True Grey (28 page)

S
uze's boss, Elizabeth Ventner, might look like someone's kindly aunt, her grey-streaked brown hair coming loose from its bun. But despite the old-fashioned 'do and a round face that ought to have been jolly, the attorney did not give an inch. For starters, she insisted on accompanying Dulcie into the interrogation room. (‘A discussion? Please,' her soft voice had dripped with sarcasm.) Even then, she barely let Dulcie answer any questions.

‘But I have an idea,' Dulcie had turned toward her at one point, gritting her teeth with the effort of keeping quiet.

‘May I have a moment, please?' Elizabeth had turned toward the detective who was doing the questioning. He had nodded and stepped out of the room.

‘Are they listening?' Dulcie looked around the apparently empty room.

‘That would be illegal,' said Elizabeth, in what Dulcie recognized as a non-answer. ‘However, as your attorney, I would advise you, once again, not to say anything.' This had been a running theme of the past ninety minutes.

‘But I think I know what happened. I think Andrew Geisner, my student, planted those pages for some reason. And now he's here, looking for dirt to bring back.'

The older woman silenced her with a gesture. ‘Please, Dulcie. We're not looking to present an alternative theory here. That's what we'll do if this goes to trial. Once again, please, let's keep this simple. Straightforward and simple. Got it?'

‘I've got it,' Dulcie said with a resigned sigh.

‘Good.'

It was excruciating. Not being able to give the nuance and context that seemed so incredibly relevant, and yet not being able to tune out, either, as Suze's boss and the cop went at it, dissecting her life for the past few days. But after her first few attempts to explain, she gave up, falling back on the ‘yes,' ‘no,' and ‘I don't know' that the lawyer seemed to want.

Back and forth, short questions and shorter answers, until Dulcie felt dizzy. The whole thing was like some verbal tennis match, in which lobbing the ball was more important than the truth. As she watched, they went back over Saturday, the day of the murder, and the timing of who had been where when. When they moved on to the paper in her desk, she'd leaned in, hoping to hear something about how the office happened to be searched.

The police were intent on gathering information, however, not giving it out. The search was presented as a fait accompli – no reason, no tip-off. Nothing. Simply something that had happened and had turned up a page that had been verified as belonging to the missing manuscript. It was maddening.

‘What we'd like to know is how, if Ms Schwartz claims no prior knowledge of this page, did it find its way into her –' he paused to check his notes – ‘bottom-right drawer.'

‘Claims! I don't know how it got there.' She couldn't help herself. ‘But I do have some ideas—'

‘Now's not the time.' Elizabeth shut her down, her eyes hard in that soft, round face. ‘You and I can talk later.'

‘If Ms Schwartz wants to volunteer some information . . .' The way the cop said it made Dulcie feel dirty – and grateful for her advocate's quick response.

‘That was a communication with me. That's all,' she said. Another volley returned. ‘Come on,' Elizabeth said to her. ‘We're done here.'

The cop at the other side of the table didn't respond, and so when Elizabeth stood, Dulcie did, too. At a gesture from the older woman, she walked toward the door, opened it and stepped out. Nobody grabbed her, and she realized she had been holding her breath.

‘Here's my card.' It took Dulcie a moment to realize that the woman standing beside her was still talking. ‘If you want to go over any of this, we can arrange a time for you to come in. And if the police call you again or want you to come down here again, call me immediately.'

Dulcie took the card and looked at it, unseeing.

‘Are you OK, Dulcie?' The attorney's voice was gentler than it had been inside the room, and Dulcie looked up to see the round face lined with concern.

She nodded. ‘This is just all so confusing,' she said. It was the best she could come up with. Even though Dulcie didn't think she'd said more than thirty words in total during the entire interrogation, she was exhausted. ‘I don't understand any of it.'

‘They don't want you to.' Elizabeth's mouth was set in a grim line. ‘Come on, let's get you home.'

It was more than she could hope for, but Dulcie's heart leaped when she saw Suze. Her friend jumped up from the waiting-room bench and strode toward them. ‘Dulcie! Are you OK?'

Dulcie nodded, as Elizabeth hustled them both out of the building. ‘Thank you so much, Suze. And you, too.' Dulcie turned toward the older woman.

Under the harsh street lights, Elizabeth looked as tired as Dulcie felt. But she smiled as she unlocked a beat-up sedan and Dulcie piled into the back seat. Suze, in the front, leaned over the seat-back to talk. ‘So, tell me, you've got to have some ideas about who's setting you up.'

Elizabeth looked over. She didn't say anything, but Suze responded to her silent admonition. ‘I'm not saying Dulcie should share her ideas with the cops. But you've got to agree, if we can figure out what's really going on here, it will be easier to clear Dulcie.'

Elizabeth nodded slightly, and Suze turned back to her friend. ‘Tell.'

‘Well, there's Rafe.' She gave her friend the low-down on the senior tutor, including the house tea. ‘Which reminds me, did you see Andrew Geisner?'

Suze shook her head. ‘I don't know him.'

‘Tall, surfer-dude handsome.' Dulcie had rarely felt at such a loss for words. ‘Young.'

‘No, I think the youngest guy who walked by me was about forty. Or maybe that was just his lack of teeth. But I don't think he'd qualify as handsome.'

Dulcie was forced to agree. ‘Maybe that means something, though. Maybe he wasn't being questioned. Maybe he was giving evidence. Does the police station have separate entrances?'

Elizabeth glanced over at Suze. ‘It does. Your friend has a point.'

‘I have to talk to him, then,' Dulcie decided, despite her fatigue. ‘As soon as possible.'

‘No, you don't.' Elizabeth broke in before Suze could. ‘You have to stay out of trouble – and that means not talking to anyone who's involved. This might be something Suze could take on.'

‘Happy to.' She looked it, too, and Dulcie realized how frustrating it must be for her friend, not being able to help. Still, she wasn't thrilled with the idea. Suze didn't know Andrew. She didn't have a relationship with him. She didn't know Thalia, or what her student had said about her boyfriend.

‘Dulcie?' Suze was looking at her, and Dulcie realized that her doubt must be writ across her face. ‘You've had a rough day. Let's talk about this tomorrow, OK?'

‘OK.' That was fair. Elizabeth was pulling up in front of Dulcie's building, when another thought hit her. ‘Suze, did you get a chance to call Chris?'

Guilt washed over her friend's face and she bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry, Dulce. I forgot.' She checked her watch. ‘It's not that late, though. Tell him it's my fault, OK? And give him a big hug from me.'

Dulcie nodded as she got out of the car. The situation with Chris was more complicated than she was able to explain right now. Repeating her thanks to Elizabeth, she waved them both off and went inside to face the music.

‘Hello! I'm home!' At the sound of her voice, Esmé came galloping, skidding the last few feet across the hardwood floor to plow into Dulcie's shins. Dulcie responded by dropping her bag and scooping up the little cat, suddenly aware of how much she needed Esmé's warm comfort. After a moment of nuzzling that soft white belly, she realized that the feline tackle was the only greeting she'd received.

‘Hello?' she called as she carried the cat into the kitchen. ‘Chris?'

Nothing, not even a note. Only the cold remains of some takeout. Dulcie saw what looked like congealed
yu shiang
eggplant, and her heart sank.

‘Oh, hell.' She put Esmé on the ground and reached for her phone. Sure enough, Chris had tried her several times in the past two hours. He had not, however, left any messages.

Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she dialed his number.

‘Chris? Hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry—' The line disconnected. Dulcie immediately hit redial.

‘I'm sorry, honey. I can explain—'

‘Dulcie, I'm kind of busy right now.' He was, she could tell. She could hear raised voices. One voice in particular, a woman's, sounded familiar.

‘Where are you, Chris? What's going on?'

‘The Science Center, where else?' She could hear fatigue in his voice. Something else, too. ‘Look, I'll call you when things settle . . .' That other voice, saying his name. Was it Darlene?

‘Chris, please. I need you to know: it wasn't my fault. The police—' But he was gone.

Esmé seemed to sense something was wrong and jumped up on the table as Dulcie reheated the leftover Chinese. While the microwave whirred, she texted Chris, explaining about her detainment in short, unsatisfactory bursts. It was far less gratifying than telling him in person; she couldn't even be sure he'd read them. But at least he'd know what had happened, and maybe some of that coldness would turn to sympathy by the time they next spoke.

‘If there's a next time,' she said, wallowing in the gloom. Then the timer pinged, and she allowed herself to be distracted by eggplant, dumplings, and the remainder of something that might be shrimp. Esmé stood watch but chose not to comment on any of it.

It wasn't until after eleven that Dulcie remembered her missed meeting with Trista. Her blonde friend, she was reasonably sure, wouldn't hold it against her. In fact, Trista might even sympathize – as Chris hadn't, Dulcie thought. Besides, maybe she'd have some good news.

Dulcie reached for her phone once again and dialed her friend.

At first, she was convinced she'd gotten the wrong number. Throbbing music, all bass and drums, forced her head away from the phone. ‘Trista?'

‘Hey, Dulcie!' her friend yelled back. ‘What happened?'

‘I was picked up by the cops,' Dulcie shouted. More noise, so she tried again. ‘The cops got me!'

‘That sucks!' her friend yelled back. And while that sentiment beat out the cold and tired response she'd gotten from her boyfriend, Dulcie began to despair of having a meaningful conversation. Just then, the volume cut out. ‘There, that's better.' Trista was back.

‘Where are you?' Dulcie had neither the money nor the inclination for dance clubs, and she'd never heard the People's Republik be that loud.

‘Following up a lead, my friend.' Trista paused, and the music got louder again. ‘In fact, I shouldn't linger in here or I'll lose him.'

‘Him? Who? Trista, you said you had information for me?'

‘Yeah, I think so.' In the background, a toilet flushed, and for a moment the music got louder again. ‘Now I'm not so sure. That dean? He definitely had an interest in Melinda. I've got proof. But tonight he's out with someone else. A woman his own age. I don't know. Maybe he was cheating on her, and she found out?'

‘I don't know. It sounds pretty weak to me.' The noise level was rising and falling behind Trista, and Dulcie wasn't sure what she'd heard. ‘That was it?'

‘I don't know,' her friend said. ‘I know he was keeping tabs on her, and I think he— Oh, sorry!' Her voice took on an unnaturally perky tone. ‘No, I'm not waiting. All yours.'

The music grew louder as Trista headed out the ladies' room door. ‘Dulcie, I'll call you tomorrow. Gotta go. Stay safe.'

‘B
lood, so much blood. She'd never known the human corpus could contain so much blood. The brightness of his copper hair now dull'd, matted with the darkening gore of life, now cooling—
'

The pen scratched on the paper and stopped. A moment's pause, a breath held, and it went back. Scratched out some words and started again.
‘
The luster of his coal-black hair now dull'd,
'
the pen wrote again.

Better to dissemble. Better to disguise the act, the crime. The sire of all her desires.

Dulcie woke with a start, confused, and sat up, disturbing the cat. She'd had the dream again, only this time it was different, a hodgepodge of older dreams and the more recent nightmare. She'd seen her author again, at her garret desk, writing. Only, this time, the scene didn't fade to the scene of horror. And the story had changed again, ever so slightly. Was this the result of the previous day's turmoil – or of finishing that iffy shrimp? Dulcie looked at Esmé, but the little cat turned away and began to wash.

A mumbled grunt from beneath the comforter caught her attention: Chris. Her boyfriend must have come home early that morning, but Dulcie had been out cold. Looking at him now as the morning sun filtered in through the blinds, she considered waking him. Maybe that grunt was a sign of a nightmare, in which case, she'd be doing him a favor.

‘
Dulcie . . .
' The familiar voice had the edge of a growl in it, a low rumbling warning.

‘No, you're right, Mr Grey,' she whispered to the empty air. He hadn't woken her, and she had no right to disturb his sleep. As if in confirmation, her boyfriend sighed and shuffled, and then seemed to drift off into a deeper and dreamless sleep.

‘At least he came home,' she whispered to her feline companion as she slipped out of the sheets. ‘At least he didn't, I don't know, go to sleep on the sofa.'

‘
Dulcie.
' This time, the tone was admonishing, and Dulcie paused, waiting to hear what would come next. ‘
Is anger that important? Is fear? So many mistakes may be made under those influences.
'