by John Farrow
Cinq-Mars would prefer to be more circumspect as he arrives at a key objective. “I noticed that Professor Toomey was in possession of an invitation to a cocktail party on campus this week.”
“You have an eye for such details, Mr. Cinq-Mars. If the invite came from this office, then I believe I know which one he’s expected to attend. A party given annually for many of our principal donors.”
“If I may be direct, why was he invited?”
“His State Department background, I suppose. If we’re calling it that. Someone may have requested that he be included, or he may have asked to be included. I’d have to check. We do desire to have a number of professors there, showing the colors, an organizer may have thought it was his turn. I confess, though, that when I noticed his name on the list, I was surprised.”
“Why?”
He pulls his hands apart, then knits them together again. “We like to have our most prestigious minds present. Along with those who know how to work a room. As well as those with a recent claim to fame to talk about. He doesn’t fit any of the three categories, and in fact he’s virtually obliged by duty to be circumspect. Not good party material. What would he talk about, for instance? State secrets?”
“I was wondering if I might go.”
Palmerich is taken aback. “Excuse me? Go? Why?”
“Sir, you know that a valuable necklace was placed around the throat of the victim yesterday.”
“I saw it. I saw the victim where she lay, for a moment.”
“The necklace has monetary value and yet was left behind. Donated, perhaps, to enhance the image the killer was trying to project of the victim. This leads me to suspect that the perpetrator may be a person of means. You have a gathering planned for persons of means—”
“I’m sorry. I see where you’re headed. That is speculation and it is a bit wild, Mr. Cinq-Mars.”
“I’m accusing no one, of course, and have no reason to do so. But persons of means need to be considered—”
“Our donors specifically? That would be folly, if not suicide, for me to subject any of them to that sort of scrutiny.”
“The scrutiny—which is too strong a word—I assure you will be covert. No one will suspect a thing. Mere reconnaissance.”
“This is an affluent part of the world, sir. Those individuals traveling up for our convocation ceremonies will not be the only people of wealth on hand. With all due respect, that’s a bit of a stretch.”
“Sir, no one is being accused or is being considered a suspect. As you say, there will be other persons of means on hand. Yet, with respect to the wealthy people who live in the area, they have lived here without such crimes as we saw committed yesterday. That the killer, or one of multiple killers, is, in fact, an outsider, perhaps with connections to the university, and also a person of means, merits consideration. Your party brings together persons of wealth who are also, many of them, outsiders. That’s a gathering I’d like to infiltrate, just to take notes. If my identity is mysteriously revealed by an unforeseen accident, we’ll say that I’m on hand as an additional security detail, in light of what has transpired. People will understand. You won’t be vilified for having me around, but commemorated, probably, should I be found out.”
“I’m less concerned with being commemorated than I am with being tarred, feathered, and rolled down a mountainside in a barrel, if I’m lucky.”
They enjoy a chuckle, but Cinq-Mars falls to a more serious tone. “I can manufacture an identity for myself, if you prefer. Look, one thing that happens if we segregate the earlier rapes from these murders is that it points more strongly to an outsider, or outsiders. Proper police work has to take the donors into consideration. I understand your predicament, but consider this. On the off chance that a donor is complicit, do you want that person to be discovered and then have it reported that you shielded him, along with the other contributors, from being investigated? More tar and feathers, I’d say. The allegations won’t interest me, it’s others who will take a hard look. My request puts you in a difficult bind here. I apologize for that, as I do appreciate the conundrum.”
Palmerich looks agitated. He is, Cinq-Mars thinks, secretly furious. He’s about to lose his support and must come up with a new idea quickly.
“Sir,” Cinq-Mars begins, stalling for time.
“Yes?”
As if an intruder had dropped it on the floor, Cinq-Mars picks it up, and marvels: a bargaining chip. He’s amazed by how the mind works. He had discussed with Chief Till that the head trooper’s antagonism signaled an opportunity for their side, and now he can make use of his own thesis. “This slant to the investigation may well occur with me or without me. If it’s official, then you can expect a more heavy-handed experience. Red flags might be public ones in that case, and the university may find itself uninformed. If I’m able to run through this angle quickly and discreetly, no one will ever know unless it’s a matter of import. In which case, the spirit of cooperation the university fostered will be reciprocated, and that cooperative spirit will be what’s reported in the press.”
Cinq-Mars sees now that when the president is genuinely noncommittal he does not gratuitously nod. Instead, he holds him in a steady gaze. The retired detective is noted for the intensity of his own hard look. Criminals have been known to confess under the pressure of his glare. He sees that this man is equally as intimidating as he himself is deemed to be. Indeed, the man’s strabismus makes the intensity of his gaze difficult to suffer, as the recipient doesn’t know how to engage the hawklike stare. Cinq-Mars feels sympathy for any misbehaving student on the hot seat in this office, feeling like a morsel about to be chewed. He wants to reassure Palmerich that he hasn’t issued a threat, only a friendly warning, but it’s too late for that.
Although Palmerich relents, he continues to withhold his acquiescence. “Mr. Cinq-Mars, I shall give the matter serious thought and let you know, although my advice is to not get your hopes up. I shall grant your other requests. And yes, a security guard will accompany you as you move around on campus.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. I consider the university fortunate to have you examining this matter.” He interrupts himself and a smile plays on his lips. “I was going to say … examining this matter on our behalf … but I have no idea if that is correct.”
Cinq-Mars stands. “I’d express it that way, sir. Essentially, I want the truth to come out on behalf of the victim, who was a good friend of my niece. You want the truth, I’m sure, on behalf of your student and your employees. Even, if I may say so, your donors. We’re on the same page. Oh, and I’d like to ask further questions about Miss Earle, but I’ve taken far too much of your time already. Later on, perhaps.”
“Later on, then. I know nothing of the poor soul, I fear. Mr. Cinq-Mars, there’s something you should know. It’s my suspicion that you don’t know this already.”
Émile waits.
“Regarding the invitation issued to Professor Toomey. The same invitation was held in the fingers of Addie Langford when she was put on display in the tower.”
Cinq-Mars pretends he wasn’t aware.
“Then I must attend that party,” he attests, and stands.
“We shall see, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime, if you’ll wait outside, I’ll request a security guard to be your escort on campus.”
The president stands as well, and the two men shake hands.
By holding back a question about Malory Earle, he has been able to finagle a second talk if he needs one. Cinq-Mars is happy with that. He’s generally content with their progress together.
And yet, all he’s thinking about as he departs is how he’s going to crash that cocktail party, by hook or by crook.
FIFTEEN
He’s awaiting the arrival of his campus security guard. Paces, sits, paces again, then stands by while she receives instructions directly from President Palmerich before they’re on their way.
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br /> The guard is a handsome woman who carries her natural heaviness with confident prowess. Her name is Roberta, she tells him, and flashes a smile, and speaks in a husky, low voice that’s uncannily clear. A lovely tone. Most anyone else speaking so quietly would go unheard, but the distinct clarity to her timbre overcomes the diminished volume. She smiles a lot, and Émile gauges early on that the woman possesses the right instincts. She thinks before she speaks. With a wry air that he finds admirable, she takes issue with his first request. Roberta asks, “Did you inquire about Professor Shedden with President Palmerich, sir? She’s not identified on your list for a visit.”
“It wasn’t necessary, Roberta. Will I be examining her office? No. I’ll be seeing her in person. Big difference.” He garnered her name from his niece over breakfast. The implication was that Addie may have had a relationship with her, or at any rate, a friendship.
The guard knows he’s up to something, while he can tell that she’s on to him.
“Roberta, whose permission do I need to talk to another individual in these United States? Especially here, in the live-free-or-die state? Similarly, if Professor Shedden is not interested in talking to me, that’s her prerogative. We’ll leave.”
She’s trying to figure his angle. She’s a black woman who has probably had to deal with a few shady white men in her day, but she concedes in the soft bell tones of her distinctive voice, “All righty then, sir, let’s find your lady prof. It’s still a free country. But—”
He bites on her baited hook. “But what, Roberta?”
“No fishy business.”
She makes him smile, too. “I left my rod and reel behind.”
“Like I believe you.” Even that skepticism she conveys with a smile.
He’s already enjoying this woman.
On the trek across campus Émile feels only mildly guilty for duping the system. He needs neither a security guard nor anyone’s permission to talk to Professor Shedden, yet being escorted by someone in uniform improves his chances of being taken seriously, which improves the odds of having his questions answered. By walking in with a guard at his side, his inquiry will appear to be officially sanctioned when it’s not. Suggesting to President Palmerich that he might be assigned a guard as a watchdog over his behavior, Émile kept that kernel of strategy to himself. A sleight of hand. In uniform, Roberta serves in lieu of the badge that he’s no longer empowered to flash.
As they walk, he learns that she has two children, both in high school, both good kids although neither is an angel. She also reveals that campus security has been touchy since yesterday. “We take it personal. Nobody’s pointing a finger, but when you put on the uniform what is it you want to do?”
Émile isn’t sure, and thoughtfully purses his lips.
“Protect the young ones,” she tells him. “That’s a good purpose in your life. Right there, it’s not about stopping people parking where they shouldn’t, or shaming rich frosh to pick up their litter. What you want to do is keep the young ones safe. A good purpose in life. Yesterday, that didn’t happen. This is going to hurt for a long, long time.”
“Did you know any of the victims?”
“Can’t tell you a thing about them. Maybe if somebody shows me a picture I’ll recognize a face. I had a glance in the paper this morning but they were blurry snaps. Overall, though, I’ve got a good head for faces. Professor Shedden, the one you want to visit, I’ve bumped into her. She’s nice. They’re all nice. Everyone here is nice.”
“Hmm,” Cinq-Mars says. He doesn’t believe that last part, but as they encounter the professor in the corridor near her office, the guard is greeted by her first name and with a note of sympathy. “Roberta. How are you?” In the aftermath of the murders, personal exchanges are noticeably subdued. People are solicitous with one another.
“Good, Professor, good. This man is Mr. Cinq-Mars, I’d like to introduce. Some kind of detective. I brought him to see you.” If she stops right there, Émile will be satisfied. In like Flynn. Unfortunately, Roberta continues. “President Palmerich asked me to show him around to do his investigating and he asked to talk to you.”
“Me?” The blond woman looks up from the open file she’s been carrying. Her eyes trip across Roberta and up to the tall Cinq-Mars. He’s six two; she’s a smidgen over five feet and stocky, yet exudes an attitude of physical strength and confidence. “Why?”
“People got killed,” the guard explains.
The woman continues to study Cinq-Mars a moment, then gestures toward her office. She closes the file in her hands and Émile follows her to the door then goes past her as she holds it open. She’s waiting for Roberta to come through as well but he intervenes. “This has to be a private conversation.”
He’s not averse to the security guard being in the room but wants to demarcate how their association will work. By ruling against Roberta’s entry he elevates the importance of the proceedings. Striking an ominous note increases the gravity of the moment and hopefully that will provoke a desirable tension in his subject. A device that may or may not have value down the road. Professor Shedden shuts the door and the two plunk themselves down on opposite sides of her desk.
Posters are strewn on the walls, too untidily to be considered decorative. Most represent political postures. Question Authority. A policeman is viewed with antagonism in that one. Seek Change. A pair of urban squirrels are addressing rodent cousins from the countryside as though they’re plotting to take over a park, then merge it with a dump site. The meaning is unclear to the uninitiated. Cinq-Mars is puzzled.
“Your name again, sir?” Professor Shedden probes. “I couldn’t quite catch it.”
“Cinq-Mars.”
“Sounds French. Like the fifth of March?”
“Very good. That’s it exactly.”
“What significance does the date hold?”
“Nobody knows. Could be that my name is a corruption of Saint Marc, that’s one theory. Another holds that a distant relation was the fifth son of somebody called March. Or Mars, in French. Or it’s a corruption of another surname and somebody had five kids. Or an event occurred on the fifth of March. Lost to the veil of time, I suppose.”
“I see. I detect an accent. Are you from France?”
“Quebec.”
“And—you’re a detective?”
She’s asking, Who are you to be here talking to me?
He doesn’t want to delve too deeply into that aspect. As well, he’s the one who’s supposed to be asking questions. “Sheriff Till of the Hanover Police Department—I’ll remind you that that department governs the village of Holyoake as well—he brought me in as a consultant, an arrangement that has met with the approval of President Palmerich.” An impressive introduction for himself, he concludes, one which should fly in any number of circumstances, as it does here. He has to hope she doesn’t repeat it to Trooper Hammond, although he’s guessing that the two won’t have cause to meet.
“What I don’t understand is why you’re asking to speak to me. I presume the guard misspoke, that you’re talking to various people at random?”
“Oh no,” Émile counters, “I specifically want to speak to you.”
She stares back at him. Her features invoke strength, suggesting a severity she can turn on and off. Her hair is closely cropped yet possesses a high gloss shine, at least in this light, the blond flecked with pure white. Her clothing is relaxed for summer, highlighted by an embroidered thin yellow vest and a pair of mauve capris. Three tiny diamonds reflect from the lobe of one ear only.
“Why?” she asks again. Professor Shedden’s tone sounds more genuinely curious than defensive.
“You knew the victim.”
The silence in the room is not necessarily telling, but it is palpable.
“Given the bounty of your knowledge,” she considers, the sarcasm in her voice sufficiently muted that it’s difficult to confirm, “which victim are you referring to? I knew all three.”
She has one up on him
, and has surprised him more than he has her. Cinq-Mars battles back. “I don’t want you to take offense,” he warns.
“Why would I? Over whom I know? This is a curious conversation, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I confess, I’m more intrigued than offended. So far.”
“You’ve given me a jolt. I hadn’t expected to come across anyone who knew all three victims.”
“I see. Okay. What am I supposed to be offended about?”
“For starters, I’ll ask if you slept with all three.” Since meeting her, he’s struggled to take command of the talk. Without his badge and the authority that it signifies, he’s been unable to deploy his usual methods. This is clumsy, he knows, but at least he’s achieved his objective, which is to confuse her, to undermine her native poise.
The professor continues to glare back at him, as if they’re combatants now, yet with lessening aggression and a deepening curiosity. She does not seem offended, although she remarks, “I can see where people might take exception to your phrasing, Detective. Shall I call you detective? Is that the correct salutation? You said you were working for the president?”
“With. Alongside. The president. Detective is fine. So is mister.”
“In what capacity, exactly? You said, a consultant?”
“Did you? Sleep with all three?”
He’s again caught off guard, this time by the naturalness of her laughter. He expected to have skidded more deeply under her skin by now. “Do I come across as some kind of slut to you, Mr. Cinq-Mars?”
She’s decided not to call him detective after all. “You did sleep with at least one of the three, did you not? Which one?”
“I’m not going to answer that. If you think you know, say so.”
“I’m curious. Why won’t you answer?”
“For starters, I’m a professor.”
“And Addie Langford was your student.”
“Secondly, it’s none of anyone’s business.”
“And Addie Langford was your student.” He lets her know that the accusation is not going to go away.