Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  Alex set out for Dr. Pearson’s office, keeping close to the wall, away from student traffic, and in case vertigo called. The halls packed, she should have known better than to venture out during passing time. Not that it mattered. Kids roved the halls all day, every day.

  Boisterous laughter from behind warned of an approaching high spirited chase. Flattening her back against the wall, she narrowly escaped a collision. She opened her mouth to yell at the two boys to slow down, but realized it would be a waste of energy.

  Worn out from the hike taking longer than usual, she arrived at the main office to find Dr. Pearson in a meeting. Plopping onto the end of the bench, Alex joined the queue of parents and students waiting to see administrators. She sighed. Well, at least she'd get a reprieve from the onslaught of students.

  A UPS employee glided into the office carrying a package. Tall, slim, curvy, a knockout, she strode to the counter. The crowd stepped aside letting her through as if she were royalty. H-m-m, wonder what her story is. Alex bet she could think of one for her next novel. If she ever got around to writing it.

  A male student she didn’t recognize exited Mary Winter’s office, pimp-walked to the door, and disappeared. Alex scratched her right wrist unconsciously. She hoped to remember his light skin with large freckles and copper hair in cornrows for a potential character in a future writing project. Patting her pants' pockets, she found only the slip of paper on which she’d scribbled Jada’s words. No pen.

  "Ms. T, you can go in now," Mrs. Evans, the head secretary, said.

  "Thanks." Alex stood, a hand going to the wall behind her. She’d risen too fast. After the dizziness passed, she wove her way through the knot of people. Skirting the counter, she headed to the principal’s office. The secretary’s eyes burned her back.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cole sauntered into the main office, a search warrant in hand authorizing his men to examine student files stored in the Dean's Office. The three uniforms, waiting in the hall, would dig through suspension records, searching for violent infractions committed over the last two years. Cole carved his way through the crowd to Assistant Principal Joshua McMullen’s office to notify him of the permit.

  On the phone, McMullen waved Cole in and gestured to a chair.

  Cole remained standing.

  The A.P. pressed the receiver to his cleft chin, a boulder size pinky ring winking from his left hand. He threw Cole a plastic smile and brushed invisible lint from his jacket. After he hung up, the administrator stood to shake the detective’s hand, his cologne strong enough to fill an auditorium. The administrator stood about six-four, his midsection showing signs of middle-age bulge.

  Cole handed him the warrant and, while McMullen read it, stared at the parade of pictures across the wall. The assistant principal smiled from half a dozen of them, standing alongside athletes raising trophies, receiving awards, and making speeches. A former athlete himself, judging from his size, would explain the inflated ego acquired from his years in the limelight.

  McMullen glared at Cole after reading the warrant.

  He resents me intruding on his turf and usurping his authority, Cole thought. His problem, not mine. "Grants us permission to see the Dean of Students’ records from the last two years," Cole said.

  McMullen shrugged. "Help yourself."

  "Here's a question."

  McMullen stared blankly.

  "Did you hold a grudge against Ms. Richards?"

  The administrator's eye ticked. "Where . . .? He shook the index finger of the pinky-ringed hand at him and tsked once. "I get it. Certainly not."

  Cole stared hard at him. "Opportunity and motive are all that're required to make a case for murder. Seems to me you had both."

  The color drained from McMullen’s face.

  Cole spun on his heel and strode out of the administrator’s office. He had enjoyed seeing the guy sweat.

  Mary Winter stood behind the counter speaking in low tones to a parent. The rake-thin woman, wearing a tattered coat, dabbed at her eyes with a balled tissue, dropping flakes of white onto the countertop.

  "Your daughter’s been missing for a week?" Ms. Winter asked. "Let’s go to my office where we can talk." She patted the woman’s hand and stepped around the barrier to join her.

  The administrator started to pass Cole, but stopped when recognition lit up her face. "Hello, Detective. How can I help you?" she asked.

  Cole eyed the sniffling woman a moment before answering. "Sorry to interrupt. I need a room for interviews."

  "Excuse me," Ms. Winter said and turned back to the woman. "Ms. Clark, why don’t you wait for me in my office?" She pointed to the bank of offices down the abbreviated hall. "The third door."

  The woman nodded and walked way.

  Ms. Winter faced Cole. "Room 134 is available. I’ll send a custodian around to unlock it."

  Cole smiled. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

  "You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else."

  She wheeled around and followed the parent into her office. Ms. Winter, a dumpling of a woman with a shock of white hair and about five-five, reminded Cole of his mother. She lived in South Carolina and he hadn’t seen her since Desi’s funeral. I need to give her a call. Married to Manny almost a year, she seemed happy with her new husband, a decent enough guy. Except, he always passed the phone to his wife when Cole phoned, making it difficult to develop a relationship.

  Mary Winter had the same caring manner his mother possessed and, like her, clearly no softy. Cole smiled to himself. She'd put McMullen in his place on Friday when Cole questioned the administrative staff about the Extended Day Program in session the night Taryn Richards died. McMullen, the program’s administrator, explained how it allowed seniors to make up failed classes required to graduate.

  "Teachers teach in their own rooms?" Cole had asked.

  "No," McMullen said. "The classes are all on the first floor close to the main entrance. Ms. Richards didn't belong to the program."

  Mary Winter had faced her colleague and said, "Uh, excuse me, Josh, but if I’m not mistaken, Ms. Richards asked if she could use the end room closest to the auditorium so her students could rehearse."

  McMullen attempted a puzzled look, but couldn’t quite pull it off. He shifted from one foot to the other. "I don’t recall."

  "Sure you do. You told her no."

  He rearranged his face into one of comprehension. "Oh, now I remember. I thought her students would disrupt my program."

  "You know very well Ms. Richards had more control over her students than any teacher in your program."

  Because of McMullen’s fragile ego, Taryn had been out of the loop and out of sight. If he hadn't killed her, he certainly had made it easier for the person who did.

  After obtaining directions to the Dean’s Office, Cole and his team paraded to the basement. Pipes ran along the ceiling in the reception area. Graffiti, such as ho, Scarface, bitch—written in an assortment of colors, script, and texture—liberally marked the green walls.

  Three teens, sitting on chairs pushed into a triangle, had their heads together. The girl noticed them first when Cole and his men entered the room. She nudged the two boys and slid whatever they’d been reading under her thighs. All three presented similar stares—something between the cat-that-swallowed-the-canary and newborn babe innocence. The pint-sized boy covered his mouth, unable to stifle a giggle.

  Glancing at each of them Cole said, "Good morning. Is the Dean around?"

  The second boy head-gestured a closed door.

  Cole rapped on it.

  A man, as wide as he was tall, answered his knock. "May I help you?"

  Cole introduced himself.

  "You’re working the murder case." He dropped his head and shook it slowly. "Terrible thing." Looking up, he extended his hand. "I’m Harold Goldstein, Dean of Students. How may I assist you?"

  Cole flashed the warrant. "Access to student records."

  "Sure, sure. Suppose you need some
where to work." His brow crinkled. "Well, Vince’ll have to share his office." He crossed the cramped reception area and unlocked a door. "Records are kept in those cabinets, each holding a different year. They're filed alphabetically by last name." He pointed to a marred table in the reception area. "Your men can carry that into the office. Help yourselves to however many chairs you need."

  Cole took leave of the task force and started out, almost colliding into Martindale.

  "Hey," they said at once.

  "Just about to call you." Martindale held up a handbag. "Alex’s."

  Cole advanced into the hall, backing Martindale up, and gently closed the door. "Where’d—?"

  "Kid found it. Brought it in to me." Martindale handed it to Cole.

  "Got a name?"

  Martindale withdrew a stick of gum from his shirt pocket and unwrapped it. "Lawrence Burney." He folded the piece into his mouth.

  "Where is he now?"

  "Sent him to class."

  "Need to question him. I’ll be in room 134."

  "I’ll make sure he gets there." Martindale tapped his heels together and reached past Cole for the door.

  Smart aleck.

  Cole glanced at his Louis Vuitton watch, a gift from Desi. Though expensive, its platinum case and black leather band didn't advertise it. She knew me well, he thought, her presence so strong he almost staggered. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the business at hand. Thirty minutes until his first interview. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket to call downtown to request a rookie to procure the handbag.

  By the time Cole found the room, a husky kid in an oversized tee-shirt and low rider jeans awaited him.

  "Lawrence?" Cole asked.

  The boy nodded.

  "Thanks for coming." Cole tried the door knob. Locked. He peered up and down the corridor at the few stragglers on their way to class, only one rushing, but no custodian with a key in sight.

  He crossed the hall and rapped on a door. It opened a crack, the hand of a boy seated in a nearby desk wrapped around the knob. Cole opened it further and stuck his head inside. He nodded his thanks to the student and waited for the teacher to finish speaking. "Excuse me for interrupting, but any chance you can let me into room 134?"

  The woman, on the north side of fifty, wearing tennis shoes and a smock over her clothes, slid off the stool on which she’d been parked and flat footed it to the door. A bevy of keys hung from a long cord around her neck.

  "You are?"

  "Detective Colton Grant, DPD."

  "Yo, D Grant," a boy sitting in the front called out.

  Cole glanced in his direction and raised a hand. "Hey, Jerome." He penciled in a mental note to commend him for attending class if he showed up at the rec center later.

  From the doorway, the teacher said, "Class, I’ll only be a minute. Go ahead and do the first three problems on page 229." She waited while they opened books, retrieved paper and pencils from their backpacks. On the far side of the room, a pair of girls giggled. She threw them a warning look. Trying to suppress their laughter, the teens thrust their noses in their books.

  Cole stepped aside to let the woman precede him through the door.

  "Glad to meet you," she said in a low voice. "Hope you catch the blankety-blank killer."

  They crossed the hall.

  "Such a sweet thing, Ms. Richards. Students liked her, too. She’ll be missed, mark my words. Anything I can do to help, let me know," she said, talking over her shoulder. She unlocked the door and opened it. "There you go. Make sure you lock it when you’re finished. By the way, I’m Rose Danbury."

  Cole thanked her, stood back from the door, and waved Lawrence into the room.

  Across the hall, Ms Danbury opened the door to noisy chatter that abated as soon as she entered.

  Cole surveyed the room functioning as a catch-all for discarded furniture, out-dated books, and old computers. A musty odor threatened to kick up his allergies. In one corner, student desks had been piled into a tangle, their legs pointing out at all angles. Cole grabbed one, yanking it off the top and positioned it in front of a table stacked with books. He perched on the corner of the table, motioning for the boy to take a seat.

  The teen remained standing, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back.

  No problem. Cole crossed his arms. "Where’d you find the handbag?"

  Lawrence looked past him. "Lying-on-the-ground-by-the-Dumpster."

  The quick cadence and even modulation of his response sounded as if he were addressing a superior in the military. The only thing missing was the ‘sir.’ "Are you in the JROTC?" Cole asked, curiously.

  "No." If the question surprised Lawrence, he didn’t show it.

  Cole let it go. Since the purse had surfaced, any chance the journal would? He doubted it, but it wouldn't hurt to take a look. This might be his only opportunity for quite a while. Cole slid off the table. "Show me where you found it."

  Ten minutes later, Cole returned to room 134 alone. Dumpsters next to the parking lot had been emptied, probably early that morning. Nothing in them but the stink of garbage. Not one journal page in any of the receptacles or on the ground around them.

  Lawrence possessed a military cadet demeanor and speech, but had the façade of hip hop. Quite a contrast, Cole thought. His responses seemed spontaneous, yet practiced. According to Lawrence, he’d stumbled on the purse when cutting through the parking lot. The whole thing seemed off, from Alex’s handbag surfacing to the boy’s behavior. None of it made sense. But then nothing about the case had from the very beginning.

  CHAPTER 20

  An hour after Alex returned to her office, Mercedes Lewis stole into the room, closing the door behind her. In her second year of high school, the chronic hall walker had only passed two classes. Thread by thread, a spool of trust had burgeoned between counselor and student. Mercedes gradually opened up, giving Alex a better understanding of the wounds that ran so deep only major surgery would help her begin to heal.

  Unable to provide the intensive therapy needed, Alex supplied the support and encouragement Mercedes lacked at home. She’d suggested professional help but grandma refused to listen. Alex had even given Mercedes her cell phone number if she needed to talk, but so far, the girl had never called.

  Mercedes played with the draw strings hanging from the plunging neckline of her knit shirt. Eyes filling, her chin quivered.

  "Jada," Alex said, softly.

  Mercedes nodded, tears spilling down her face.

  Alex stood, opened her arms, and the teen rushed into them. Sobbing, Mercedes clung to her, grieving the loss of her best friend. The line between Alex’s pain from Taryn’s death and her empathy for Mercedes blurred. Unable to tell where one stopped and the other began, she rocked back and forth, rubbing Mercedes’ back. When they parted, she guided the girl to a chair and handed her the box of tissues.

  Taking several, Mercedes said, "She din’t do it." She wiped her face, blew her nose hard, and tossed the wad into the wastebasket.

  Alex’s heart quickened. "You’re sure?" Mercedes knew Jada better than anyone and she doubted the suicide, too.

  "Yeah, I’m am," she said.

  "Want some tea?" Alex asked, moving to the cabinet. She yanked the door open, the metallic screech grating her nerves.

  "No, thanks."

  "Hot chocolate?" she asked over her shoulder. When no answer came, she twisted around to look at Mercedes.

  The girl nodded.

  Alex grabbed two cups and packets from the shelf and closed the door. "I’ll be back in a jiff." She crossed the reception area to the storage room on the opposite side. While the water heated in the microwave she’d donated to the suite, she leaned against the door jam and dropped her head. On top of everything else, how would Mercedes deal with losing Jada? Best friends since third grade, at first glance they seemed an unlikely pair. Mercedes, at five-eight, was a big-boned girl and well-endowed while Jada, the same height, had been model thin. Mercedes quiet, Jada gregar
ious. Mercedes struggled in school, mostly because of her excess baggage Alex thought, while Jada excelled. Until this year.

  When she returned, Alex handed Mercedes a cup and settled in the chair next to her student whose cheeks were still wet with tears. They sipped in silence. Alex hoped the warm sweet chocolate would soothe their raw insides.

  She needed more information, but had learned to take her time with Mercedes. The girl had no qualms about ending one of their sessions if she felt pressured.

  A minute passed, then two. "What makes you so sure about Jada?"

  Hand shaking, Mercedes placed her cup on the edge of the desk. "She called me Friday night."

  "The night she . . . ?"

  Mercedes nodded.

  Glad the girl at least had that, Alex realized she didn't. She hadn’t talked to Taryn in several days and it hurt that they’d let the time pass. Before Jordan entered the picture, that never happened. The thought of him caused her stomach to clench. Not now. Alex leaned forward and squeezed Mercedes’s arm. "How did she seem?" she asked softly.

  "She mad about Miz R’s death. I thought she be crying. But she say she gonna do whatever to find the killer." Mercedes hit her thighs with balled fists. "She ain’t kill herself, that’s for sure. Jada never do that."

  That’s my girl. Before Alex could think, she blurted, "Did she know who killed Ms. Richards? What did Jada say? Tell me everything."

  Mercedes shifted in her seat and fingered the ties of her shirt. "I don’t remember."

  Alex’s hand went to the girl’s blue-jeaned knee. "Please think! It’s important."

  Tears welled in Mercedes’s eyes. "I can’t."

  "If you don’t believe Jada killed herself, that means someone murdered her. Just like Ms. Richards."

  Mercedes’ eyes widened. She sprang out of her chair, preparing to bolt from Alex’s office.

  Rising, Alex called, "Wait!"

  But Mercedes already sprinted out of the room and through the reception area toward the door.

  Oh no, what have I done? Alex chased after her, reaching the hall as the horde of students changing classes swallowed up the girl.