by A W Hartoin
They went around the corner and I had a miraculous recovery. If everyone had to sign in, excepting those that had the brains to avoid the so-called security, then Byers’s name would probably be in the book if he was going out with somebody. I scanned the book and came up empty.
Luckily, the books for the last couple years were in the second drawer down. Six months before, Byers had signed in for Becky Strattman. I was running out of time, but a quick scan of previous pages revealed that he’d visited Becky a lot. She had to be a girlfriend. I heard footsteps, shoved the books back and jumped into my seat.
I stretched and smiled at the desk girl. “Tylenol is finally kicking in.”
She couldn’t have cared less. During my stretch, I noticed the pictures of the girls on the wall neatly categorized by year. I walked over still stretching and tried to find that year’s pictures. They weren’t up yet, but the previous year’s were. They even put the names of the girls under their pictures. How nice of them. Especially since they couldn’t seem to remember anyone. Now I would recognize Becky when I saw her.
I left, drove a couple of blocks away and parked. I got out the binoculars Dad gave me for my fifteenth birthday. I liked them until I discovered he expected me to use them on his cases. I could see the front door of the house and the cars pulling into the lot. Most of the girls were walking since it was close to the main campus. Quite a few blondes came and went, some real, most not. Becky wasn’t one of them.
I waited an hour and started getting antsy. I never was good at surveillance. Invariably, I had to go to the bathroom, fell asleep, or get so bored I wanted to attack the person under surveillance. For the love of God, do something. Most people were boring, but they probably think they’re interesting as all get out.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I broke down and called Morty. Dad does a huge business in divorce/infidelity and Morty is his go-to guy for surveillance. Morty doesn’t get bored. He is a dungeon master for his Dungeons and Dragons cronies. He sits and works on the latest plan of attack. Eventually curtains would be drawn back or there’d be a covert kiss in the doorway and Morty would be ready.
If he’s at home and awake, he’s doing checks and talking to contacts. Morty loves the work. He was a wedding photographer, but he quit when he started fantasizing about beating the brides to death with his camera.
“Mort, it’s me. I need a favor.”
“Is it billable?” he asked.
I pictured Morty sitting at his desk with his belly hanging over the keyboard. He’d be smiling his twisted smile while he calculated how much he could charge me. Great, not only was I not getting paid, now I had to pay Morty.
“Sure, why not.” It would take two minutes. I could afford two minutes.
“Be quick. I’ve got three other lines going.”
“I need you to call a sorority and find out where Becky Strattman is. You can say you’re her English professor or something.”
“Does she have an English professor?”
“Probably.”
“You’re tired of sitting in the car, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m bored stiff,” I said. “You want the number or not?”
Ten minutes later, I got a call back. Becky had a late lab and got out at six. Morty had taken the liberty of finding the building and the most likely exit. More billing. Great.
I headed over to the science building, bought a mocha breve, and plunked myself down on the steps to accost her when she came out. There was a homeless guy opposite me with a large cardboard box. He looked as bad as a person could look and that wasn’t helping him get rid of whatever was in the box. People would look in and practically run in the other direction. After a half hour, I couldn’t stand it and decided to take a look. I prepared for the worst, his underwear or something, but it was a kitten. The nastiest, most pathetic cat I’d ever seen and that was being generous. It sneezed, spraying phlegm on the side of the box, and looked up at me with crusty orange eyes.
“Want a kitty?” he asked.
“Not really. Just curious.”
“You sure? He’s a nice kitty.”
I gave him a wave and sat back down with a bucketful of guilt. I wanted a cat, not that cat, but a clean, purring animal would be nice. I needed something to come home to. Something that didn’t care when I came home just as long as I did.
Quarter after six, Becky came out with a group and headed down the stairs toward me. They separated at the second flight and I took my shot.
“Becky Strattman?”
She turned to me and said, “Yes.”
I was taken aback for a moment. She was much prettier than her picture. She was almost luminous. She looked like JonBenet Ramsey if she’d been allowed to grow up. The beauty pageant JonBenet, that is, not the little girl in pigtails.
“Hi.” I extended my hand and she gave my fingertips a shake. “I’m Mercy Watts. I talked to Jennifer Kestler earlier and she said you might be here.”
“What do you want?” The words rushed out of her mouth. She caught herself and gave me an apologetic smile to make up for her rudeness. It always amazed me how well name-dropping worked at getting people to talk. Becky never imagined I might be lying and I felt a little bit guilty about it. Not guilty enough to stop lying, of course.
“I wanted to ask you some questions about Josh Byers.” Her face knotted and I’m sure her stomach did too. He broke up with her. No doubt about it.
“Why?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“Private detective. I was hired to find him.”
“His family hired you?”
“Yes. They’re very concerned.” More lies. Shame on me. “They said you know him rather well.”
Becky flushed and said, “Can we go somewhere?”
I agreed and we went to a coffee bar down the street. It was filled with students done with a hard day of mind expansion. They were happy. Becky wasn’t. We ordered at the counter and sat.
“How well do you know Josh?” I said.
“We dated for over a year. We broke up last May.”
“Have you talked to him lately?”
“No. You’re really a detective?” She looked suspicious, but not worried.
I nodded. Please don’t ask for ID.
Becky looked into her hands and I thought she might start crying.
“Do you know Lara Haven?” I asked. “The girl that got raped at his frat.”
“No, but I read about the case. It’s totally awful what happened to her.” She seemed genuinely affected, but she was thinking fast, too. Those hands were mighty interesting.
“Have you heard anything that might help? Anything about the GHB?”
“Why are you asking about that?” she said, looking back at me.
“Because that’s what she was given and we need to find out why.”
“And how.”
“We know how. It was slipped into her Coke. She was trying to sober up before she went home,” I said.
“Oh.”
“What do you know about GHB?”
“Not one damn thing,” she said.
We sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the myriad of conversations around us. I wondered if anyone else could feel what was coming from Becky. She knew plenty about GHB.
“I have to go,” she said so quietly I nearly didn’t hear her.
“Can I talk to you again? It might be a great help.”
Becky stood up. “Sure.”
I sat there for a moment with my second mocha, feeling bloated and sick. I didn’t want to know these private things about Lara or Becky. I didn’t want to know anything about anybody. I got up and headed back to my truck. The homeless guy was still there with his box. No surprise.
“How much for the cat?” I asked.
“He’s free to a good home. I wouldn’t mind a donation though,” he said.
Of course, a donation.
“Here’s a twenty.” I reached for the kitten, but he stopped me.
“Take the box. Easier to carry,” he said, eyeing my mocha.
I handed it to him and took the box.
On the way home, I stopped at Target and bought cat supplies. The kitten started hacking and spewed more phlegm all over his box. He smelled horrible too, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had the ABC at eight and no vets were open anyway. I set up his stuff in the bathroom, showed him the litter pan a dozen times and said a prayer that he’d use it. From the look of him, he’d be in rigor by the time I got home.
The bar was a study in boredom that night. Byers didn’t show and neither did Pete. When I got home, the kitten, skanky as ever, was alive and sleeping on my bed. I thought the comforter might have to be burned. On the upside, he’d used the pan. After much debate I decided to sleep in my bed. The beer and cigarette smell in my hair blocked out most of his stench and I slept well.
The next morning I made a vet appointment and cleaned my bathroom in an effort to avoid calling my cousin Chuck. He was the detective in charge on Lara Haven’s case and I needed an update. Chuck was my cousin by marriage. His mom married my Uncle Rupert. Since we’re not blood related, he thinks we should date. The thought makes me want to scrub my skin raw with a loofah. He wasn’t above blackmail and dealing with him was better left to Dad or Morty. Since neither of them were answering my texts, I was out of options. I had to call. First, I cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed. It was 11:30 and if I called then he would ask for lunch. Not going to happen. It was either that or clean the fridge. I had half the condiments on my counter when the phone rang. It was Chuck. Just my luck.
“Hey Mercy. It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Not long enough,”
“Don’t be like that. I hear you’re helping out with the Haven case. Got anything for me?”
“Nothing you don’t already know. I am curious about Byers though. Have you shown Lara Haven a photo of him yet?” I asked.
“No need. She knows him,” he told me.
“What? Dad didn’t tell me that.”
“He doesn’t know. We interviewed her again yesterday. Couldn’t get much out of her before. And now the Havens are getting nervous.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About how we don’t have a suspect in custody yet. I’m surprised they haven’t been crawling up your dad’s tailpipe.”
“You could’ve told me this earlier.”
“Yeah, I always try to keep you up to date,” he said.
“How does she know Byers?”
“Forget it.”
“You’d tell Dad.” I hated using the Dad card, but sometimes it was a necessity.
“Maybe and maybe not.”
“Come on.”
“Well, it depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“Dinner tonight?” Chuck asked with his smoothest voice.
“Does Dad date you for information?”
“Not lately. So?”
“Just tell me. You know you want to,” I said.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t care whether you know or not.” He’d lost the smooth voice.
“Then it won’t hurt to tell me.”
He paused and thought about it. I could hear him cracking his knuckles in the background. “Byers dumped his girl for Lara, but she wasn’t interested. Been chasing her for a few months.”
“Are you telling me that you didn’t know this until this last interview? What happened to interviewing friends and family? You asleep at the wheel?”
“Of course we knew. Couldn’t get Lara to confirm until yesterday though. Doctors had her pretty doped up. Byers is a strong possibility for the GHB.”
I gave the phone a couple of quick raps on the breakfast bar.
“Ow. That hurt my ear.”
“He’s not a possible. He’s the one,” I said.
“Could be,” Chuck said.
“Who’s the girlfriend?”
He rustled some papers and mumbled, “I have it here someplace.”
“Becky Strattman?” I suggested.
“How’d you know?”
“We had a talk.”
“Anything I should know?” It was Chuck’s turn to squirm.
“Forget it.”
“Mercy!”
I gave a quick “catch you later” and hung up. Becky Strattman, little miss I-don’t-know-anything-about-Lara-Haven, my ass. If Byers dumped her to go after Haven there was no way she didn’t know it. They moved in the same circles and people talk. Maybe she was embarrassed to be dumped in favor of a girl who wouldn’t give Byers the time of day. I would be.
I thumbed through the file Dad gave me and came up with the witness list from the party. Becky wasn’t on it. I called Becky a couple of times and left messages. Next I called Pete’s contact. I quizzed her about the sorority house. She told me Saturday was the fall formal. Since the house would be empty, that’d be an excellent time to go rifling through underwear drawers. If Becky knew where Byers was, the evidence would be in her room.
I told Pete’s friend that I needed to get into the sorority house. I don’t know if it was my charm, Pete’s, or the thrill of doing something bad, but she agreed to help. She’d turn off the alarm and let me in through the back fire escape. We planned for seven o’clock, when the girls would be at the formal dinner. By the time we got off the phone, she was breathless.
The rest of the week was a slow go. I had three twelve-hour shifts in St. James ER serving up cough medicine and painkillers. Why couldn’t things be as exciting as they were on TV? Compared to work, my new cat was scintillating. I took the skanky cat to the vet and he had everything, an upper respiratory tract infection, ear mites, an ear infection, kennel cough, and worms. I came home with a huge bill, an armload of medications, and no good method of giving them. Skanky cat had energy when it came to avoiding pills and I had the scratches to prove it. I did get to see Pete at the bar a couple of times. He was dead on his feet. He suggested Betadine for my scratches and maybe a mercy killing.
I battled with Skanky a couple of times on Saturday morning. He still hadn’t cleaned himself and wouldn’t let me near him with water. I fielded calls from Mom, Dad, and worst of all, Chuck. He didn’t have anything new and just wanted to bother me. At five, I put on my good girl duds and headed out.
The sorority exit was propped open as promised. A brunette leaned against the hall wall trying to look casual. She was pretty and sleek with limbs too long for her body. She was my opposite. I didn’t know if that was bad or good. Hopefully, Pete wasn’t trying something new on for size. She gave me a wave, whispered “2B,” and went around the corner. I found 2B unlocked, courtesy of the brunette, I supposed. Good thing. I hadn’t thought how I’d get in without a key. It was a nice room, no flounces or pastels, instead studious and sincere. It was a single with a bathroom attached. I started in there and found nothing but tons of makeup and every painkiller on the over-the-counter market. Stuck in the back behind the Tylenol was a prescription bottle with the label peeled off. The pills looked like Zoloft, but meds often look alike. I’d served enough to know.
I slipped one in my pocket. Then I went through her drawers, easing my hands under her neatly folded undies and sweaters categorized by color. Becky would’ve made Martha Stewart proud. I found nothing there or in her desk. She was an English major with no written material of her own, other than research papers and comparative essays. She didn’t have a diary or journal that I could find. Her laptop was missing. She did have a collection of photo albums from childhood to college, all labeled with dates and names. Byers made up one entire album.
After her drawers and desk, I started on her bed. She had rolling storage bins under there. More sweaters. She kept her shoes in rows under the foot of her bed. They were probably alphabetized, so I was careful not to move them. I felt through two dozen pairs of pumps and loafers and found nothing in the toes. I was lying on my stomach with my head under Becky’s bed when a voice came through the door. “Dinner
’s over.”
I bonked my head on the frame and started scooting back out when I noticed one more pair I hadn’t checked. Stripper heels, not Becky’s style, and they were out of my reach. I scooted from under the bed and straightened up her coverlet. I could hear cars pulling up into the parking lot. I didn’t have much time, but I hated to leave without going through everything. I pulled Becky’s bed out from the wall and grabbed the shoes. Right one clear. Left one had a baggy stuffed in the toe. There were half a dozen white pills dotted with blue inside. I took one and replaced the shoes and bed.
I listened at the door before I opened it. I heard voices, but they weren’t on the same floor. I peeked out and saw the brunette call to someone down the main staircase. The brunette heard the door and glanced back at me. I must have looked panicked because she pointed to a door marked emergency stairs and made a chopping motion with her left hand. Heels tap-danced up the main stairs. I ran to the door, jerked it open, and closed myself in.
It was black as my bra in there. I searched for the light switch. Before I found it, I realized I shouldn’t turn it on. I felt around, found the stairs, and went down one flight to the second floor. Plenty of people there, so I kept going until I got to the basement. No voices. The door was stiff, but I got it open with a couple hard shoves. Light came in through small windows level with the parking lot. I picked my way through trunks and luggage. At the back was a door with a rusty-hinged lock. I found a length of metal next to the ancient furnace and used it to pry off the hinge in seconds. You got to love that security.
At home, I called Pete and left a message. Then I e-mailed his friend and told her that she might want to check out the basement door. It was convenient, but I didn’t want any Ted Bundy wannabe’s getting in. That left me with little to do until Pete called back. I gave the skanky cat his meds and went to bed.
Pete called at eight in the morning and woke me up. I was incoherent for the first ten minutes of our conversation, but Pete didn’t notice. He told me about his night’s best catch in the ER, multiple stab wounds to the abdomen. Then I asked him if he knew anybody who could analyze some drugs discreetly. He said he’d ask around.