“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Yes. Thanks for helping out with class assignments.” I turned around and went to the mailboxes behind her. There were various notices, papers, and messages, all of which I scrunched up into a stack and put in the outside pocket of my briefcase.
She swung around in her chair, blocking my exit. “The cute detective called,” she said, and winked at me. Dottie is sixty, looks seventy, and can be coquettish with the best of them.
“Cute detective?” I asked in that ridiculously casual way you do when you know exactly to whom someone is referring but don’t want to let on.
“You know. Crawford,” she said. “The Irish-looking one. Not the one that always looks like he’s in a bad mood. Although he’s kind of handsome, too, in a more rugged . . .”
I looked at her, waiting for the message. “And?”
She looked back at me, her eyes, heavy with mascara, blinking at me. “And what?”
“What did he want?” I enunciated.
“For you to call him,” she enunciated back. She whipped back around in her chair and faced her desk, her back to me. Thank God this conversation was over.
I made my way across the expanse of the office floor, past the long, antique prefect’s table and its mismatched chairs, and the closed doors of the offices belonging to my late-arriving colleagues. I stopped outside of my door, with its frosted glass insert, and saw Father Kevin emerge from the office of the French Department chair, Denis Marchant, whose office was to the right and down a short hallway from mine. Denis was a little younger than the rest of us and quite the bon vivant. Handsome, single, and French, he was a favorite among the female population on campus. French majors had increased by 20 percent when he joined the faculty. A cloud of smoke followed Kevin out of the office, and I knew immediately that the two of them had had their usual morning Gauloise smoke-a-thon, a no-no in a “nonsmoking” building. Kevin had on his black shirt, priest’s collar, well-worn jeans and Birkenstock sandals. It looked like an outfit from the Stoner Priest collection.
“Later, Denis,” Kevin said, and he came down the short hallway to the main area. He saw me and stopped. “Hey! Feeling better?” he asked. “I can do the intercession of St. Blaise thing if you have a sore throat.”
My level of guilt rose with every query of concern I had to answer to. “It was my stomach.” I lowered my eyes. “But thanks, Kevin.” I made the process of looking for my keys into a long, drawn-out affair so I didn’t have to make eye contact. He stood next to me, waiting for me to ask him in. I took the keys out of my briefcase and put the key into the lock, opening the door.
My office had been vandalized, ransacked, burgled, and turned upside down, basically. My file cabinet had been upended, and all of the files and papers were scattered all over the room. Books had been pulled out of the two large built-ins, and were strewn across my desk, the radiator, the floor, and every other clean spot. A large “X” had been carved into my desk, and my phone cord cut. Kevin came up behind me and none too delicately, shouted, “Holy crap!”
Dottie wheeled out from behind her desk and into the main area of the office area to get a better look. She called out to me. “Everything OK back there?”
I stood for a moment, taking in the destruction. Finally, having gleaned a bit about securing a crime scene from watching shows on Max’s cable station, I slammed my door shut and locked it, running past the large table to Dottie’s desk. “Give me the phone,” I commanded, holding out my hand. Without a word, she handed it to me, and I rested it on the edge of the glass partition that separated her from the rest of the floor. I had memorized Crawford’s cell number and punched it into the phone. He answered after three rings. The din in the background suggested to me that he was at work. “It’s me,” I said. Kevin came up beside me and stood there. “My office has been broken into.”
He sighed. “I’ll get some uniforms over. Don’t go in, and don’t let anyone in. Even campus security. Especially campus security.”
We hung up, and I handed the phone back to Dottie. “Thanks, Dottie.” She looked at me expectedly, like I was going to let her in on something. “My office was broken into.”
She whistled through her teeth. “The cops coming?” she asked, hopefully.
I nodded. “Let’s keep this as quiet as we can,” I said. “As a matter of fact, Kevin, stand outside and run interference with the students coming in for office hours, if you would. I’ll go outside and meet the police so I can bring them right in.”
I left the building through the back way and trotted up the steps to the front entrance of the dorm behind my building. I turned around and saw that if I had paid any attention while entering the building, I would have noticed the destruction as I had descended the steps. But I hadn’t, too busy eating my donut and making deals with God about Joe’s belly.
As I reached the top of the steps and went into the dorm parking lot, a police car screeched to a stop almost at my feet. Two officers—a young black man named Simons and an older, ruddy-faced man with a flat top whom I immediately renamed “Officer Jarhead”—jumped out. The older one, whose real name was Moriarty, spoke. “Alison Bergeron?” he asked.
I nodded. “Follow me.” A few students had gathered in the parking lot and begun to mumble among themselves.
Once inside, I sat down at the long table to wait for Crawford. Simons stayed with Kevin on the landing outside of the main office area and kept the door shut. Dottie, Moriarty, and I sat in silence, looking at each other occasionally.
Crawford showed up within a half hour. Although his hair was damp, and he was clean-shaven, he was still wearing the jeans and Teva sandals that he had on the day before. His shirt was new, though: a blue T-shirt, with big, white NYPD letters stamped across the front and back. The gold shield was on its silver chain and hanging to the middle of his chest. He had the big gun on, and it was in the leather shoulder holster over the T-shirt. I looked over at Dottie, who was staring at him and fanning herself with a college catalog.
Simons entered behind him, followed by Kevin. They closed the door to the office area and walked toward my office, where Moriarty was standing guard. Crawford asked Kevin to sit with me at the table. “Anyone else here?” he asked.
“Just Denis Marchant, the French chair,” I said, pointing to the alcove where Denis’s office was.
Crawford took a pair of rubber gloves out of his pants pocket and put them on. He asked for my keys and opened the door to my office and stepped in, careful to avoid the debris. When he saw the deeply etched “X” in the middle of the desk, he turned to Moriarty, and said, “Call Crime Scene.”
Moriarty, a little over five feet five and quite rotund, lumbered down toward Dottie’s desk and asked for her phone. Before handing it to him, she murmured, “I’m Dottie.”
I couldn’t hear his response clearly, but it sounded like “I’m good,” or “I’m food,” or “I’m Mook.” Whatever it was, these two were made for each other. They were the same size, same age, and had the same haircut.
Crawford looked at me. “I’m going to need a complete list of what was in here.” He saw the alarmed look on my face, and said, “To the best of your knowledge.”
“I’ve been here nine years. What wasn’t in there?” I asked, out of patience, a little hysterical, and into full-blown snotty mode.
He remained impassive, either used to crime victims or the moods of women; he did have teenage daughters. “Why don’t you start now? Do you have paper?” He turned his attention from me to Simons. “Simons, do you have a camera in the car?”
Simons nodded and left the floor to get it.
His monotone was annoying. Was this our first fight? If it was, he didn’t seem to know it. I sat down and pulled a blue exam book from the pile on the center of the table. I started jotting down what I thought might be the contents of my office. “Year one,” I said aloud. “Midterms, essays, research papers . . .”
He looked over at me and gave me
a pained smile. “That’s not necessary.” He looked up and saw Moriarty, deep in conversation with Dottie, leaning against her desk. “How we doing on Crime Scene, Charlie?” he called out.
Moriarty looked up in surprise. “They’ll be here in twenty, Detective.” He bid Dottie good-bye and came lumbering back toward my office.
Simons returned with a large, black camera with a big flash panel across the top. He handed it to Crawford and put the bag outside the office. “Here you go, Detective.”
Crawford nodded and put the camera to his face, starting with the desk. He seemed particularly interested in the “X” on it. To my thinking, it was just the vandal being an even bigger asshole than he or she already was. But Crawford seemed to think it had some significance. He took several pictures of it from different angles. He then turned his attention to the bookshelves and took several pictures of them and the books on the floor. He moved around the small office, gingerly stepping over the contents, and snapped pictures. He turned around at one point, and asked, “How’s that list coming?” more to be a pain in the ass than out of genuine concern.
I gave him a double thumbs-up. “Excellent!” I was on the third year and sure that I had missed a bunch of things already. I was beyond caring, though.
Wyatt arrived just as Crawford was reviewing some of the pictures he had taken with the camera. He was dressed as casually as Crawford in jeans, T-shirt, and giant basketball sneakers. He nodded at me in greeting when he arrived, but I still got the feeling that he didn’t trust me completely. Or maybe he knew what was going on between me and Crawford and didn’t approve. For the third time that day, I felt guilty. I was ahead of schedule in the daily guilt allotment. I returned to my blue book and the list of office contents.
Crawford brought Wyatt up to speed. Crawford’s back was to me, and Wyatt faced me, looking at me over Crawford’s shoulder while he recounted the events of the morning. I stared right back at him, my pen poised above the paper. When Crawford finished, Wyatt came over and sat down. “Tell me what happened.”
“Didn’t Crawford just tell you?” I asked. I saw Crawford wince a bit at my tone.
Wyatt let out a breath. “Tell me again.”
I was getting tired of telling the same old stories again and again. “I got to work, opened my door, saw that the office was trashed, and closed the door.”
“Was there anyone on the floor at the time?”
“Just Dottie, Denis, and Father Kevin,” I said, hooking a thumb in Kevin’s direction. Kevin, who was slumped in a chair playing with a paper clip, perked up a bit at the mention of his name.
“Padre,” Wyatt said, acknowledging Kevin’s presence.
“Detective,” Kevin said, and held out his hand.
The phone rang at Dottie’s desk, and she picked it up. “Professor? Sister Mary.” She held the receiver out to me, even though I was too far away to reach it.
I rolled my eyes at Kevin and went over to Dottie’s desk. “Yes, Sister?” She read me the riot act about closing the office floor, and when she took a breath, I was able to explain the situation to her. She asked me when they would open the floor again. “No idea,” I said. “But as soon as I find out, I’ll let you know.”
We hung up. Moriarty had arrived back at Dottie’s desk to take her statement. He pulled up a chair next to her desk and began questioning her. The way she described her job made it sound way more important and complex than it really was.
Wyatt was sitting across from Kevin, getting information from him. I walked over to Crawford, who put an arm across the opening of the office to keep me out. He looked down at me. “Fred?” he called. “I’m going to take Professor Bergeron’s statement. Crime Scene should be here any minute.”
Wyatt nodded and turned back to Kevin. Crawford looked at me. “Is there an empty office?” he asked.
I shook my head but led him to Denis’s office, around the corner. I tapped on the glass of his office door slightly and heard one of the desk drawers slam shut. Probably hiding the contraband. “Denis? Can we borrow your office?” I asked in French.
The door opened and Denis appeared, the usual cloud of smoke hanging heavily in the air. He looked terrified when he saw Crawford, but he nodded and exited as quickly as he could.
Crawford and I went into the office; I sat at Denis’s desk, Crawford in the chair between the desk and the door. Denis’s office was more long than wide, with the desk, visitor chair, and bookshelf all crammed against one wall. Unlike mine, the window opened onto a brick wall so nobody could see in. I looked at Crawford, and he looked back at me—not with the sad face, but with the really bad-news face. I fought the urge to burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” I said.
He looked at me blankly.
“For being such a snot. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. It’s all getting to me,” I admitted.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize.”
“Why is this happening?” I asked.
He leaned in close, and whispered, “You’ve obviously got something that someone wants. Think. What could that be?” he asked, looking deep into my eyes.
I folded and unfolded my hands in my lap. “I don’t know.” I thought for a moment and shook my head. “I don’t know.”
He nodded, resigned. I wasn’t going to be any help. “Think. What could you have that someone wants? Is it something of Ray’s, maybe?” He pulled back a bit. “If you think of anything . . .”
“I know, I know. We’ve been through this a hundred times. Call you. Anytime. Day or night,” I intoned.
He stood. “Let’s go back out. I want to see if Crime Scene has come so we can finish this up and open the office again.”
“That’s a cool T-shirt,” I said, as he opened the door. I fingered the sleeve. “Can I get one when this is over?”
He looked back at me and smirked. “You can have anything you want when this is over.”
I had a feeling he wasn’t referring to police-issue clothing, and my stomach fluttered slightly.
Fifteen
The investigation progressed for most of the day. I sat at the table, watching the Crime Scene detectives do what they do best: put stuff in little baggies. I watched seven pencils and four markers be bagged as evidence, along with my fake Rangers’ hockey puck and my framed photograph of Mark Messier, the greatest Ranger of all time, in my opinion, which I hoped I would get back. I couldn’t fantasize about being Mrs. Mark Messier if I couldn’t stare at his picture for hours on end. At two-forty, I grabbed Crawford. “Can I go to class?” I asked. “I have Shakespeare in a few minutes.”
He nodded. “I’ll walk you.”
Sister Mary ambushed Crawford on the landing outside the office floor. “This is very disruptive, Detective,” she said. She stood six feet two inches in stocking feet and probably had twenty pounds on him. She had the bearing of an army drill sergeant and the monochromatic wardrobe to match. I might have imagined it, but he looked cowed.
“We’ll be done shortly, Sister,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, so I’ll give you an update.” Crawford slunk away, with me at his side. We went up a flight of stairs to the fourth floor and down the hall to the class where I taught the Shakespeare course. The hallway was empty and the door was closed. We stood in front of the door, me clutching my briefcase like a football, and him with hands plunged deep into his jeans pockets.
“You haven’t talked to Ray, have you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not since yesterday.” I told him about our phone call at the beach while he was sleeping.
He looked at me intently. “Did you tell him where you were?”
“No.”
“If you talk to him again, you need to call me. Or if he shows up at the house. Any contact at all.”
I nodded to show him I understood.
“I would feel better if you spent the weekend with Max. I’ll drive you if you want to go.” He stood for a moment and thought, looking at me intently. “You’re no
t going to go, are you?”
I shook my head.
“You are stubborn,” he said. “I’ll be over later,” he said, and walked away before I had a chance to respond. “And I’m not sleeping in my car, so let’s figure something out,” he called back over his shoulder.
“I’ll be grading papers!” I yelled. His rubber sandals made a squeaking noise as he walked down the hall; he didn’t respond. “So, don’t expect anything exciting!” He disappeared through the door; I heard it slam shut.
Several students made their way down the hall a few moments later. I opened the door to the classroom and let the five students out of eight who had shown up—John Costigan, Mercedes Rivas, Fiona Martin, Jake Carlyle, and Deb McCarthy—into the room. I went over to the desk and put my briefcase down and decided to answer the question before it was asked. “Before you ask, no, I have not graded your papers yet.” I held my hand up as the groans, complaints, and accusations began. “However, I promise that I will have them back to you by Monday.” I stopped and waited until they were silent. “Promise,” I emphasized.
Fiona Martin raised her hand, and I nodded to her. The students were in two rows, Fiona at the front of the row to my left. “What’s going on in the office area?” she asked.
Word gets around fast. I picked up a piece of chalk from the ledge on the blackboard behind me and rolled it between my fingers. I was still a bit off-kilter from what had happened this morning and was having a hard time focusing on the class and the lesson plan. “Just a little problem with one of the offices,” I said, and turned to write on the board, trying to keep the focus on Macbeth and off the crime that had taken place in my office.
“What kind of problem?”
I stopped writing, the chalk in midair. I thought the subject was closed, but apparently she didn’t agree. I turned around. “Fiona?”
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