Jones’s face darkened. Branigan was suddenly glad there were other people nearby. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Did he give it to the police anyway?”
“He’s trying to. But his cell phone is not where he said it would be.”
Jones looked hopeful for a moment. Branigan answered his unspoken question. “But he did tell the police all about it.”
“Damn.” He put his head in his hands. “Look, I know this is no excuse, but I was drunk, okay? We were all drunk. Including, I might add, the man in the tent.”
Branigan stared at him. “But you beat up a homeless man as a fraternity pledge function.”
Jones’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned back into the couch. “Yeah. We did.”
“And then you paid Ralph Batson $300 to keep it quiet?”
“Yeah. Are the police bringing charges?”
“No. Max Brody is dead.”
“What? We didn’t kill him.” Jones’s voice rose to a whine.
Branigan decided she didn’t like Jones Rinehart; that he was both a bully and a coward. She let him suffer a moment longer.
“No, I didn’t mean to imply that,” she said finally. “He was one of the homeless people killed last summer. You may have heard about it.”
Jones looked relieved. “Yeah, I did. But I didn’t know the name of the guy we…” His voice trailed off. “So there won’t be charges then?”
Branigan shook her head irritably. “I’m not here to get you into trouble, Mr Rinehart. I’m here to ask you some questions about Ralph Batson. He claims that after successfully extorting money from you, he thought he’d try it with other fraternities and sororities. Do you know anything about that?”
Jones picked up his beer, some of his swagger returning. “Yeah, he knew some of us Greeks had money.”
“But did you hear anything from other students?”
“Yeah, maybe something at the Sigma Eta house. And you might ask Sophie over at the Kappa Eps. Maggie said a creep had taped their Halloween party where some underage girls got drunk and threw up. But they told him to take a hike.”
“They didn’t pay?”
“I can’t swear to it. But from what Maggie said, I think Sophie told him to get lost. I wish I’d thought of that.”
Branigan was quiet for a moment. “I’ll talk to Sophie. But did anyone else have a run-in with Ralph? Maybe the Gamma Delta Phis?”
Jones snorted. “Like what? He videoed them in public without pearls?”
Branigan sighed. “Let’s go back to your interactions with Ralph. Was there any violence?”
“The first night he followed us back to the house, he tried to show his little video to a couple of the brothers. He also threw a few punches. But there were lots more of us.” He snickered. “I broke his nose.”
Branigan could picture Jones Rinehart punching the much burlier Ralph – if his frat brothers were holding Ralph down. “And later with you? Did he threaten you?”
“Not physically. When he came back sober the next day, he threatened to take the video to the college president. That would’ve gotten me kicked out of school, maybe arrested. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
“Did you spend a lot of time with Ralph?”
“It felt like it. But no, not more than half an hour total.”
“What did he talk about?”
“Mostly about how his recording would ruin my life. He had a whole scenario about how that would play out.”
“Like what?”
“Like my parents refusing to pay for my senior year. Like being kicked out of school and prevented from going to law school. Like me living in Tent City, where everybody’d know I had attacked one of their own.” Jones rolled his eyes. “He was pretty convincing, the douche bag.”
“How many times did he come by?”
“Three. I didn’t have cash the first time. I paid the next two.”
“Did he ever say anything about Maylene Ayers?”
“The girl he killed? No, he didn’t say anything.” Jones stopped and thought for a moment. “But I have to admit, something changed during that spring semester. I honestly thought he was going to keep bleeding me – until I ran out of money or figured out how to make him back off. But then he just stopped coming around. I thought he’d found a richer vein of frat boys. But maybe Maylene settled him down.”
“Did you know Maylene?”
“Saw her around, but didn’t know her. She was pretty hot, but a do-gooder, you know? Always collecting coats and stuff for the homeless. Not exactly my thing, as you might imagine.” He tipped back the last of his beer and crushed the can.
Branigan closed her notebook and stood. “Anything else you think I should know?”
“Can you let me know if that cell phone surfaces?”
Branigan didn’t bother to answer.
Branigan stood for a moment outside the Rho Beta Iota house, wondering how a friend of Charlie had got mixed up with the self-involved Jones Rinehart. She wondered if she should tell Charlie to warn Maggie, then decided it was none of her business.
Heaven knows I’m in no position to offer dating advice, she thought.
She walked back to the Kappa Epsilon Chi house, climbed the porch steps and knocked. Something was nagging at her about Anna Hester. The wannabe reporter was one of the last people to talk to Maylene. Did she know something that she didn’t use in her story? And did Sylvia Eckhart rush over to tell her about Ralph’s little video hobby?
The girl who answered Branigan’s knock invited her in, but reported back minutes later that Anna’s roommate thought she was still at the Swan Song office.
“Is that in the student center?” asked Branigan.
“Yeah, third floor,” said the young woman.
“I hate to keep bothering you, but is Sophie Long in?”
“She’s in the kitchen.” The girl trotted to the kitchen, shouting, “Sophie!”
Sophie Long appeared at the doorway, a sandwich in one hand.
“You’re letting your hair grow out,” Branigan said.
“Yep, interviews this semester,” she said. “I needed a real world ’do.”
“It looks good,” Branigan told her honestly.
“Thank you. Can I help you? Would you like something to drink?”
“No, and I don’t want to keep you from your supper either. I have just one question for you.”
Sophie sat on one of the couches and motioned for Branigan to have a seat. “Fire away.”
“It’s about the man who’s accused of killing Maylene Ayers. Apparently he took some videos of fraternity and sorority parties here at the college and was trying to extort money for them. Did he do that to you?”
Sophie laid her sandwich on a napkin. “Yeah, Ralph something, the jerk. He got some of our underage girls drinking and throwing up.”
“But you didn’t pay?”
“I was tempted,” Sophie admitted. “But I finally decided, ‘You know what? I don’t have enough fingers to plug this dam.’ I told him to do his worst. As it turns out, we blew it anyway with this year’s pledging. Which, of course, was all over The Rambler.” She shrugged. “This time next year all this sorority silliness isn’t going to mean a thing. And it can’t end soon enough for me.”
“Why do you say that?”
She poked a finger through her sandwich, as if she’d lost her appetite. “Just that it all seemed kind of wild and fun my first three years. But being president, I started feeling some responsibility. And I found out I had no control over these girls.”
“Over their drinking, you mean?”
“Over their drinking, their bad decision-making, you name it. If that girl had died at our pledge party, I could’ve been named in a lawsuit. And this whole thing with our hearse, people looking at us like we’re involved. I’m ready to gra
duate and get out of here.”
“Who’s looking at you like you’re involved?”
“Other students. Faculty members. Or who knows? Maybe I’m imagining it.”
Branigan remained silent in case Sophie wanted to add something. When she didn’t, Branigan spoke quietly to make sure they couldn’t be overheard by the girls in the kitchen. “Sophie, do you think one of the Kappa Eps ran Janie Rose and Charlie off the road?”
Sophie’s eyes remained downcast and she stabbed again at her sandwich. “No-o-o,” she said slowly. “It’s not that exactly. No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“But?”
“But… but… I don’t know.” Her eyes slid to Branigan’s and away again. “I’m wondering if I should resign before anything else happens that I can be held responsible for.”
“I can understand that,” Branigan said. “Especially if you feel you have no control over what the other sisters do.”
She waited, hoping Sophie would continue, but the girl wrapped her sandwich in her napkin in a gesture of finality.
“One more thing,” Branigan said. “Did you hear about anyone who did pay Ralph?”
“Those idiot Robies,” Sophie said, her voice gaining a hint of her former confidence. “But we heard he had something bigger on them than drinking. I was never clear what it was. We heard everything from making pledges steal from a downtown store to throwing water balloons off the Nicholas Inn onto homeless people.” She stood.
“Okay,” said Branigan. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for your help.”
Sophie hesitated. “Were you looking for Anna too?”
“Yes. I understand she’s at the newspaper office.”
“Should be. She pretty much lives up there.”
Branigan had the impression the young woman wanted to say something else, so she pretended to go through her purse in order to give her time. When Sophie didn’t speak, Branigan tried once more. “You look like you want to say something.”
When Sophie spoke, it was in a near whisper. “It really didn’t occur to me until after you were here last time. But the hearse driver who killed Janie Rose Carlton had to be someone we know. Someone who’s been in our house.”
Branigan nodded. “Yes.”
Sophie’s eyes looked tortured. “I feel like everything I ever knew has been jerked out from under me.” She shuddered, as if swept by a cold draft. “I can’t wait to get away from this school.”
Chapter Eight
Malachi sat on the bench in front of Bea’s on Main Street. Weak afternoon sunlight filtered through the bare limbs of a silver maple. He liked the way the sun fractured all over him, dancing almost, when the wind blew. His coveralls were zipped to the neck to ward off the chill that was moving in with the late afternoon wind. He was reading Sunday’s Grambling Rambler, which he’d taken from the newspaper’s recycling bin.
Miz Branigan didn’t have a story today, but that Miz Marjorie did. It was a story about a little boy whose soldier daddy surprised him in the middle of a school spelling bee. His winning word was artillery. His daddy, dressed in khaki camouflage, walked on stage to give him his trophy. The fourth-grader had burst into tears.
Malachi rubbed under his own eyes.
Reading about the soldier reminded Malachi of the cash rolled up in an inside pocket of his coveralls. He patted it. He didn’t like to carry this much cash on him. Way too dangerous for the places he went, the people he saw. But he’d cashed his veteran’s disability check on Friday and had kept $200 for a week in a motel. That’d give him a shower and a warm place to sleep when it turned colder tomorrow, as it was supposed to. He was looking forward to watching TV in his underwear, out of these heavy coveralls.
Cars drove lazily up and down Main, careful of the pedestrians who were jaywalking with their over-priced coffees. Malachi didn’t see the point of buying a cup for two dollars when he got it free at Jericho Road. A black Mercedes pulled into a spot right in front of Bea’s, and Malachi recognized the dead girl’s father from the hospital back in December, the one Miz Branigan was talking to on the way through the emergency room. Malachi wondered where his wife was. The father wore a gray running suit. His jaw was clenched just as Malachi remembered. The man was aiming for a heart attack.
He passed Malachi without a glance, and headed into the bakery. Three minutes later, he came out, coffee in hand. If he could afford that Mercedes, Malachi figured, a two-dollar coffee wasn’t going to bother him none. He passed Malachi again, unseeing. The man got into the black car, but he didn’t pull out. He sat staring through his windshield. Then he got back out of the car and walked south.
Malachi placed his newspaper in a garbage can on the sidewalk, and slowly followed him.
Mr Carlton – Malachi finally remembered his name – walked quickly down Main Street and entered Farnsworth New and Used Book Emporium. The owner, old Mr Farnsworth, didn’t mind you sitting and reading, as long as you weren’t taking up space from his paying customers. Malachi was careful not to abuse his welcome.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr Carlton came back out, that jaw clamped as tight as ever.
He headed north, toward his car. At one point, Mr Carlton whirled around to stare behind him, eyes sweeping over the street and sidewalk. But his eyes didn’t linger on the homeless man twenty feet behind, as Malachi knew they wouldn’t. He stomped back to his car, got in and slammed the door.
Had Malachi not seen the familiar shape of Taxi Blue, the local cab company, he would have let it end right there. But with money in his pocket and his interest high, he tapped the window of the taxi. The black driver began to smile, then saw Malachi. He looked him over, braids under a do-rag, the insulated camouflage coveralls. “No, brother,” he said in the lilting accent of an African immigrant, Kenyan maybe, or Nigerian. Or heck, maybe even Jamaican.
Malachi unzipped his coveralls and pulled out three twenty-dollar bills and showed the man. “I got money,” he said calmly.
The driver flashed a huge smile. “Then get in, brother.”
Malachi climbed into the back seat and pointed to the black Mercedes. “Follow that car,” he said.
“Yes, brother.”
The Taxi Blue driver followed Mr Carlton’s Mercedes four miles from downtown. By the time they reached the brick archway of Rutherford Lee College, Malachi wondered if the man was going to see his wife. Miz Branigan had said she was a professor here. But would she be in her office on a Sunday?
Malachi watched as the Mercedes drove slowly to the north side of campus, to a row of houses with huge Greek letters above their porches. Mr Carlton stopped in front of one of the houses, but he didn’t get out. He simply sat for a minute, his car idling.
Then he slowly returned to the middle of campus and parked next to a lakeside building. He got out and set off walking around the lake, fists in his pockets, head down.
“How much?” Malachi asked his driver.
“You don’t want a ride back to town, brother?”
“No. How much?”
“Eleven dollah,” the man said. Malachi thought he sounded disappointed.
He handed the man a twenty-dollar bill and waited for his change.
Chapter Nine
The February sun was setting by the time Branigan returned to her car after talking to Sophie Long. She was tired and hungry, and didn’t want to talk to any more college students. She longed to unpack her groceries, heat up some chicken noodle soup and snuggle on her couch for the rest of the evening.
But since you’re here… she told herself. Morosely, she drove to the student center, dusk falling fast. Students filled the brightly lit dining hall, which was noisy with their chatter and the clink of cutlery and dishes. She skirted the cafeteria and walked up a wide, winding staircase to the second floor, where student service administrators had their offices. A combined movie theater and lec
ture hall took up one end of the floor, but it was dark and empty. Carpet muffled the cacophony from below, and all the offices appeared to be closed for the weekend.
Branigan exited the second floor to access a stairwell, unheated and weakly lit. She climbed to the third floor, letting herself in through a door with a push bar.
The top floor appeared to be for the school’s media outlets. Signs mounted at right angles to the wall marked offices for the literary magazine, the radio station, a TV studio and, oddly, the chaplain’s office. At the far end of the hall was a sign for the student newspaper, The Swan Song. From the pencil-thin light under the doors, the only rooms that seemed to be occupied were the radio station and The Swan Song.
She strode quickly to the newspaper office, wondering again what Sylvia Eckhart and Anna Hester had been talking about that afternoon. Had Sylvia been warning her fellow Kappa Eps about Ralph’s recordings of compromising sorority functions?
Two separate doors opened into the newspaper office suite, but light emanated from only one. The top half of the doors held glass panels, so Branigan stood at an angle to peer into the lighted room before knocking. In the murky hallway, she could see in without being seen herself. Anna Hester was working on a laptop at a desk against the left-hand wall. She paused, flipped open a notebook, then began typing furiously.
She paused and picked up a smart phone from her desk, apparently responding to a ring that Branigan couldn’t hear. She spoke for only a moment before returning to her work. Branigan raised her hand to knock on the door, but before she could, Anna reached for her purse and withdrew a black flip phone. Branigan hesitated. Why would she have two phones? She continued watching as Anna stared intently at the flip phone and then turned back to the keyboard and began typing again. Could that be Ralph’s phone?
Branigan knocked. Anna swirled in her chair, sliding the flip phone back into her purse in one fluid movement. As Branigan entered the office, the girl eased her laptop closed.
“Miss Powers. What are you doing here?”
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