“I don’t know you well enough to answer that,” he said. Another policeman poked his head in the room and mouthed a couple of words. Crenshaw nodded and turned his attention back to Burnett. “The other problem I’m having is that both witnesses claim they saw you and the deceased struggling on the balcony just before he fell.”
“I was trying to stop him from killing himself. He was despondent about flunking out of school. Look at his records.”
“Thank you, I will.”
The guy’s smart-ass attitude didn’t help the situation. It no longer mattered what Crenshaw thought, Burnett decided he would create more space between them. He took a full step back.
“You and the deceased didn’t have a disagreement of any sort, did you?” Crenshaw asked.
Burnett despised the way he kept referring to Henri as the deceased. Maybe that was just the way cops did things. Then again, maybe it was another attempt to rattle him. “No.”
“Not even, say, about this mystery girl?”
The once cramped room now felt confined. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not unless you’ve committed a crime.” Crenshaw folded his notebook and jammed it into his pocket.
“You think I’d come here and wait around to see what happened if I’d just tossed him off a balcony?”
“We’ll be in touch.” He made a beeline for the door. “Don’t try to leave town.”
“Emma’ll tell you exactly the same thing I did,” Burnett said before Crenshaw left the room. “She was his girlfriend, for Christ’s sake.”
Crenshaw stopped and turned. “If she hadn’t, you’d be getting comfy in the back of a squad car now.”
CHAPTER 7
At eight-fifteen the next morning Burnett leaned against the gray wall of his work cubicle. His boss, fifty-five-year-old Adam Westfield, fidgeted beside him. It didn’t matter whether he stood or sat, fidgeting was the man’s natural state. Westfield, nearly bald, was rail-thin, and his off-the-rack pinstripe suit hung from his body like a sheet on a clothesline.
Rows of identical cubicles extended the full length and width of the cavernous, off-white room. The dozen or so employees who’d arrived stared zombie-like at their computer monitors.
“Don’t quit,” Westfield said. “I know Henri Laroche was your friend. Take some time off. A week. Two if you like.”
Burnett frowned at the much shorter man. “I just wasn’t made to sit at a desk and talk people into buying insurance they don’t want.”
“I know this ain’t your dream job. And none of us try to fool ourselves it’s glamorous work. But it’s steady work, with good pay. Not the kind of thing a wise man walks away from, not in this economy.”
Several other cubicles were visible from where he stood. Photographs and other personal items cluttered every desk in his field of view. His workstation remained as barren as the day he’d arrived.
“Where else you gonna find a job where you can schedule your hours around school and work from home half the time?”
Burnett appreciated both perks.
“You’ve got a future here, Mike,” Westfield said as his hand cupped Burnett’s elbow. “Three quarters of the people in this room have never seen the inside of a university. But you, you’ve got management potential.”
“I need a change.”
Westfield stood on his toes and draped a fatherly arm around Burnett’s shoulder. “Not many people know this, but I’m retiring in six months.”
Burnett met his supervisor’s nod with an eyebrow raised in modest surprise.
“Yeah, going on thirty years now. Anyway, I’ve been singing your praises to upper management. Can’t say you’re a shoe-in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they offered you the position.”
Just what he needed, a new position guaranteed to eliminate his favorite perks. “I’m just not interested.”
“Wait until you’ve had some time to get over your friend’s death. Then think about your future.”
Burnett didn’t need any time. Over the past four years he’d saved enough money to live comfortably for at least six months, a year if he was frugal.
Under almost any other circumstance, he would have given the requisite two weeks’ notice. But with Henri dead, and Audrey free, he couldn’t imagine pulling out his chair and typing his password into the computer again. No, once she was caught, he’d dedicate his life to understanding Henri’s paper and unleashing it on an unsuspecting world. Their alcohol-induced vow would be realized.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Westfield said.
“Lot on my mind.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t make a decision now.”
Burnett extended his hand. “Already have.”
“Nothing I can do to change your mind?”
“Not this time.”
Westfield took his hand and gave it a limp shake. “I’ll keep your decision between us, in case you do change your mind.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Burnett stood beneath the backboard of one of the State University of New York’s four outdoor basketball courts. The rising sun had already driven the temperature to near eighty, but he felt comfortable in his white cotton polo shirt and khaki shorts.
Joel Sandstrom, arguably Henri’s second closest friend, dribbled a basketball near the top of the key. He gripped the ball, flexed his knees, and in one fluid motion lofted a shot. The ball arced above the gently sloping hills behind the court and hit nothing but net.
Sandstrom, dressed in navy blue shorts and a white PUMA T-shirt, was tall with a lean, muscular frame. His jaw worked overtime on a wad of gum, and his dirty blonde hair covered part of his face. He avoided Burnett’s stare while the ball, as if by design, bounced back into his outstretched hands.
Sandstrom, the only friend of Henri’s who hadn’t shown up at the hospital, stepped to his right and sank another shot. Again the ball returned to him without his needing to move.
“We missed you at the hospital last night,” Burnett said.
“I was at my uncle’s place in Maryland. Couldn’t make it back ’til this morning.”
“I see,” Burnett said, the flatness in his voice more pronounced than he’d intended.
Atypical of Henri’s few close friends, Sandstrom was a gifted athlete. The back-up point guard on the university’s basketball team, he appeared to have little interest in academics and none in science.
In fact, the one thing the athlete and the genius had in common was the one thing Burnett would have expected to keep them apart. Sandstrom was Emma’s ex-boyfriend. Burnett didn’t know him well, but from what he’d observed, Sandstrom played the part of a hot-tempered, spoiled jock to perfection. Yet he and Henri spent quite a bit of time together.
“How’s Emma?” Sandstrom asked. “I went to see her this morning. She didn’t answer the door.”
“Haven’t spoken to her since last night.”
A tense silence followed.
“What the hell happened?” Sandstrom said. “And what’s this I’m hearing about a girl who showed up at his apartment with some fucked-up story?”
“Henri said he told you about his nightmare.”
“Whoa,” Sandstrom said, raising his hand like a policeman at the center of an intersection. “Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.”
“This girl,” Burnett said. “She knew all about it. Said she was from the future. Told him the dream would come true if he turned in his paper.”
“That’s fucked.” He shook his head. “He believed her?”
“Looks that way.”
“My God.” He palmed the ball and marched up to Burnett. “Why’d you bring up Henri telling me about his nightmare? What difference does it make?”
“He only told a few people. I’m trying to figure out how this girl could have found out about it.”
“You think I told her?” Sandstrom gave the gum a break.
“Somebody did.”
“You must think it was me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t
be here.”
“Look,” Burnett said, “I have about a million questions and not one answer.”
“Why would I? Henri and I were friends. What, you think just because I’m a basketball player and I don’t have a lofty IQ, I couldn’t hang around with someone like him?”
“I’m just looking for answers.”
“Maybe you think I hatched this plan to get Henri to off himself so Emma would come rushing back to me in her time of need.”
“Henri’s dead and all you can think about is yourself.”
“If I was suspicious of anyone,” Sandstrom said, “it’d be you. Yeah, I seen the way you look at her. Maybe you wanted him out of the way.”
Burnett chose not to dignify the accusation with a reply.
“So you don’t deny it?” Sandstrom dribbled the ball out beyond the three-point line and heaved up a shot. It swished through the hoop.
“Maybe you can make it to his funeral,” Burnett said. “If you’re not out of town again.”
* * *
At five minutes before noon that same morning, Burnett rang the bell at apartment 412 in the off-campus building. A wiry, chestnut-haired young woman with thick-framed glasses opened the door, leaned forward, and embraced him.
“What happened?” she asked.
He and Susan Henrickson knew each other from a public speaking class they’d shared last semester. She also happened to live in the same building, and on the same floor, as Henri Laroche.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said.
“I’ve heard so many different stories. That he jumped. He fell by accident. There’s even a rumor somebody pushed him.”
“I’m afraid he jumped.” The words sounded unreal as he spoke them.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did he do that?”
“Another question I’m trying to answer. Were you home yesterday?”
“The whole day,” she said. “Studying for a chem test.”
“You go out at all?”
“Couple times. Stretch my legs. Grab some pizza.”
“You notice a girl in the building? Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Brown hair. T-shirt and jeans.”
Susan grabbed her chin, angled her head left, then shook it. “You think she had something to do with Henri’s death?”
“She was hiding in his apartment when we got back from Charlie’s Place. She told him a crazy story that really upset him.”
“Who is she? Did he know her?”
“I’ve been here all morning. No one saw her come in. No one saw her leave.”
“They have security cameras all over the building. One of them must have picked her up.”
“I hope so,” he said, then added a sigh. He’d gotten little sleep last night, and the fact that no one in the building had seen Audrey bolstered his frustration. “I need to find her. She’s the key to why Henri took his life.”
“Have you talked to the maintenance guys?” she asked.
He shook his head. It was a good idea.
“Talk to them,” Susan said. “They know more about what goes on in the building than anyone.”
“I will.”
“She didn’t just pop into his room and pop out again.”
Part of him wanted to smile at her remark; part of him did not. “No, she didn’t,” was all he said.
“I liked Henri. I know some people didn’t. But he was nice to me. Even helped me with my calculus homework a few times. I want to know what really happened.”
“So do I.”
Susan offered a cheerless smile and closed the door. Her apartment was his final stop on Henri’s floor. He stared down the straight, poorly-lit corridor. With mental blinders on, he trudged toward the elevator, but it made no difference. The yellow tape that sealed Henri’s door called to him as it had the first time he passed. This time he stopped.
“Crime Scene, Do Not Enter” was printed in large black letters across the yellow tape. Last night he’d walked down this same hallway. He and Emma had helped Henri into his apartment. Now he stood here, less than twenty-four hours later, and everything felt different. More than different, everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong.
Tragedies happened; Burnett knew that only too well. But this one, this one made no sense. More than a personal loss, Henri’s death was humanity’s loss. He considered, for a moment, how much poorer the world would now be had Einstein died before he’d had the opportunity to realize his full potential.
There was so much more he could have done to prevent Henri’s suicide; so much more he should have done. He should have knocked him unconscious. He should have wrapped him in a bear hug and refused to let go. Henri would never have jumped if it meant killing him as well. Whatever it was, he should have done it; he didn’t.
Despite the implications of Henri’s paper, he still believed time, that remorseless tutor, offered no second chances, no do-overs, no mulligans.
He had to live with that. He didn’t know if he could, he didn’t know how he could, but he knew he had to locate Audrey. She needed to explain how she knew so much. She needed to educate him about her true identity. And, perhaps most importantly, she needed to reveal who had put her up to this.
He plodded past Henri’s door and neared the elevator. Someone had to have put her up to it. The only other person Henri claimed he’d told about the dream was Desmond. Under no circumstances could he imagine the professor sharing any responsibility for this madness.
Burnett considered the man nothing less than a father figure. Ten years earlier he’d graduated with a degree in business administration, a field he’d studied at his father’s insistence. He never knew whether his old man truly appreciated the degree he’d worked so hard to achieve, yet Desmond recognized the effort he put in to maintain a B average in Advanced Physics 301. His professor always encouraged him and gently demanded the best from him.
The elevator door slid open. If he failed to find anyone who had seen Audrey, he’d have no choice but to speak to his physics professor.
But first he had an appointment to keep across town.
* * *
Emma awoke on her apartment’s beige frieze carpet with early afternoon sunlight streaming through the half-closed living room blinds. She lifted her head, but a stab of pain behind her brow dropped it back on the floor. As her vision cleared, the culprit revealed itself. Lying on its side just beyond her grasp rested an empty bottle of pinot noir.
A second attempt to raise her head met with less resistance, and she twisted her way up to a sitting position. Half-a-dozen photo albums littered the floor.
Last night, after all but shoving her parents out the door, she’d looked at every picture she had of Henri and herself, watched every video, reminisced about all the places they’d visited, spilt every last tear, and collapsed onto the floor from exhaustion.
She dragged herself to her feet and surveyed the damage she’d inflicted upon the room. The photo albums she could organize in a matter of minutes, but the red wine stains dotting the carpet would require far more time and sweat.
She stumbled to the window and shoved aside several vertical blinds. Bright sunlight forced her to squint. Across the street, children rocked back and forth on seesaws, climbed rope spider webs, and constructed castles of sand inside a square wooden box. Their mothers stood guard, no doubt gossiping about who was cheating on whom.
A teenage girl darted through the park on rollerblades. With her medium brown hair and slight build, she resembled Audrey. The impulse to race downstairs collided with her rational mind. No matter how desperate or disturbed Audrey turned out to be, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to rollerblade through the park a day after driving a man to suicide. Whatever her faults, she didn’t strike Emma as stupid.
She set about cleaning the room. Two photo albums returned to their home on a dark maple shelf above her TV. Ten seconds later a third one joined its cousins.
Two photo albums remained on the floor, both open. Three pictures lined th
e left side of each page. A brief caption, scribbled on the right side, provided the date and location of each photograph.
She approached the first album, determined to avert her gaze. Emotionally exhausted, she lacked the strength to relive any memories.
But like struggling not to peek as your car creeps past a horrific accident, the flashing lights and twisted wreckage demanding your attention, her gaze fell on the top picture of the right page. The conflicting emotions it produced unsettled her rather than eliciting tears.
Theirs had been far from a perfect relationship. The photograph of the two of them at her sister’s high school graduation offered the quintessential reminder of that. A blissful evening had been sabotaged by a nasty fight after dinner. What they had fought about, she could not recall. But about one thing she felt certain. The fight had been over something trivial. She and Henri had become masters of many couples biggest cliché—building mountains out of molehills.
The doorbell chimed. In no mood to speak with anyone, she slogged to the door. Through the peephole she spotted two men. The first, who appeared to have randomly grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt from the floor of Henri’s closet, was perhaps fifty. The second, well dressed and probably in his mid-thirties, leaned against the wall. Badges hung from their belts.
The chain still secured, she opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
The older man stepped forward, a tweed jacket slung over his shoulder. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Wilford Farrow. This is Detective Mayweather. We need to speak to you regarding the death of Henri Laroche.”
CHAPTER 8
Where did it all go wrong? Burnett remembered Henri’s final question before they’d left Charlie’s Place.
He sat on the edge of a burgundy-colored sofa in Dr. Rosenstein’s office, a stunning lake view beyond the lone window. The white noise sound machine in the waiting room, designed to promote relaxation, had failed to accomplish its objective.
Burnett didn’t know the answer to Henri’s question, but he knew part of it. One of the great things about college was the sense of limitless potential. Though it was his second time around, and he shouldered a decade’s worth of cynicism to offset his optimism, the future looked sunny. Returning to school to pursue a degree in the field of his choice had infused him with a fervor he’d never before felt. Meeting Henri midway through the first year had only strengthened his conviction in the endless possibilities.
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