Stalking Death (32 page)

"Tell
you
what," Shondra said. "I am a minor, being as I'm sixteen, and you aren't supposed to talk with me unless an adult is present."

Bushnell looked slightly stupefied, then snapped, "Under the circumstances, an adult isn't required." No matter. I was so proud I could have hugged her. He should have known, after Jamison invoked his rights from the get-go, that the Jones kids might be babes in the woods in the academic forest of St. Matthews, but they knew their way around cops. They didn't need to know it from experience; it could have been part of their neighborhood lore.

Shondra looked over the seat at me. "You will stay with me, won't you?"

I think Woodson actually growled, which seemed strange, since earlier I'd thought he was protective towards Jamison and Shondra, and what he and I had to discuss wasn't very important. But that was based on my own intuition, which was usually right and occasionally somewhere out in left field. Another sports image. He might have been growling at Bushnell. Cops are very territorial.

"If you want me to."

"Oh, I do," she said. "Since Grandmamma isn't here, I need someone from the Administration with me. Since you work for them, I'd guess you count." I could swear she tipped me a wink.

I was operating at a less than optimum level. If Bushnell's goal was to solicit information in his case against Jamison, she probably should have a lawyer of her own, or maybe Jamison's lawyer, or one from St. Matthews. But it didn't look like Bushnell was going to be deterred. I'd already discovered how charming he could be. I wasn't letting her handle this alone.

"You mind if I sit in?" Woodson asked. Representing the school in a different way, perhaps. Would he carry whatever was said back to Todd Chambers?

Bushnell shrugged. "Suit yourself." Without further preliminaries, he launched into his questions. Going over what Chambers and the rest of the St. Matthews administration had told him, along with what I'd said and information he must have gotten from other students and faculty.

There are times I've wished I'd gone to law school and this was one of them. I wished I knew the underlying law better so I could figure out what he was trying to establish. Motive? A propensity for violence or impulsive behavior on Jamison's part? It was more than the basic story. The sneaky way he kept coming back to things, approaching them with slightly different questions, told me that.

Shondra did a good job of holding her own, but she was young, she was tired, and she had a temper he was doing his best to make her lose. Once or twice, I put a hand on her shoulder, cautioning her to think before she spoke, until he outright told me to stop doing that.

"She asked me to stay and help her out," I said.

"I'd say it's more like you're controlling her," he said.

"She doesn't have to talk to you," I said. "She can leave anytime she wants."

"And how does that help her brother? I'm only trying to figure out what the truth is. He's not talking. If she's not talking, either, than all we've got is Alasdair's side of the story... up until the time he died, together with the story the Administration and his friends are telling me, about Ms. Jones targeting Alasdair because of his racial views, and when he objects and stands up to her, she makes up this story about being stalked and gets her big brother to play avenging angel. Viewed that way, Jamison Jones looks like a very deliberate killer."

Bushnell paused for effect, then added, "You know that MacGregor's face was battered beyond recognition. That's a very personal kind of killing."

He said it like he'd bought the party line. I thought it was just deliberate provocation.

"Jamison didn't kill anyone," Shondra began. I put a warning hand on her shoulder.

She shook it off. "You're just trying to make it look like he did. He's your scapegoat, is all. Alasdair got into some kind of trouble. Maybe with his crazy, preppy friends, I don't know. His secret society. Maybe he finally went too far." She said it with such loathing. "Or maybe his trouble was with those drug dealers he was so friendly with. Maybe he pissed someone off real good, got hisself killed, and now you blamin' my brother because it's easier to blame some black kid with no family or connections than conduct a real investigation where you might upset some big shot alumni donor."

She shook her head vigorously, uncurled her clenched fists, and stabbed one sharp finger into Bushnell's chest. "You believe the crap they're feeding you over at St. Matts, and you too stupid to be a cop."

Bushnell stared at the stabbing finger until she pulled it back. "You disliked Alasdair MacGregor, didn't you?"

"You damned right I did."

"And Jamison would do anything for his little sister, wouldn't he?" Shondra didn't answer.

"I know your brother used to get into fights in the neighborhood. I know it was just luck, and some people pulling for him, that kept him from being arrested. I know the kind of boys he used to hang around with."

"You don't know shit."

"I know your brother has had counseling about how to manage his temper."

"He worked real hard," she snapped, "and anyway, that's not your business."

"Everything about you and your brother is my business. I know that neither one of you would be at St. Matthews if it weren't for basketball."

"So?"

"So maybe Alasdair was right that you really didn't belong there. And maybe that made you and your brother mad. Mad enough to kill."

I wondered what was behind her remarks about drug dealers, or whether Alasdair might have done something sufficiently offensive to his ugly little clique to make them kill him—if, as Bushnell had said, this was a personal crime. I could tell that Shondra was becoming explosive. I was considering how to stop this interview when Shondra grabbed her door handle, jumped out, and took off running.

I grabbed my own door handle, meaning to go after her, and came up against a hard reality. I was sitting in the back seat of a police car. The door wouldn't open.

Bushnell took off after her, leaving me and Woodson stuck in the car, staring at each other glumly. Oh well. Bushnell would be back pretty soon. He'd never catch Shondra. She was taller, younger, and fitter. And very angry.

Chapter 25

Bushnell came limping back, red and sweaty, got in and slammed the door. "If it weren't for you..." he said.

"Oh, please, Lieutenant, this is your fault and you know it. You knew she was prickly, and if you were listening at St. Matthews, you also know she was up to her ears in lying and untrustworthy adults. You're supposed to be a pro... you must know there's more than one way to skin a cat."

"I'm investigating a murder," he said truculently.

"And you're an experienced detective. You're supposed to know how to deal with people."

"I'd like to deal with you," he muttered.

Woodson had been silent long enough. "You want to let us out of here?" he said. His quiet voice had an edge to it. They were both in the public safety business, yet Bushnell treated him no better than he treated me. Or worse. He ignored Woodson.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Bushnell got out and opened the rear door. As we climbed out, he studied me with his cold eyes. "You got any idea where that girl will go?"

"No."

"I'll bet you do."

I wished he were right. "I might have gotten one, given a little more time. I was just starting to make a connection... then that asshole drives into my car, which shakes her up, then you come along and finish the job."

I fixed him with my own cold stare. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with being such a jerk. "You have any idea how upsetting it is to have someone try and run you down? Ever been knocked through the window of a car?" He didn't respond.

"Something that puzzles me," I said. "My husband thinks you're a pretty decent guy. I wonder where he gets that from?"

"Your husband says he knows me?" Suspicious, like I was trying to get some kind of an edge.

As if I cared. The moment when decent behavior might have gotten him better cooperation had long passed. I'd been badly shaken and I was losing my famous little temper. "Are you married?" I asked. He stared, then nodded. "Well, I'll bet you'd be royally pissed off if my husband treated your wife half as badly as you treat me. Maybe you can ask him sometime, when all you New England homicide detectives get together for some bonding thing. Andre's usually a good judge of people, but this time, he's got his head wedged."

If I were a spitter, this would have been the moment to drop a little derogatory drool, but though it would have been the perfect gesture, I think spitting is revolting. I turned to Woodson. "Let's do that follow-up interview, and then maybe you could drive me somewhere to rent a car?"

"Sure thing." He gestured at my poor mutilated auto. "But what about your car? You call a tow truck?"

"Yeah, Triple A. They said fifteen minutes." But Triple A was not famous for speed. "If you don't want to wait, that's okay. Once the tow guy comes, I can call a cab."

"Who knows how long they'll be." He looked at his watch, then regretfully back at me. "I'd like to stay 'til they turn up, but you know how things are on the campus right now. I ought to be getting back," he said. "Maybe the lieutenant could give you a lift."

I looked at Bushnell. "I'd rather walk."

Bushnell shook his head and turned his back, but he still didn't leave. I turned back to Woodson. "I should get back," he said. "Maybe we can do it by phone."

I couldn't really blame him. Security was an issue right now. I wished I could drive away, too. But first I needed some wheels. "Where can I go to rent a car?"

Because I was feeling fragmented, I got out my phone and tapped in his directions, then watched forlornly as he drove away. It's true that I like to rescue myself and am fiercely independent, but I was feeling pretty battered. I wouldn't have minded a polite, well-behaved knight in shiny armor. Instead, I had that abrasive bully Bushnell.

As soon as Woodson left, Bushnell stalked back. "Who is your husband, anyway? I don't know any cops named Andre Kozak."

"Neither do I," I said.
"My
name is Kozak."

"You don't have to make everything so damned hard."

"As I recall, I didn't grab you and shake you until you were sick."

"Look, I'm sorry about that."

"And what? It would have killed you to say that? You might have lost your investigative edge? It's not like I was a suspect." I could have gone on playing this edgy, bitter game but it was such a waste of time and energy. I wished he'd investigate his crime, find out the real story, and leave me alone. Standing made me tired. It was chilly and I hurt. "I wish you'd go away," I said. "I have to sit down."

"You can sit in my car."

"I could also try walking on hot coals, but I bet that would be painful, too."

"Everybody makes mistakes," he said. "So, who's your husband?"

He was a detective. He could have found out easily. But as I said, I was tired of the game. "Detective Andre Lemieux. Maine State Police."

"Oh. Hell." He turned away. Turned back wearing a 'looks like I've really stepped in it' expression. Except for the bad guys, people who meet Andre really like him. "Mrs. Lemieux... I'm really sorry."

"Goddammit, Lieutenant... my name hasn't changed in the last minute."

Andre is always telling me to lighten up, when he's not telling me to put a cork in it. He thinks I take this business of standing on feminist principles too far. He thinks I have too great a need to be right. He says I should try to be more flexible and forgiving. Sometimes I think he's the one who should put a cork in it, but he's not always wrong.

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated by this whole situation. I don't think I'm hearing the truth and I don't think you're hearing the truth from the St. Matthews administration. And I think the truth about what has been going on among the parties—and at St. Matthews generally—is at the core of this. I've been the victim of physical attacks twice in two days, for no reason that I can understand. And I'm very concerned about Shondra's safety. I think
this
attack may have been directed at her."

I looked over at my mangled car, bumper on the ground, taillight glass scattered everywhere, trunk hood buckled, rear window gone. It felt like a very personal violation. "I really like my car. My head hurts, I'm bleeding. I've got glass in my hair... I'm unnerved and upset and... well... I'm afraid I've been taking out some of that on you."