Stalking Death (29 page)

"Any idea who 'they' are?"

"Everyone knows who they are. Alasdair's friends."

"And what were they looking for?"

"Something they didn't find." Triumph momentarily replaced the weariness in her voice.

"Which was?"

"A tiny surveillance camera that proved Alasdair had been in my room."

I'd seen 'nanny cams' advertised on late-night TV, but I'd never known anyone who'd used one. "If it wasn't in your room, where was it?"

"I don't know. I gave it to Jamison."

I almost drove the car off the road as a dozen questions flooded my mind. Where had he gotten it? Was it still around? How had Alasdair known and who were these friends of his who were still acting on his behalf? It was an 'oho, the plot thickens' moment. "And you don't know where he put it?"

"Nope. I guess we'll just have to ask him."

It looked like underwear was going to be postponed. We were taking a field trip to the jail.

Chapter 22

I made a u-turn and headed back toward town. Then, realizing I had no idea where I was going, I pulled over, got out my phone, and dialed Frank Woodson's number. "It's Thea Kozak," I said, when he answered. "I've got Shondra Jones here. We want to see her brother."

"But you don't know where you're going?"

"Nor what our chances of success are."

"So you called me." He sounded pleased. He started reeling off directions until I stopped him. I'm a competent navigator, but I can't hold more than three turns in my head. After that, I need to write things down.

I fished out a pencil. "Go ahead."

"It's easy," he said, going over it again. "When you get there, ask for Billy Turner. He used to be one of my guys. Works there Sundays. Tell him you're working with me over here at St. Matthews." Brisk and to the point. I thought he was finished, when he surprised me by asking, "How's she doing?"

"She's okay. Quiet. You want to talk to her?"

"That's okay. She spilling her guts into your welcoming ear?"

"How likely is that?"

He laughed. "Don't forget about me, okay? Tell Jamison I said hello."

So my instinct had been right. There was some relationship. Enough so he wasn't distancing himself when Jamison was in trouble like everyone else was.

"That Woodson?" Shondra mumbled. She made a face when I nodded.

I handed her my scribbled notes. "You're the navigator." I shot away from the curb, glad to finally be doing something. I'm an active fixer, and so far, I'd spent too much of my time here arguing about whether I'd be allowed to do my job. I thought I caught of a glimpse of a gray car, but gray cars are common, and it didn't get close enough for me to be sure.

At the jail, Billy Turner's name greased the skids, and after only half a mountain of bureaucracy, we were ushered into a room where we could speak with Jamison. He arrived looking weary, the jail-issued jumpsuit so meager on his big frame he looked like a kid who'd outgrown his clothes. And he looked as much like the killer of another human being as I did. But then, I was, wasn't I? I put that thought back in the locked box where I keep the baddest stuff and focused on the here and now.

Despite his own plight, his first words were, "Hey, Shonny, what happened to you?"

"Something I drank," she said. "Might ask you the same thing."

"Still tryin' to figure that out," he said. "Me and my lawyer. I get a call to meet Alasdair and talk things over and the next thing I know, I'm in here."

"He any good?" Shondra interrupted. "Your lawyer?"

"I hear
she's
the best in New Hampshire." He stopped, staring at me as though he'd just realized who I was. "What's she doing here?"

"She drove me."

"I wonder why?" His handsome face went tight. "She works for them, Shonny. You know that. I'm not sayin' shit in front of her."

I wasn't surprised he was wary, after what had happened, plus, he'd probably been warned by his lawyer not to speak to anyone. And I couldn't deny it. I did work for them. I wanted to hang around and listen to their talk. I wanted to ask him a dozen questions of my own. But Jamison was strong-willed. If I stayed, he wouldn't talk, and I'd brought her here so they could talk.

"That's okay," I said. "I'll leave. I know you two need some time."

"Appreciate it," he said. More manners and poise after two nights in jail than Todd Chambers would ever have.

The guard let me out and I went back to a depressing vanilla waiting room. I hadn't brought my briefcase and the only reading materials that weren't tattered with half the pages ripped out were a fishing magazine and yesterday's local paper. Though this whole job felt like a fishing expedition, I didn't see how flies and lures and waders and bass boats would help, so I chose the paper.

I skimmed through the predictable stories, mostly puff and speculation, about Alasdair's death. When I'd exhausted those, I wandered through zoning flaps, tedious reports of the state legislature, local who's who, fender-benders, two small robberies, a dramatic domestic stand-off, and a bunch of people gone missing. The missing included an eighty-five year old with Alzheimer's, two experienced hikers lost in the woods, a rebellious thirteen-year-old girl who'd skipped school to go to the mall, and a seventeen-year-old boy who'd gone out to a party and never come home.

It looked like the cops had had a busy weekend looking for all these strays, even without the complications of Alasdair's death. It's always a surprise to read the police blotters in local papers and realize how much goes on we're unaware of. Not me, though. I've become too aware. An empty car by the roadside, a snatch of overheard conversation, someone giving me a funny look, even a car that stays behind me too long—they all get me wondering. Which was why I noticed gray cars.

It felt like I'd been waiting for hours, but when I checked my watch, they'd only had about forty minutes. I shifted impatiently, staring at the door. Argenti still hadn't called. It was time for me to get back to St. Matts and see if I had a job. I was half-hoping I didn't.

It would be a first, though, getting canned twice by the same client. A first, and the last time I let myself get in so deep without a clearer set of ground rules and a more malleable client.

Chambers was as responsive as a bucket of wet cement. Still, my ego was bruised. I'd gotten pretty confident that I was good at this, and I was doing such a bad job here. I couldn't get anyone to listen or act. I couldn't even get them to acknowledge that they had a job to do, let alone get them to do it.

I sighed, folded up the newspaper, and checked my phone for messages, just in case Argenti had called and it hadn't gotten through. There were no messages, not even one from Suzanne. That was another problem. Not only were things going badly here, they seemed to be going pretty badly back at the office. I couldn't think of another time when Suzanne hadn't been right on the ball. Yes, she had a lot on her plate, with Paul's new job and a child, but plenty of women had full plates and still returned phone calls. It made me wonder if things were okay with her.

I was trying to call Suzanne when a droopy, teary-eyed Shondra shuffled through the door, looking like she'd been the one in jail. "Can we go now?" she asked.

"Think you can make it to the car?"

"I'll make it," she said, grimly. "Gotta get back there. I've got stuff to do."

So she'd changed her mind about going home. "Stuff for Jamison?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe you should let me help you, Shondra. You're in no shape to be doing anything but rest right now."

"I got no time to rest," she said. "Got things to do."

"Like?"

"Like none of your business."

Maybe it was something in the school's water that made them all so difficult. Maybe they weren't to blame. Maybe they were innocent victims of some subtle poison. Or lead. It would be great to have it all explained so easily. Test the water, fix the problem, explain away Chambers' miserable attitude, his wife's craziness, Jamison's crime, the dark deeds everyone hinted at and refused to describe, and Alasdair's evil, manipulative behavior. It was a pleasing, if totally unrealistic thought.

"Sometimes you can't do it alone, you know. Sometimes you have to let people help." My phone rang. I ignored it. "You told Jamison it was something you drank that sent you to the hospital. What was it? Where did you drink it?" She ignored me. "Look, Shondra, I may not be your friend, but I'm not your enemy. I want to help you and I want to keep you safe. I know that's not the message you've been getting from the Administration at St. Matts, but that's what I'm here for."

"They hired you to make sure I'm safe?" She gave a bitter little laugh. "You really think I'm dumb enough to believe that, after how they been? Girl, you believe anything they's telling you, and you're the one who's dumb around here. The only thing they want from me is I should be gone and stop botherin' them."

"If you think I'm working for them, you have no reason to trust me. Try looking at it this way. I don't work for Mr. Chambers or Mr. Dunham or any other individual in the administration. I work for the school. And St. Matthews' School is you and your brother and all the other students who have a right to a safe and supportive environment."

She gave me one of those devastating teenage looks, packed with cynicism and disbelief. "Sound like you readin' from some brochure," she said, making 'brochure' obscenely long and unsavory.

"It does," I agreed, "but that's why I'm here. To help them make things normal and safe. Part of that is learning the truth. This whole mess happened because they didn't want to know the truth. They wanted to believe in their own reality—that Alasdair was a good kid, you were a trouble-maker, and that there wasn't a predatory atmosphere on the campus. They disciplined and let things go based on their desire to preserve that reality. But it can't go on. You and Jamison and Alasdair aren't the only ones affected here. There are other students at risk, others who aren't heard or believed."

Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? Curiosity?

She wasn't about to let me find out. "I don't care," she said. "I've got to think about me and Jamison. Gotta figure out what I can do to help him."

"And I'm trying to help you."

"Don't want your help," she said.

I felt ten years old again, arguing with my brother. "Maybe you don't want it, but maybe you need it. And maybe, just maybe, and I'll bet you haven't considered this—I need your help. I need to figure out what's going on at St. Matthews and you can help me do that."

"Like I care about any of that."

I stopped the car so abruptly she gasped, the car behind me whipping around with an angry blast of its horn. "Goddammit, Shondra, get over yourself. You care about helping your brother, don't you, after he got into this mess trying to help you? Maybe you're so busy being stubborn and proud you're missing the point here. Your brother is accused of murder, plain and simple. Whether it's murder one, murder two, or manslaughter, he's looking at spending a substantial portion of the rest of his life behind bars. That's his reality right now. He can have the best lawyer in the world, but unless she's got something to work with, she can't help him."

Maybe I needed to get over myself, too. Here I was, a professional adult, sitting in my car yelling at a pathetic, sick, scared silly sixteen-year-old girl only an hour out of the hospital. Modeling both impulse control and compassionate behavior. I was formulating an apology when she started to cry and my phone rang.

It was Suzanne, practically my best friend in all the world, the woman who knows me better than anyone except Andre. Without preamble, she announced, in a peremptory tone she hadn't used with me since I was her novice employee, that after consultation with Charles Argenti, they had decided she needed to join the team. She'd be leaving soon and we'd all be getting together this evening for a conference about how to proceed.

She didn't use the word "replace" but that's what she meant.

It represented failure on a scale I couldn't ever recall experiencing, and the triumph of Todd Chamber's misguided notion that Suzanne, because she understood the plight of the headmaster and his wife, would be more willing to accept their plans and suggestions without probing beneath the surface.