her across the room during ‘Heart Beats.’ I knew I had to be with her the second I laid eyes on her.”
Veronica gave an awwww, so sweet smile, jotting down romantic lead in his own imaginary movie in her notebook. “How often did you see each other? Berkeley’s almost an hour away—I’d imagine it’s not an easy trip to make when you’re busy with school.”
“She came down on the weekends. Sometimes during the week, if we weren’t too busy, but weekdays we mostly talked on the phone.”
“And when you got together, what kind of stuff did you do?”
He leaned back a little. His collar gaped, and for the first time she noticed a long scratch along his neck. It looked like the skin had been broken, but it was mostly healed now. Interesting
. Lacrosse injury … or something else?
“We went to movies, to parties. She came to my games. We studied together sometimes. I was trying to help her decide what she wanted to major in—she kept talking about nutritional science but I thought she should take a wider focus, do biology or chemistry. I mean, why settle for nutritionist when you could aim for doctor?” He shrugged. “She had a tendency to sell herself short.”
“Hayley’s friends told me you guys fought a lot.”
“Hayley’s friends need to mind their own business.” Color rose in his cheeks, his body tensing. “Look, we had ups and downs, obviously. But Hayley’s friends were always trying to convince her to dump me. They caused a lot of problems between us—they’d put things in her head, give her crazy ideas about me. They told her I was trying to control her. Like they weren’t?” He rolled his eyes. “Hayley can be really … innocent. She trusts people too easily. I worried about her a lot. She’d call me to tell me she was on her way to some frat party or some club, and I’d spend the whole night imagining … awful things.”
“Is that why you broke up?”
His eyes didn’t move from Veronica’s. He hesitated for a moment, as if reading something in her face. After a moment, he nodded.
“I asked her not to go to Neptune. I tried to tell her what the scene’s like—crazy. Depraved. Dangerous. She wouldn’t listen to me.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I take it you’ve been there yourself?” Veronica said wryly.
He shrugged. “I’ve been. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good party as much as anyone, but that place gets wild as hell. I didn’t like the idea of her down there. And I hate to say it, but I was right. She shouldn’t have gone.”
Veronica didn’t let her expression change. She glanced down at her notebook as if reading from a list of questions, so he wouldn’t realize how his words and body language guided the conversation. “According to Hayley’s phone records, you called her the night she disappeared at twelve thirteen a.m. That was the first time you’d called her in five days, but prior to that you guys talked at least twice a day—and often as many as six times—every day for months. Can I ask what you talked about?”