Grey Zone (21 page)

Ownership, provenance: all the questions Dulcie would automatically apply to a scholarly text were just as valid in this case. More so, if someone's life was at stake. She had assumed that Carrie had written the note, because it had been in Carrie's folder. But what if she hadn't meant it as a suicide note. What if she had been telling off a teacher – telling off Dimitri – and had chickened out, giving the note at the last minute to the one person she could trust for safe keeping.

Or what, Dulcie thought, her stomach sinking, if that wasn't how Corkie had come by the note at all? What if the note had been delivered and returned – and that was why Carrie Mines was now in hiding, perhaps for her life?

The world spun as Dulcie fought to make sense of these new possibilities. Thank the Goddess for that bump on the head; she hadn't been thinking clearly before. She'd never have jumped to such a hasty conclusion about a piece of academic writing.

‘Are you done?'

Dulcie looked up. A large woman, her arms full of bags, faced her, clearly coveting her seat.

‘Of course.' Dulcie moved out of the way, heading to the door. But outside, on the street, she paused. Where was she going? What could she do? The letter was gone. And if she'd previously been willing to believe it had gotten lost, dropped out of her pocket while she was carried unconscious to an ambulance, that idea now gave way to her original theory. It had been stolen. Maybe by the very person for whom it had been meant – the same person, she now realized, who might have attacked her. Who was probably looking for Carrie.

No wonder the poor girl was in hiding. Dulcie's first instinct was to call Corkie back. The girl certainly knew more than she was telling. But at the same time, she had clearly let Dulcie know that she
couldn't
tell her any more.

What else did she have? There was something more, she knew it. She thought back to her last conversation with Dimitri. He had sounded harsh, sterner than Dulcie had ever heard him, as he'd dismissed poor Professor Herschoft. ‘The man was a monster,' he'd said, the words coming back to her like a cold wind through her coat.

She had excused his callous response when she'd thought that he might have been more concerned about Carrie – and that was still a possibility. But if the letter wasn't a suicide note, then new possibilities beckoned. How could Dimitri have said that about someone who had just died? Someone, she recalled, he said he hadn't really known, and to say that the university was ‘better off' without him seemed particularly mean.

Unless . . . What was it exactly that Detective Rogovoy had said? Her thoughts hadn't been at their clearest when she was in the infirmary, but she did remember that Rogovoy had said the professor's suicide had been reclassified. That the police were now viewing it as a homicide.

This was when Dulcie could really have used Suze's advice. What did homicide mean, exactly? Chris had teased her about murder, but he'd been trying to distract her. Could it still have been some kind of horrible accident? Maybe Fritz Herschoft had spoken to Dimitri about his unethical alliance. Maybe there'd been a fight, a tussle . . .

It didn't seem possible. She had told him about Herschoft's death, she remembered. He hadn't known. Unless that had all been an act. But thinking about his reaction reminded her of something else. Of someone else. Corkie had also reacted strangely to the news of Herschoft's death. Harshly, even. And Corkie, Dulcie realized, had been headed into the Poche Building only minutes before the professor had gone flying off the balcony.

TWENTY-NINE

D
ulcie wandered back into the Yard, trying to make sense of the images that came whirling into her head. Corkie had been arguing with someone – was it Carrie? – and had run from that confrontation to the Poche Building. Corkie had gotten into an elevator that had gone up to the top floor. Professor Herschoft must have gone out of that window only moments later, and Dulcie had been unable to find her student in the hubbub afterward.

But, no, it wasn't possible. Corkie was a big girl. The word ‘strapping' came to mind. But even she couldn't run into the office of a full-grown man and toss him out a window. It simply wasn't a practicable physical feat. And mentally? Corkie had certainly not been herself recently. Disturbed, even. But what reason could she have had? Harassment – and Herschoft? No, Dulcie couldn't see it. If the professor had been taking advantage of Carrie, she would have come out of hiding after his death. Besides, there was no way that the short, stout Herschoft was the man Dulcie had seen in the archway. And Corkie, who wouldn't even break confidence to expose a sexual predator, certainly wouldn't take justice into her own hands – not so suddenly, anyway. That collection of clippings must have taken months to put together. Such thoughtful deliberations didn't end with a counselor rushing at someone with murderous intent.

That didn't mean something hadn't been going on, however. And as Dulcie walked, she tried to make sense of all the disparate events of the past week. The possibilities she had imagined for Dimitri could still hold true: a fight, a tussle, a horrible accident.

But had there even been time? Maybe Corkie had seen something. Maybe Corkie had witnessed the murder. That would explain her strange mood: somewhere between distracted and distraught. Maybe Corkie was in danger now herself.

She should call Rogovoy. Her phone was in her hand. But as soon as she realized what she was doing, she made herself put it back. Once that call was made, it couldn't be unmade. And she knew that if she started talking, she'd have to tell all of it – about Corkie's past inability to deal with university life and her work now with the counseling center. About the strange display that Corkie had in her room. About what Corkie may or may not have seen, may or may not have been a part of. The cops, Dulcie suspected, would not be as gentle as she had been, and if she gave Corkie up – for, really, what other phrase would serve? – then she'd lose her. Corkie might be off academic probation, but she was still considered a risk. At risk. She'd break. Be thrown out of school or quit, never to finish her education. No, Dulcie had to find out more before she blew that particular whistle.

Dulcie stopped, unsure of her next move. In her aimless wandering, she'd ended upon the steps of Widener. This was her safe place. And hadn't she just promised her adviser that she would start writing? Reaching inside her bag for her ID, Dulcie walked toward the back entrance of the monumental library. This was, after all, her job.

No. Suze's voice echoed through her head, so loudly she stopped short. Dulcie was a member of a community. The university community. As a soon-to-be lawyer, Suze would be shaking her head. She wouldn't want to take the time to explain the fine points of homicide; she'd want Dulcie to unburden herself to the police. Or at least to other university authorities. But wouldn't she understand that the police didn't get it? That they doubted the very real evidence that Dulcie had seen, and they certainly didn't know Corkie the way she did? Wouldn't Suze see that she, Dulcie, her room-mate and fellow academic, had made connections that the police were unable or unwilling to make? Wouldn't she understand? She would tell Rogovoy. Soon. First, she had to find out more.

‘Dulcie Schwartz!' The voice seemed so real that Dulcie almost turned. No, she couldn't listen to her internal censors. Couldn't let what could be important information just sit and gather dust. She'd find out more. She'd gather some evidence. She'd—

‘Dulcie?' A slightly out of breath redhead appeared in front of her. Merv, the friendly guy from the police station. ‘It is you! I've been calling your name from halfway across the Yard.'

‘Sorry.' Dulcie couldn't help smiling. Merv was as red as his hair, though, in truth, the slightly purple tone of his face clashed somewhat with his shaggy locks. ‘I've been caught up in my own thoughts. Probably too much lately.'

‘Curse of the college, I'd say.' His own smile, now that he had caught his breath, was inviting. ‘I was hoping to see you again.'

She waited, unaccountably tickled.

‘I was curious about how your errand came out.'

‘Oh.' Something akin to a let-down flooded through her. ‘To be honest, it was all sort of frustrating. Do you ever feel like the police don't take academics seriously?'

He nodded vigorously. ‘Every day. I've been trying to help an old friend. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, actually.' The color came back into his cheeks, but this time Dulcie didn't find it unattractive.

‘Is she in some kind of legal trouble?' It was nice to be sought out. If she could help, in a friendly way, she would. Maybe she could hook her up with Suze.

But Merv shook his head. ‘It's nothing I can talk about, not really.' He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were amazingly bright blue. ‘In fact, I needed a break. So where were you off to?'

‘I'm not sure.' Suddenly, the day was much brighter. ‘I'm trying to follow up on something. I mean, I should be in Widener, but—' A thought hit her. ‘Do you know anyone at the Poche?'

‘Of course. Didn't I tell you I was a psych major?'

‘No.' She found herself smiling back and blushing slightly. ‘You only told me that you heard me give a talk.'

‘Yeah, the pathetic fallacy. I thought it had some interesting therapeutic implications.' He leaned toward her. ‘I'm going for a clinical degree after I get my Master's.'

He was younger than she was, she figured. But not by much.

‘So, you heading over to Porches?'

‘Yeah,' she said, deciding as the words came out. ‘Yes, I am.'

Merv, Dulcie had decided by the time they crossed the Yard, was easy to talk to. He was not, she admitted, as handsome as Chris. In general, she preferred dark-haired men. There were rarely carrot-topped heroes in any of the books she'd grown up with, and her own tendency to turn brassy in the summer had put her off most red hair. But that just made the walk more pleasant. They weren't flirting. They were simply having a companionable stroll.

Which did not explain why she felt flustered when her phone began to ring.

‘Don't mind me,' Merv said, continuing to walk at her side. She was not afraid, exactly, but hesitant to look. And so she pretended to not be able to find it until the buzzing had stopped.

‘Ah, there it is.' She pulled the silent phone from her bag at last and clicked to see just whose call she had missed. ‘Oh, it's Lucy! My mom,' she explained.

‘Do you want to call her back?' Merv really was sweet.

‘I'll just check the message.' The last thing she needed right now was one of Lucy's long phone calls. ‘Just to make sure there's no emergency.'

The message, of course, declared just that.

‘They're trapped, Dulcie. Trapped!' Lucy's voice had an urgency that Dulcie associated with most of her mother's psychic emergencies, from bread that wouldn't rise to spats with Karma. ‘Merlin has been quite insistent.'

Dulcie wondered what was really happening. In her own universe, as Lucy would say. Had Merlin got locked in a closet? Or had the black cat sniffed out a rodent and been trying to get into a cupboard for better access? Either could qualify. But Lucy hadn't finished.

‘Usually, Dulcie, the spirits do not care. They are not bound, as we are, by the physical plane.' It was all Dulcie could do to not roll her eyes. ‘But this time, it's urgent. Something has been undone that needs to be fixed. Or, no, maybe something had been done that needs undoing. All I can tell you is that the energies are all awry. Mercury has been retrograde for a week now, and I neglected to warn you. Which, we all know, is a sign of Mercury being truly retrograde. Ah well, you know what I mean, Dulcie. You need to make things right. Or right things unmade. It's probably all about communication, Dulcinea. About freeing the spirits. Call me!'

‘Everything all right?' Merv seemed genuinely concerned, which was nice.

‘Yes,' she admitted. For a moment, she'd toyed with the idea of pretending that she had a real crisis. ‘My mom can be a little loopy.'

‘She's an old hippy, right?'

‘Exactly.' They had reached the Poche by then, and Dulcie suppressed a shudder as they crossed the white marble plaza out front. Forcing herself to look at Merv, rather than over at that corner, where the blood had puddled on the stone, wasn't too hard, but still, she breathed easier once they were inside.

‘So, where are you going?' He'd waved at the guard, and they'd both walked by. Dulcie had decided she would retrace Corkie's steps, to figure out why her student had been here – and how she might be involved with Herschoft's death. But now that she was here, Dulcie realized that didn't make much of a plan.

‘I'm not sure, actually.' She looked around, hoping something would become obvious. A bulletin board held some notices, and she nodded toward that. ‘I may find what I need over there. Otherwise, is there an administration office somewhere?'

‘Go past the elevators. Third door on your right.' He paused, and they both became aware of a slight awkwardness. ‘Well, I've got to get to work,' Merv said at last. ‘I'll see you around.'

‘That would be nice.' She watched as he turned and walked toward the elevator. He looked back, smiled and waved, and the heat returned to her cheeks. Then he stepped into an open elevator and she watched the indicator as it went up without stopping to the seventh, and top, floor.

He probably knew Professor Herschoft, she realized. Well, the university was a small world. Heading to the bulletin board, she looked for a clue. Why had Corkie run to this building? Nothing struck her – except for an absence. She'd expected to see at least one notice concerning the late professor. Last fall, when a member of the English department had been killed, the department had organized a memorial. But if the psych department was doing any such thing for Fritz Herschoft, it wasn't advertising it on the student bulletin board. Instead, she saw another ad for a futon – ‘Easy to Assemble' – and a dorm-sized refrigerator. And there, below more recent fliers, was that same poster of Carrie Mines. ‘Have you seen this girl?'