Murder 101 (15 page)

I was at school in twenty minutes, and in my office in another five. I thought about Crawford waking up in my bed and realizing I had his clothes—particularly his underwear—and his car. He would be furious, but hopefully he would get over it. I had left the gun, hadn’t I? I wasn’t a complete idiot. Maybe he would focus on that and not turn it on me when I came back home.

I sat behind my desk. I let out a strangled scream as the phone rang unexpectedly; apparently the custodial staff had replaced the cut phone cord. I knew who it was. “Hi,” I said casually.

“Where’s my underwear? My jeans? My car?” he growled. Interesting order, I thought. I would have thought my stealing his car would have upset him the most.

“I’ll be back in an hour. I promise,” I said.

“Now you can add grand theft auto to your resume along with the breaking and entering.” He let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “You are a royal pain in the ass. Why did you leave without me?”

“Because I didn’t want to do it your way.” I looked around at the mess. “And I’m not in here ‘willy-nilly.’”

His voice dropped an octave. It sounded like the voice he had when he gave me the speech on breaking and entering. “Alison, your office is a crime scene.”

“I get it,” I said, kicking around a couple of files on the floor, the phone between my shoulder and my cheek. “I won’t compromise anything.”

“Just being there is compromising. Get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Hey, I’ve got your car, so I can go shopping. What do you want for lunch?” I asked. I figured if I kept the conversation light and happy, his anger would dissipate. I was wrong.

“I’m not hungry.” He hung up.

“I’m not hungry,’” I repeated in an imitation of his low growl. I picked up a stack of files from the floor and began going through them, one by one. It only took me five minutes to figure out what was missing: All of the files for my current courses were gone. I went through everything a second time to make sure and confirmed that not a file from the current semester resided in the mess.

I opened my desk and rummaged through the middle junk drawer with its pens, pencils, and folder labels, and then through the drawers to my right. Everything seemed to be there, even though the drawers were a mess. I started sneezing as the fingerprint powder that dusted every inch of every surface in the office started to fly around the air with my movements.

I leaned back in my chair. Did the “papers” that Vince was screaming about have something to do with something I was teaching this semester? I grabbed my grade book from the top right-hand drawer and Crawford’s car keys and left, locking the door behind me.

When I was back in his car, I looked at the clock on the dash. It was noon. I didn’t have any cops at my disposal to pick up lunch and hand off to me on the Deegan, so I decided to take a little detour myself on the way home and stop on Arthur Avenue. I knew he was really mad at me; if the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, I had a lot of shopping to do.

I drove across the Bronx, past the Botanical Gardens and the Bronx Zoo on the way to Arthur Avenue. Parking was a nightmare, so I drove around the block a few times, finally finding a small space in front of an Italian deli and bakery. I said a silent prayer as I pulled the Passat up a full car length next to the car in front of the spot, and gently eased it into the spot, only hitting the bumper of the car in back of me twice. I got out and looked at the back bumper of the Passat, and everything looked fine.

The deli had a few tables and chairs outside on the sidewalk, and a few old men were sitting, drinking espressos and enjoying the weather. The rain had passed through and it was now bright and sunny. I walked past them, into the shop and took in the large, glassed-in display, full of lasagna, ziti, chicken cutlets, and salads. Above the counter hung several hundred dried and cured meats: pepperoni, salami, soppressata.

“Help you?” The young guy behind the counter wore a white tank top and a large gold Jesus head on a chain around his neck. Furry black hair peeked out of the top of the tank top. He took a paper bag from a stack next to the cash register and a pencil to write down my order.

“Yes, thanks,” I said. “I’ll have a salami,” I said, pointing to the one directly in front of my face, “four of those cutlets, two pieces of lasagna, a pound of macaroni and a pound of potato salad, and . . .” I reached behind me to the wire rack that held bread and grabbed a seeded Italian loaf, “. . . this, and two containers of the tiramisu.”

He looked at me and smiled. “Anything else?”

I looked into the case. “Oh, and four pieces of that eggplant rollatine.” I took a salted homemade mozzarella from a tray on top of the counter. “And this.” Who doesn’t love mozzarella?

“Hungry?” he asked as he set about getting all of my food.

“Starving,” I said. And in huge trouble. “Hey, what does tiramisu mean?” I had always wondered about that.

He turned around from his position in front of the refrigerator which held meats and cheeses and gave me a sly smile. “Hold me closer.”

“Oh,” I said slowly, thinking,
not against that chest hair.

After parting with thirty-five dollars, I had a large bag of food. I put it in the trunk, next to the clean laundry, and set off for home thinking about Italian translations, missing files, and the amount of trouble I would be in if I couldn’t fast-talk my way back into Crawford’s good graces.

I thought I’d lead with salami and see where that got me.

Twenty

I went through the front door, calling Crawford’s name. The bag of food was on top of the laundry in the basket as was my grade book; I set them both down on the floor. He wasn’t downstairs, so I went up to my bedroom, balancing the basket on my hip. He was in my bathroom, shirtless and in the sweatpants, shaving with my pink Lady Schick and the shave gel I used on my legs. His hair was wet and his back was damp. He had one hand on the sink, and he leaned in toward the mirror to get a good look at his face as he shaved. Half of it was covered with green gel. I stood in the bathroom door and took in his half-naked form.

“I’ve got salami,” I said. Not exactly an olive branch, but close enough.

He kept shaving, not responding.

“And chicken cutlets, lasagna, eggplant rollatine, and bread.” I went into the bathroom and stood behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. I leaned my head against his back. “And mozzarella. And tiramisu.” I pulled him a bit closer. “I heard that tiramisu means ‘hold me closer’ in Italian.”

“Funny. I heard it meant ‘you just did a really stupid thing.’” He rinsed the razor in the basin, which was full of water, shave gel, and whiskers. He took a towel from the ring hanging next to the sink, rinsed his face, and dried it with the towel. He let the water out of the sink and then turned around to face me. “I’m still mad at you.”

I hung my head in mock shame.

“This isn’t funny, Alison. What if I had gotten beeped or called? What was I supposed to say? That nutty professor has my clothes and my car? I can’t do my job because I’m trapped in her house without any underwear?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Actually, I’m a nutty doctor of literature.”

He didn’t think that was very funny, either.

I tried to give him some good news. “I know what’s missing from my office,” I said brightly.

He looked down at me.

“My files from all of my current spring courses.”

He thawed a little bit. “Why would anyone want those?” he asked, dubious. “With all due respect, Dr. Bergeron.”

I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. “I don’t know. But I thought we could eat some of the food that I bought and hash it out. What do you think?”

He walked into the bedroom. “I’d be able to think better if I had my clothes.” He leaned down and took his jeans, underwear, and T-shirt from the basket. “If you’ll excuse me?” he asked, and closed the bathroom door. He came out a few minutes later, dressed, his hair combed. “I used your toothbrush,” he stated. He looked at me for my reaction, but I had none. “To brush my hair. Payback’s a bitch, huh?”

I grimaced. “Are you still mad at me?” I got up from the bed and walked over to him, putting my arms around his neck and kissing him. His arms hung at his sides for a few minutes, but he finally relented and put his hands around me and up the back of my shirt.

“You have tiramisu?” he asked, kissing my neck.

“And salami.” I put my hands into his toothbrush-styled hair.

He let me go after one last kiss. “If you’ve got salami, I’m fine. Let’s go downstairs so we can go over what’s missing. I want to know who’s in each one of those classes.” He went over to the nightstand and put the gun in the back of his waistband.

We went downstairs, and I picked up the bag of food from the hallway floor. All of the food was in microwaveable containers, so everything was hot in no time. I put the salami and cheese on a plate, cut up the bread, and asked him what he wanted to drink. Then I remembered I didn’t have anything to drink besides a frozen bottle of vodka and the leftover wine from the night before. “How’s water?”

“Fine,” he said.

I handed him a couple of plates, forks, knives, and two bottles of water. We sat at the table and dove into the smorgasbord. “Cut me off a piece of that salami,” I said.

He took his knife and cut off a big chunk, holding it out to me. I opened my mouth and he dropped it in. I chewed on the tough piece of meat and opened my grade book. “I’m teaching Creative Writing II, Freshman Comp, Intro to Shakespeare, Literature of the Hudson River, and Senior Seminar.”

He told me to start with Creative Writing. I ran down the list of students. “Any of those names ring a bell?”

He plowed into the lasagna and shook his head. “Do Hudson River.” He forked a big hunk into his mouth, sauce on his lips. I now had proof that he wasn’t the dainty eater that had sat at the same table the night before.

I read off the names from that class; three of those students were also in the creative writing class. I went on to Shakespeare: Costigan, Martin, Carlyle, Rivas, McCarthy, Dumont, and Franklin. He perked up at the name Martin. “She was the roommate.”

“Right.” I said.

He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Freshman and sophomore years.”

“You questioned her, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “First thing. All she did was cry and carry on. She didn’t have anything to give us, and we haven’t spoken with her since.” He took a piece of eggplant and put it on his plate. “How’s she been in class?”

“The same. A pain in the ass. She’s on my back about returning her
Macbeth
report, but normal.” I ripped a piece of bread in two and layered a piece of mozzarella onto it. I looked at the Senior Seminar and read those names off: Troy, Manning, Slater, O’Toole, and Davis. He shook his head; he didn’t know any of them.

We ate some more and made a big dent in the food. “Ready for dessert?” I asked.

He stretched his arms over his head. “Give me a few minutes. I ate a lot.”

I closed my grade book and pushed it to the side. The doorbell rang just as I was polishing off the remains of my lasagna. He looked at me. “Expecting anyone?” he asked, getting up and putting his hand to his back, drawing his gun out of his waistband and holding it close to his leg.

“No.” I got up and padded down the hallway to the door and looked through the frosted glass panel on the side of the door. It was Ray. Crawford stayed in the doorway of the kitchen, his hands in his pocket.

I opened the door and let him in.

“I was hoping I would catch you at home,” he said, coming into the doorway. He stopped short when he saw Crawford. “What is he doing here?” he asked, eyeing Crawford nervously. He shifted from one foot to the other.

Crawford took a few steps forward; the gun was nowhere in sight. “We were just discussing the case, Dr. Stark.”

Ray sized him up. “Can we have a moment, please? I need to talk with my wife alone.”

I looked at Ray and wanted to remind him that I was not his wife. Now we were in an alpha male pissing match. I half expected Ray to undo his pants and pee in the corner to mark his territory.

Crawford stood and stared at Ray a few more minutes, the air in the hall becoming charged with pheromones, testosterone, and every other male hormone. Crawford looked at me. “I’ll be outside.”

I led Ray into the kitchen and told him to sit down. “Are you hungry?”

He looked at the leftovers on the table, the two plates, and the two water bottles. “You fed him?”

“Yeah. That’s the trouble with cops. Once you feed them, they keep coming back,” I said. “Do you want a plate or what?”

He shook his head and took a long breath. “I just wanted to come by and thank you for helping me out the other night. With Klein.”

A little overdue, but nice, nonetheless.

He pushed Crawford’s plate out of the way and put his hands down on the table. “Alison, I had nothing to do with this,” he said, his tone pleading. “You have to believe me.”

I still wasn’t sure if I could believe him considering our history, and I wasn’t sure I could give him the benefit of the doubt anymore. “I guess I have to take your word for it,” I said, but it came out almost as a question.

“Thank you,” he said immediately, and then thought back on what I had said. “I guess.” He cocked his thumb toward the front door. “Did he give you any idea as to who the other suspects are?”

He thinks you did it, Ray, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “No.”

“Klein’s a great lawyer, but I don’t know if he can keep me out of jail.” He paused. “Or get me my job back at St. Thomas when I’m exonerated.”

“What have they got on you, Ray?”

“My fingerprints were all over your car, for one.”

“Of course they were. You used to drive it all the time.”

“And Kathy’s fingerprints were all over my car.” He looked down at the table when he said this.

That was a discomforting thought but one that made sense. When he looked up again, I studied his face, but if there was one thing I knew about Ray, it was that he was the best liar in the world as well as the worst husband. I didn’t know if that combination equaled his being a murderer, though.

“And there are a bunch of e-mails between me and Kathy.” He paused. “In one of them, I said I would kill her if she told her parents about us.”

I sighed. “That was bright.”

“But I meant it in a funny way, like I’ll kill you,” he said, shaking his fist. “Too bad that didn’t translate in the e-mail.”

What an idiot. “You should have taken my class on ‘Tone.’” I picked up my fork and started pushing pasta around on the plate.
“Did
you kill her, Ray?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he said emphatically. He stood up. “Anyway, thank you for helping me out. I’m sorry I called you the other day and yelled at you about not getting in touch. That was immature.”

The counseling must have had some effect on him.

He pointed to the door again. “Is something going on there?”

I assumed he meant to ask if Crawford and I were involved, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “We’re friends, Ray.”

“Is he nice to you?” Implicit in that was “nicer than I was to you?”

I nodded. “He’s very nice to me.” I knocked my knuckles against the wooden table. “So far.” I don’t know why I said it, but just being in Ray’s duplicitous presence cast a cloud of doubt over everyone.

He looked a little forlorn. “That’s good.” He started for the door. “I can’t say that he and I are on great terms, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asked, and laughed.

I walked him to the door.

“I’m sorry, Al. About everything,” he said, putting his hand on the knob. “I really am.” I used to cry when he said things like that, but this time I just stood there. I had become impervious to his penitence.

He stood there a few more minutes, looking as if he wanted to say something else. Finally, he spoke. “I’m thinking about leaving St. Thomas next semester. Regardless of what happens.” He let out a rueful laugh. “Well, I guess that’s obvious. If I go to jail, I’ll really have to leave. But if I get out of this, I’m think I’m going to go out West for the fall semester. I need to think. Then I’ll decide whether or not to come back.”

I couldn’t disagree with that. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “If you need anything, just call,” but I didn’t. I didn’t want him calling. Or asking for anything.

Ray hooked a finger toward the door, motioning to Crawford. “Your friend there is a bit intimidating in the interrogation room.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Crawford was sitting on the front steps and stood up when the door opened. He put his hand out. “Dr. Stark.”

They shook, and Ray went down the sidewalk to his car. We stood on the stoop and watched him as he drove away.

Crawford came back inside and went into the kitchen. “I’m not going to ask you what you talked about.”

“Good. Because all he wanted to do was apologize.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“For calling and yelling at me the other day. At the beach.”

“Oh.”

“He also wanted to know about us. If you’re nice to me.”

He continued looking at me. “And what did you say?”

“I said that despite your erectile dysfunction, we were trying to make it work.”

He blanched, and his mouth hung open. When he figured out that I was kidding, he chuckled slightly. “What did you really say?”

“I said that you were nice to me.” I left out the “so far” part; I didn’t want to seem insecure and paranoid. Even though I was.

He looked at his watch. “I’ll help you clean all of this up and then I have to go. I’m taking my girls to dinner tonight.”

I picked up a couple of dishes. “I’ll take care of it.” I walked over to the sink and put the dishes in, running water over them. I handed him his wallet, keys, badge, phone, and beeper. He had a lot of equipment. “Is that it? You didn’t forget anything?”

He looked around. “That’s it.” He put his hand to his head. “Wait. There is one thing. When I see you tomorrow, I’m going to bag all of the papers in your office. It’s been bugging me since last night that Vince was asking for ‘the papers.’ Have you ever had him in class?”

I shook my head. “I only knew him from around campus, but I never had him in class.”

Crawford thought for another minute. “Where are those papers you were supposed to correct last night?”

I continued washing the dishes. “What are you thinking?”

He chewed on the inside of his mouth, lost in thought. “The only thing I can come up with has to do with Ecstasy. Ecstasy is huge with Vince’s demographic and at Joliet, in particular. He was a smalltime dealer, but Narcotics had been watching him for months.” He explained to me how Ecstasy could be printed on a special paper that someone like me couldn’t recognize, but that someone who was acquainted with drugs could. “It’s possible that one of the papers that you have was printed on Ecstasy paper, meaning that Vince was out thousands of dollars and maybe, in deep with the dealer above him. That would be one explanation as to why Vince—if he was the break in—left an ‘X’ here and in your office.” He looked at me, and I stared back at blankly; he had lost me at “Ecstasy papers.”

“I know. It’s crazy. But it’s all I’ve got. I think I should take the papers and have them tested.”

My briefcase was still inside the front door, so I dried my hands and went down the hall to get it. I pulled out the Shakespeare papers and brought them back into the kitchen. I handed them to him. “Do me a favor, though.”

He took them and riffled through them. “What?”