Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The phone in her purse rang again. Without looking, she reached in and muted it. Take that.

  She double-checked details, then made the call to the restaurant manager, who was delighted to accommodate her event. She recommended a neighboring hotel should Madison wish to reserve a small block of rooms. A glance at her notes confirmed that the particular hotel was already on her list. She took another look online, then made that call, too. All she needed was a few more details from Professor Andrus about his talk, and she’d be ready to write the letter to be sent to alumni within a five-state radius. She should be able to get a save-the-date message on the website by tomorrow....

  Her purse jumped and vibrated. She pushed it farther under her desk with one foot.

  Troy might be calling... But Madison didn’t want to talk to him, either. Not yet, anyway. She still hadn’t come to terms with last night or what it meant. Making love with Troy had been the most astonishing experience of her life. But she couldn’t forget the way she’d begged. Or the question he’d tried to ask her.

  It has to be mutual, not... Not what? What had he thought?

  God. He hadn’t made love to her out of pity, had he? He’d certainly been reluctant.

  I’m getting the feeling you’re more interested in the investigation than you are in me. You and I are never alone, Madison. Your father’s always here, too.

  She’d tried to deny it. That’s when she’d begged him not to go. Not like this, she had said.

  How should I leave? She hadn’t entirely been able to pin down what his tone meant, but now she thought it was contempt. He’d been impatient, even disgusted. Because she was so pathetically hung up on her daddy’s opinion.

  The quiver she felt, a kind of shriveling, made her feel pathetic. The next minute, her chin came up. She didn’t deserve his contempt. He’d been obsessed with his father, too. They’d sympathized. He kept saying, “I understand, Madison.” Apparently, like her father, Troy had lied, or his compassion and understanding had limits.

  No, she definitely didn’t want to talk to him, either. Not yet. Not until she understood better why she was scared and furious and confused, all at the same time. Why a part of her wanted to find out Dad had done something really sleazy, as if that would justify all the anger she’d tamped down so well she’d hardly known it was there.

  Oh, heavens—Dad and Troy would be sitting down together, and not in a friendly “meet the family” way. She could just hear her father, tone and words intended to freeze the insolent young police officer who dared to question him. And Troy—she already knew what Troy thought of her father, and that was partly her fault.

  She supposed Troy would be going to Portland. Would the interview be at Dad’s office, high in the U.S. Bancorp Tower? Personally, she believed that office was designed to intimidate, although her father would deny it. She’d always thought it funny that the skyscraper itself was built out of rose-colored granite; even the windows were tinted pink. So not Dad. It went without saying that the tower was one of the most prestigious addresses in Portland—Dad wouldn’t have picked it otherwise—but mostly she believed the appeal had been the view. With tall windows all around him, he could stand astride the city, the Willamette River at his feet, and in every direction see the volcanoes that defined the Northwest—Mt. Hood, St. Helens, Adams, even Rainier.

  Dad’s offices, of course, were done in severe black and gray with touches of gold. His desk was a huge slab of granite.

  Would Troy be intimidated?

  No. Her certainty let a little warmth begin to melt the ice that seemed to be encasing her.

  She only hoped he remembered that the man he was confronting was her father. And that, she thought, was assuming Troy actually cared about her and hadn’t been using her, for information, for connections, for... No, she couldn’t accuse him of that. He’d waited patiently for her to be ready for sex. And yes, he’d even been reluctant; she couldn’t let herself forget that.

  The warmth seemed to spread a little more as she thought, of course he cares. Kind, funny, intelligent, stubborn—those qualities were Troy. But the tenderness, that had been for her.

  Then why, if she didn’t have any doubts about how he felt, was she so uncertain?

  “I love him.” She jumped at the sound of her voice and was relieved to see her office door was closed. “I’m in love with him,” she said more softly, less tentatively than she’d expected.

  But, however betrayed she currently felt, she loved her father, too.

  Focus, she reminded herself, and managed—mostly—to do her job for the rest of the day.

  She swam her usual laps then went home, where she nibbled at a salad for dinner. Not until she was done, the kitchen clean, did she listen to her messages.

  To her surprise, the first was from Troy, not Dad. It was brief and to the point.

  “I spoke to your father. You may have heard from him by now. He chose to come to Frenchman Lake to talk to me. I’m assuming he’ll be staying with you.” There was a pause. “Call me, Madison. I’d like to see you tonight.”

  Next message.

  “I can’t believe you hung up on me. What is wrong with you?” Scathing rather than furious, Dad had obviously taken at least a few minutes to rein in his temper before leaving this message. “I’m driving over to Frenchman Lake Friday morning, meeting with this detective in the early afternoon. I assume we can have dinner? If you don’t have a guest room, I’m sure I can find a room somewhere.” He, too, paused. “I really would like to see you, Madison.” His voice had changed, become hesitant. “Give me a call.”

  Madison’s chest felt constricted. She couldn’t help noticing how much the two messages echoed each other. Call me. I want to see you.

  Dad didn’t know that there was a rivalry happening, but Troy did. Your father’s always here, too, he’d said, and now Dad would be, in the flesh.

  She hugged herself, trying to keep it together when she seemed to be falling apart.

  * * *

  TROY HAD COMMANDEERED a conference room for the upcoming interview. While he waited, he used the long table to lay out the map he’d constructed of the campus and of McKenna Sports Center in particular, with notations on who was verifiably where at what time. He was good at keeping it all in his head, but he liked to see it in front of him, too.

  In the course of the week that had passed since he returned from Seattle, he’d eliminated more people. A part of him was still a little disappointed to have crossed Gordon Haywood off his list, but he knew his dislike had been petty. Hickman, the grounds maintenance guy, wasn’t looking like a suspect, either. Troy had reached the ex-wife, who confirmed that he’d been home that entire night. It was thirty-five years ago, he’d reminded her, but Mrs. Hickman insisted the news of a murder on the campus had been so shocking, she’d have recalled anything out of the ordinary the evening before.

  She didn’t sound real fond of her ex, so Troy didn’t think she’d lie for him, although he couldn’t be sure. There was the possibility she had known her husband was paying the blackmail and had conspired, if only by her silence, to free them from a money drain they couldn’t afford. Or, more innocently, that she was a heavier sleeper than she’d admit and hadn’t noticed Leonard sneaking out for an hour. They’d lived less than half a mile from the campus.

  His gut said no, though; he thought she was straight-up, and that while Leonard Hickman wasn’t a very nice guy, he also wasn’t a murderer.

  His phone vibrated and he answered.

  “Mr. Guy Laclaire is here, Detective, and says he has an appointment with you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be right out.”

  Troy didn’t often let himself get nervous, but he discovered as he walked to the lobby of the police station that today was an exception. Grimacing, he rotated his shoulders to ease some of the muscle tension. There wouldn’t be as much of it if he’d felt more confident in Madison, but, reality was, he was scared to death he’d made a big mistake with her.


  She had called him back the night before last, well after dinner, and said, “Yes, Dad left a message saying he’d like to stay with me Friday night. I haven’t talked to him yet. I’m actually surprised he’s coming to Frenchman Lake. I suppose you were hoping he would, so you wouldn’t have to waste your department budget on a trip to Portland.”

  A half day’s drive, maybe one night in a hotel. Sure.

  “He surprised me by offering.”

  “Well, his only child does live here, after all.”

  “Except that in the year and a half you’ve been on board at Wakefield, he hasn’t yet visited you.” The biting words were no sooner out than Troy wished he’d left them unspoken. They’d sting, and he hadn’t meant them that way.

  “Are you suggesting we’re not close?” Her voice held astringency. “And yet you claim he’s always here.”

  “Damn it, Madison, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m afraid I have plans tomorrow night,” she said coolly. “Why don’t we talk once my father has left?”

  Approaching the front of the police station, Troy reflected wryly that he had only himself to blame. He’d made passionate love to the woman, then instead of calling the next day to say, “That was the best night of my life, I hope you feel the same,” he’d left her a crisp message about her father. He had let his own insecurities get to him, and in doing so had scraped at the scar tissue—or was it only a scab?—that covered hers.

  He was an idiot.

  One who was now going to interview her father.

  And, by God, he would be completely professional. He wouldn’t wonder if Madison had already lied to her father and told him she’d met Detective Troyer only in passing at the time capsule opening.

  He’d found pictures of Guy Laclaire online, so he knew him immediately. The golden boy had aged well, becoming a handsome man who obviously worked at maintaining his lean, athletic physique. He stood as Troy approached, his face impassive but his expression watchful. The dark suit he wore probably cost twenty times what Troy had ever paid for anything in his wardrobe. The fit in the shoulders and the drape were way too perfect to be off the rack.

  Guy had passed on his coloring to his daughter, the mahogany brown hair and brown eyes, the slight golden tint to the skin that suggested a Mediterranean heritage. Somehow, though, the pictures hadn’t revealed the resemblance, but in person it was obvious. Something about the cheekbones, the distinctly high forehead. If anything had come from her mother, it was the lush figure.

  “Mr. Laclaire,” Troy said, holding out a hand. “I’m Detective Troyer. Thank you for coming.” He glanced past him. “Do you have an attorney with you?”

  “No. However, I will stop the interview if at any time I think I need one.”

  “Fair enough. This way.”

  They walked silently through the squad room, Laclaire’s head turning as he took in the busy officers and detectives, the sobbing young teenage girl who had been just been picked up for shoplifting—as if clerks at J.C. Penney weren’t going to notice a thirteen-year-old browsing the store when she was supposed to be in school.

  “Bigger than I would have expected,” Laclaire commented, nodding at their surroundings.

  “I’ve explained to your daughter that even sleepy college towns have domestic violence, robbery, rape and pretty much every other crime you get in a city.”

  Those sharp eyes turned to him. “Madison?”

  Oh, hell, did his surprise mean she had lied?

  Troy consoled himself with the possibility that she and her father might not yet have really talked.

  “Yes,” he said evenly, “we met when I was assigned to be the police department liaison to the college for the time capsule opening. There was more concern than usual because a couple of the alumni coming were well known. And, of course, I’d have been there anyway in my father’s stead.”

  “I see.” He nodded.

  Troy held open the door to the conference room and stood back to let Leclaire go ahead. The papers were still spread out on one end of the long table, so Troy gestured to the other end. He was aware that Laclaire took a look at the spread as he walked by before choosing to sit at the very end of the table, as if assuming that the chairman’s position was naturally his. Or else it was a tactical move.

  Troy, who didn’t care about crap like that, pulled out another chair.

  “Do you intend to tape this interview?”

  “No, actually I don’t,” Troy said, “but I can if you’d prefer it.”

  Laclaire watched him flip open his spiral notebook with mild incredulity. “You take notes.”

  Troy smiled. “Works for me.”

  Laclaire drummed his fingers on the table, looked down as if in surprise and stopped. “Is your father the only one who saw me that night?”

  “Yes, although I’d have gotten around to interviewing you anyway, as you were seen with Mitchell King in circumstances that suggest he was blackmailing you.”

  He grunted. “All these years.”

  “You must have suspected my father saw you.”

  “No. Yes. Hell, I don’t know.” Suddenly, he sounded human. “I knew something was wrong. We were friends, you know.”

  “So I gather.”

  “I thought he was pissed because I’d stood him up. We were supposed to meet for a game of racquetball.”

  Troy only waited.

  “I was paying the little prick. Not your father.” A sharp glance. “You know the worst part? It wasn’t the money. It was the pleasure he took in bringing everyone down to his level. He insisted on monthly payments made in person, just so he could rub it in. And then there were the games he’d play. He’d keep you standing there while he laughed and joked and pretended you were buddies. But, Jesus—” He lifted a hand that had a faint tremor and rubbed it over his face. “Not even he deserved that.”

  Lightbulb on. “You saw his body.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I was running. I got there early, didn’t see Joe—who always got there ahead of me anywhere we went—and so I stuck my head in the john, the sauna, you know. And I saw Mitch.”

  “Were you certain it was Mr. King?”

  “Not a hundred percent. His face...” He stopped, shook his head. “I suppose you’ve seen photos. He wore this bracelet, though. Braided cord. That arm was flopping off the bench....”

  To his credit, he looked as if the very memory made him queasy. Troy understood. The crime scene photos had been ugly, even to a man relatively conditioned to such sights.

  Thinking hard, Troy studied Laclaire. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Laclaire.”

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re making no effort to deny that you were present that night. I appreciate you being forthcoming.” Troy was careful to keep his tone entirely bland. “However, I have to wonder why you chose to admit being there, when thirty-five years ago you were unwilling to do so, even though your testimony would have been an enormous help in pinning down a time frame for the murder.”

  Laclaire’s jaws flexed. “I was twenty-one years old, and terrified that someone would find out I’d cheated for a grade. I’d shocked even myself by my behavior. When I saw Mitch, all I could think was that if anyone found out he’d been blackmailing me, I’d be suspected of killing him. I was there, wasn’t I? I did what most kids my age would have done in the same circumstances—I ran like hell and prayed no one had seen me.” He grunted. “Where was your father?”

  “Sitting on the edge of the fountain waiting for you.”

  Laclaire gave a bark of a laugh. “Assuming he’d beaten me there, of course.” There was a wry kind of affection in his voice.

  Troy had to fight any softening.

  “How long had Mr. King been blackmailing you?”

  “Since the beginning of the semester. I’d made four payments.”

  “Did you have any reason to suspect you were not his only victim?”

  That earned him an incredulous look from those sharp ey
es. “I knew there were others. He had a ledger. I assume the killer took it, since the police never made reference to the possibility that he was anything but an innocent college student. If they’d found the ledger, they’d have seen my name.”

  “Did it cross your mind that, had you shared what you knew, you could have made it possible for the police to catch the killer?”

  Guy Laclaire stared back at him. “Yes. Goddamn it, yes. But I couldn’t take that risk.”

  “How great was the risk, Mr. Laclaire?” Troy allowed the knife edge to sound in his voice. “What did you do that forced you to pay up?”

  The flick of muscles in his jaw was again the only sign of discomfiture. “I told you. I cheated in a class.”

  Troy raised his eyebrows.

  “It was a senior seminar in my major. I had been flattered to be allowed to take it a year early. I thought I walked on water. I’d gotten so cocky that I thought I could get straight A’s with one hand tied behind my back. I’d turn out a dazzling final paper for the class, I was sure. But I kept putting it off. I’d been shaken by a B on a midsemester paper. The professor had written all over the damn thing. Even I could see that he was right. So I kept procrastinating. I finally did write one, but it was shit. I asked for an incomplete in the class, claimed to have had mono.”

  “And then?” Troy prodded.

  “I found a brilliant, incisive paper written by some grad student somewhere that had been published in an obscure magazine focused on literary analysis. I typed it and turned it in a few weeks after the semester had ended. I received an A on the paper and in the class.” He grimaced, making him look more human. “And from that moment on, I had this rock in my stomach. I swore I would never cheat again, never permit myself to take shortcuts. I have lived my life by that vow, Detective Troyer. I did not hurt Mitch King. I considered him my penance.”

  Troy had heard that before. “But you hated him.”

  “Yes.” Madison’s father met Troy’s eyes unflinchingly. “He was scum, preying off other people’s weaknesses. Ultimately, however, I believe it might be more accurate to say that he stood in as a symbol of how I felt about what I’d done.”