Today, she chose this bench more for its view of her own apartment building than for the bears. She stole another glance across Fifth Avenue. Nothing. She took a lick of the whipped cream on top of her Frappuccino.
She hadn’t planned to cut school. Her parents had offered to let her stay home, but honestly, the thought of staying in the apartment all day with her mom was unbearable. Her mother kept trying to convince her to talk about her feelings.
How are you feeling? How are you feeling? Tell me all about your feelings.
If she heard that word one more time, she was going to throw something. So she had put on her uniform with every intention of making it to classes. Then, on her way to Casden, she realized everyone would be talking smack about Julia—either pretending they were better friends with her than they were, or knew more about it than they possibly could, or saying she was the fucked-up head case who killed herself.
Before she knew it, she was calling the school from her cell phone, telling the headmistress’s secretary she was Adrienne Langston and that Ramona wouldn’t be coming to school today. No school. No home. Just walking through Central Park, thinking about that last phone call to Julia on Friday night.
Julia had picked up after half a ring: “Hey.”
“It happened again.”
“Your little visitor? How many times have I told you there’s a book about that you should read. Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. And then one day, when you meet a man you love and are ready to be married and have a baby—”
“Very cute. It’s my mom again. She’s acting weird.”
“Your mom’s not weird. Mine, on the other hand? Mindblow.”
“Seriously, she hasn’t been herself. If I ask her about it, she snaps at me.”
“You realize that no one else in the world would find this unusual, don’t you? Leave it alone, and consider yourself lucky.”
Ramona absorbed what Julia was trying to say, but she and her mom had always been more like best friends than mother and daughter—or stepmother and stepdaughter. That was exactly why the recent distance between them had been bothering her. She should have listened to Julia right then and there. She should have let it drop. But instead she’d gone on and on about how she and her mom were different from other relationships. What if the entire conversation had only served to remind Julia of how screwed up her own parents were?
“It’s not just the way she acts around me. She and my dad don’t seem—right lately. Maybe whatever’s bugging her, she doesn’t want my dad to know about it, either.”
“Oh, Jesus. George and Adrienne are like Ward and June fucking Cleaver. What do you mean, they’re not right?”
“My mom spends a lot of time on her own, holed up in her study. They seem sort of quiet with each other. Uncomfortable or something.”
“Seriously, your parents are, like, so perfect compared to mine. If you’re really worried about whatever Adrienne’s doing, go check it out yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Snoop. Go on her computer, look at her search history, read her e-mails—whatever.”
“No way.”
“Fine, I’ll come over and do it.” Julia had no qualms about reading diaries, opening medicine cabinets, and otherwise violating people’s privacy. As they were leaving Cynthia Lyons’s holiday party last December, she’d boasted proudly about searching the entire house. Not a speck of cocaine in sight. Apparently Mr. Lyons’s well-known stint in rehab had worked. “Or, better yet. Tell your dad. George will TCB.”
Ramona had never really thought of her father as a taking-care-of-business type. He was, after all, one of the partners who got squeezed out of his law firm during the downsizing.
“No, your dad would definitely TCB,” she said.
“Yeah, if you mean Take Care of Brittany, or whatever slut he’s banging lately.”
“You’re a sick, sick girl, Julia.”
“Just calling it like I see it. I learned a long time ago who my parents really were. Maybe it’s time you did the same.”
It was an uncharacteristically serious tone for Julia. It seemed as though lately all of their interactions were short, ironic quips. It was as if Julia had become such a strong personality that she could never be sincere. As if a moment of earnest compassion would literally melt the cool off of her.
Ramona had found herself wishing they were talking in person. She wanted to tell her that it wasn’t only her parents who hadn’t seemed right lately. She felt like something had been blocking the two of them. She missed her best friend. She wanted them to be the way they used to be, when nothing was secret and they really, truly knew each other, better than they knew themselves. She wanted to know why Julia wouldn’t come with her out to the Hamptons the next morning, insisting on staying in the city alone.
Instead, all Ramona had said was, “See you Monday?”
“Yep. Eleven o’clock at AJ’s. Maybe in the meantime George and Adrienne will get that extra boost they need in the boudoir. Oooh, George.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
Ramona had no idea those would be the last words she spoke to her best friend.
As she took another sip of her coffee drink, she finally spotted her mother rushing out the front door of their building. According to the clock on Ramona’s phone, her mom was running a few minutes late to her Pilates session.
Once her mother was out of sight, Ramona made her way across Fifth Avenue. She had rejected Julia’s advice on Friday, but it wasn’t too late to heed it now.
Inside her mother’s study, she jiggled the mouse on the computer. A password was required.
She thought about walking away. Her mother would never violate her trust this way.
She asked herself what Julia would do, then rested her fingertips on the keyboard to type.
R-A-M-O-N-A
Enter.
She was in.
Chapter Twenty-One
How can you drink this? It tastes like burnt motor oil.” Rogan scrutinized the name of the coffee shop printed on the side of the cup in his hand. “Coffee Monster? More like monstrous coffee.”
In the hour since Rogan had joined her in the car at Seventy-fourth and Madison, another three news vans had arrived outside the school. Ellie was on her second helping of java from the coffee shop across the street. “It’s right here. It’s caffeine. Whatever. Hey, there’s our guy.”
In the sideview mirror of their parked Crown Vic, Kenneth Wallace looked pretty much the same as he had in the photograph Rogan had found online, posing for a team shot at a run-for-cancer-research 5K. Same dark-blond tousled hair, thin face, slightly crooked nose as if from a break. Ellie could certainly understand why this guy was the campus dreamboat.
She started to open the car door as Wallace turned to walk in their direction, but Rogan reached across her and held the door shut. “Hold up.”
They watched as reporters swarmed the physics teacher. Even through the closed window, she could hear their questions. “Are you a parent? Do you teach at Casden? Did you know Julia Whitmire? We’ve heard that the school is refusing to make a statement, even to parents. Why are students being told not to speak with us? What is Casden trying to hide?”
The teacher held up his palms to block his face. His brisk walk turned into a jog, and the reporters finally gave up once he hit Madison Avenue.
“Now we go,” Rogan said. They hopped out of the car and caught up with him just as he crossed Madison at a diagonal, ducking into a café around the corner on Seventy-third.
Once he’d placed his order—something called a Panini Americano—they identified themselves. She saw him eyeing the door and wondered if he was considering bolting.
“I guess I don’t need to worry about being seen. The rest of the teachers were too afraid of the reporters outside to leave campus for lunch, and our headmistress is infamous for bringing in her own portion-controlled meals.”
“And you?” Ellie asked.
&n
bsp; “A guy’s got to eat. I told the vultures I had nothing to say, and now, voilà—” The man behind the counter handed him a white bag and a paper cup. “I can eat this sandwich and pretend I’m in Paris. Plus the coffee’s a hell of a lot better than that crap.”
Rogan gave his Monster Coffee cup another look of disapproval before tossing it in the trash. “You mind eating here?” he asked. “We’d like a few words with you. Probably better to do it away from the vultures.”
Ellie ordered two coffees from the counter before scoping out a small corner table.
“We’ve been surprised at the school’s reluctance to cooperate,” Ellie said. “On the one hand, we’ve got Julia’s parents so eager for answers they’ve announced a cash reward. Meanwhile, Julia’s own school has—well, it sounds like you know.”
“Our headmistress, Margaret Carter—have you met her yet?”
Ellie nodded.
“She rounded all the teachers up this morning to break the news about Julia. She expressed the appropriate amount of sadness, etcetera, but the message was clear. She’d be the point person for all communications, even with students—and it was pretty obvious she was going to remain as tight-lipped as possible.”
“And yet,” Rogan said, “you leave the building for lunch. You’re sitting here with us.”
He finished swallowing a huge bite of his sandwich before speaking. “I graduated first in my class in college with a degree in physics. Then I got a master’s at UC Berkeley. I’m about two years away from finishing my Ph.D. thesis. I wanted to be an astronaut.”
“Past tense?” Ellie asked.
“Turns out you may as well want to be a rock star. And until I get a Ph.D., there’s no tenure-track jobs to be had. Then you’ve got the private sector, where it’s pretty much impossible to do interesting work without somehow being part of the military-industrial complex.” He smiled. “I know, I should have been born earlier. I’m, like, the youngest hippie in America. And so, at least for now, I’m Mr. Wallace, mild-mannered physics teacher to the future leaders of the Free World. But I’ll tell you what: there’s no way I let some bureaucrat like Margaret Carter dictate what I can and cannot say when one of my students is dead.”
An antiauthoritarian free-spirit might be just the type to cross boundaries with an underage student. Ellie decided to let the topic rip. “We’ve been told you and Julia had a particularly close student-teacher relationship.”
He smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “Ah, classic. These kids are totally predictable. Let me guess: the always-provocative Marcus Graze?”
Her silence resolved any doubt.
“That would be the same Mr. Graze who just got a D for refusing to show any of his work on most of his assignments this semester. Pretty sure he’s cribbed some answers here and there from his peers.”
“So you don’t mind telling us where you were Sunday night?” she asked.
“Depending on the time, either with my wife’s family in Boston, or next to my wife on a plane headed back to New York. You can check with her if you’d like. Her family, too. The airlines, whatever you need.”
She nodded.
“Don’t get me wrong. God knows, Julia tried. So have others, but trust me, I’m quite unavailable.” Wallace pulled out a wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open to a photograph of a knock-out gorgeous brunette and a tiny baby. “This amazing woman is my wife. In addition to being breathtakingly beautiful, she’s a wonderful mother and a brilliant physician to boot. I’ve been off the market since I met her my freshman year in college. When these girls at the school start sniffing around, I wonder if it’s because I put out this air of complete unattainability. It’s like they all want the designer handbag that’s back-ordered for five months. It’s probably for the best that the attention seems to fall to me, because, honestly? I know some pretty decent guys who might not have been able to resist. Julia was—precocious. And more persistent than most. Pretty aggressive for such a young girl. She may have even told Marcus Graze something happened with me, just to have a story to tell.”
“You make her sound pretty troubled. Did anyone ever try to help?”
“There are too many of them to help, quite frankly. I saw my share of indulged kids at Occidental and Berkeley, but the crew here? Part of it’s the wealth, but a lot of it’s generational. They’re pressured to be absolutely perfect, and yet simultaneously told they can do no wrong. No one ever says no to them. If something isn’t right, it’s someone else’s fault. They blame someone like me for their D, or they call a doctor for a diagnosis.”
Ellie was glad he raised the topic. “We’re under the impression that the students take prescription drugs like they’re multivitamins.”
“That’s not just here. I mentioned that my wife’s a doctor? She might be even more idealistic than I am. She refuses to take handouts from the pharmaceutical industry or to write prescriptions people don’t need—especially for children who have nothing wrong with them. Between the two of us, we’ve managed to make ourselves broke, but at least we can look ourselves in the mirror. Get this.” He had abandoned his sandwich on the table, now animated by the current conversation. Ellie could imagine him as a college lecturer. “I talked to Maria—that’s my wife—about this last year when I found out a bunch of students had taken Ritalin and Adderall to help study for finals. It turns out the number of kids on psychotropic drugs is staggering. There have been cases of two-year-olds on Prozac. They now permit diagnosis of ADHD in children as young as four. And Maria thinks almost all of the diagnoses are bogus. Then, about ten percent of kids who haven’t been diagnosed take their friends’ drugs, just to get high. Was Julia messing with that kind of stuff?”
“You’ll understand we can’t tell you her medical history,” Ellie said.
“Well, the rumor is she killed herself but that her parents think otherwise. I’m not sure which is worse.”
Ellie did. She knew which was worse. And she knew why Bill and Katherine Whitmire so desperately needed another answer.
“At any other school, we’d expect to get access to every single student to find out what she may have been going through, who she was seeing, whether she was having problems. But here, kids are even shutting down their Facebook pages. Is it possible Julia was being bullied?” She wouldn’t be the first teenager to kill herself after a relentless campaign of torment that kids were capable of launching these days, typical schoolyard teasing now amplified by a thousand with a turbo boost from technology.
“I hate to say this, but Julia would have been more likely to be the bullier than the bullied in that kind of scenario. They’re pulling down their profiles because the school put the fear of God in them—no, worse, the fear of tackiness. Some kids might trade a lung for the infamy of some lame song on YouTube, but Casden’s all about propriety. The headmistress made it very clear: even if they set their pages to ‘private,’ all it takes is for one friend to cooperate with the media.”
“Next thing the kid knows,” Rogan said, “his party pictures are on the front page of a tabloid, the poster child for prep school dysfunction.”
“Exactly. So to make sure nothing is taken out of context, no Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, all that nonsense. One of the administrators told me that the school even hired a public relations firm to search the Internet for stories about the school and have the negative ones scrubbed. It’s like 1984.”
“But we saw parents lobbying the headmistress. They were angry, and they wanted information. Won’t a private school need to listen to that kind of pressure?”
Wallace was back to his sandwich, pausing to swallow before responding. “It’ll be interesting to watch the fallout. The kind of people who send their children to this school are used to having their way. But it’s ultimately about supply and demand. You wouldn’t believe some of the family names we’ve turned down. Even the head of the Fed needed a friend to pull strings to get his kid in. Parents can complain, but at the end of the day, what are
they going to do? Yank their kids? There are a hundred other families lined up who are willing to tell themselves that two dead teenagers is just a coincidence.”
“Is it?” Rogan asked. “Just a coincidence?”
Wallace crushed the empty wrapper of his sandwich into a tight ball. “I think even I have said enough at this point, Detectives.”
As they were heading back to the car, Rogan’s cell phone buzzed. “Rogan. . . . Yeah. . . . Can’t you just tell me? . . . All right. We’ll be right down.”
“Now what?”
“That was the CIS detective. He found something on Julia’s laptop.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Most law enforcement jobs came with cool-sounding titles, as with the forensic scientists who worked as criminalists, or the dispatchers, who were communications technicians. Even the clerical staff at least got nifty acronyms—PAAs, short for police administrative aides.
And so, unsurprisingly, the cops who did the increasingly important work of analyzing computers for the NYPD weren’t merely detectives: they were CIS detectives.
Typically, a victim’s computer would have been inspected at the precinct by one of the department’s “computer associates”—civilians who tended toward the long-haired, lanky, Dungeons & Dragons techno-nerd variety, more comic-con than Columbo. But when the daughter of Bill Whitmire was involved, Rogan had sent the laptop directly to headquarters to be examined by a CIS detective.
Because Julia was dead, they did not need a court’s permission to search every byte of the computer’s data. They could read her documents, follow her Internet surfing trail, and pore over her e-mail history. With her death, Julia had lost any right to privacy.
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