Part 2 (1/2)

”Apparently.”

”How are you getting to school then?” he asked, running his hands across his wet eyes.

”I'm taking the train and walking from the station.”

”If you ever need a ride, just call me on my cell, and I'll pick you up,” he said. Even I had to admit it was a nice offer. ”You know I'm still here for you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. He was never there for me during our marriage, but now that we were apart, we were best friends? The man lived in an alternate universe where his logic actually made sense, but only to him.

When I didn't respond, he shrugged, resigned. He started for the stairs on the right side of the chapel. ”Do you need a ride today?”

”No, I don't. But thanks for thinking of me,” I managed to say, and started down the stairs on the left side, picking up my pace as I descended each creaky riser. Because as hard as I had tried to hold on to him for all those years, now I couldn't get away from him fast enough.

Four.

I returned to my office and stopped by Dottie's desk to look in my mailbox, which was in a row of boxes behind her. I saw that I had two phone messages from Max-one dated three days before-a late paper from a student with a Post-it note of apology on the front, and a business card from a publisher's rep who wanted to sell me a new literature anthology for my intro cla.s.s. Dottie swung around in her desk chair and looked at me pointedly, one of her tattooed-on eyebrows raised questioningly. I figured she wanted details of the funeral, which I would refuse to give. But she persisted in looking at me until I met her eye. She threw her head to the left as if she were having some kind of seizure. ”Are you all right?” I asked. Normally, I like just about everyone I meet; Dottie is the one person with whom I have no patience. She's nosy, lazy, and a c.r.a.ppy secretary. She tried to bond with me over my divorce, but I didn't think Dottie could provide any solace during one of the worst stretches in my life. Right now, we had an uneasy alliance; she worked for everyone on the floor, including me. I had to be, at the very least, polite.

I followed her gaze and thrusting head. Detectives Wyatt and Crawford were standing outside my office. Wyatt was looking at the Modern Language bulletin board, seemingly mulling over a junior year abroad in La Roch.e.l.le; Crawford spotted me and gave me the same wan smile that he had greeted me with in the chapel. So I had been spotted. I could try to run away, but slingbacks wouldn't provide any traction. Running away could also get me arrested. I strode over to the door of my office and greeted them with a grimly resigned, ”Come on in.”

I put the key in the lock of my office door and opened it. Both refused to enter until I went in. I walked around to my desk and motioned to the two chairs. ”Have a seat.”

Wyatt had on a starched white oxford s.h.i.+rt that had at least an eighteen-inch neck. His jacket was a black-and-white-herringbone, and his pants a black lightweight flannel. I still couldn't tell what nationality he was-slightly Asian, slightly African-American, kind of white . . . it was hard to tell. He was a bit of a dandy for a large, imposing behemoth of a man, but he obviously made an effort with his appearance. Crawford, with his chiseled Irish-American face, looked like every guy whom I had gone to college with, had had a crush on, and been too intimidated to talk to. He was in khakis, a white oxford, and a blue blazer. Wyatt's look said ”I have a wife, and she shops at Brooks Brothers,” while Crawford's screamed ”I'm single and I get the Lands' End catalog.”

Wyatt jumped right in with the questions. ”Did you talk with Mrs. Miceli today?”

”Why, h.e.l.lo, Detective. So nice to see you,” I said, trying to affect a nonchalant sarcasm that I was incapable of pulling off. When he continued to stare back at me, eyes narrowed and beady, I decided to answer his question. ”Gianna? No.” I neatened a stack of papers on my desk. ”I didn't think today was the day to do that. I sent a Ma.s.s card to their home.”

”Anybody else in the family?” he asked.

I shook my head. Boy, these papers were really disorganized. I continued neatening, giving the desk my undivided attention.

”Did you and Mrs. Miceli have a relations.h.i.+p in college?”

I thought back. ”Relations.h.i.+p? We were friendly. We lived on the same dorm floor during my soph.o.m.ore and her senior year so we saw each other until she left school. She was dating Peter at that time, I think.”

Even though he had closed the door on the way into my office, Crawford's voice was barely above a whisper. ”What is your relations.h.i.+p with your ex-husband?”

My face reddened. I hadn't expected any questions about Ray, and I was taken off guard. ”Amicable,” I managed to say through almost-clenched teeth.

Crawford waited to see if I had anything else to say. I did, but I decided to say it in the mirror to myself later that day, when I was home. Alone. It had to do with goatees, infidelity, and new cars.

”You must see each other a lot.” He looked directly at me, probably hoping to read something on my face.

”We team-teach a course together three times a week, so we see each other on those days. What does Ray have to do with anything?”

Wyatt changed the subject. ”Do you have any other connections to the Miceli family besides your history with the mother?” He leaned forward in his chair and laced his fingers together between his knees.

”How did you know?” I asked, flippantly. ”Yes. I'm a headlining exotic dancer at one of their clubs. Who happens to read Joyce while she's giving lap dances.” I held Wyatt's gaze.

Crawford looked down but couldn't contain a slight smile. He did his old tie-pull time killer and looked around, focusing on a spot behind my head.

When Wyatt didn't respond to my attempt at humor, I decided to give a straight response. ”I knew Gianna eighteen years ago. I never saw her from the day she left school until the first day of school this year, when Kathy was moving in.”

”What about Mr. Miceli?” Crawford asked.

”I haven't seen Peter during that entire time until today.”

”Did you see him when you were in school with Mrs. Miceli?”

”He had a souped-up Trans Am with twin exhausts. He was hard to miss.”

Wyatt leaned back in his chair and s.h.i.+fted his hands up to his stomach. ”What do you have to do with this, Professor?” he said, using my t.i.tle almost condescendingly. ”Why your car, for instance?”

I could feel my armpits dampen. This dress was a goner. ”It's 'doctor,' and I don't know what I have to do with this, Detective,” I said.

”Doctor.” He smirked a bit. ”Face it. Twelve-year-old Volvos aren't really a hot commodity for car thieves these days. Unless they've become vintage and I didn't realize it. Are they vintage, Crawford?” he asked, looking over at Crawford.

Tie pull. ”Not that I know of.”

I still had the remnants of a concussion, and my head was starting to pound. I felt my face go from red to ashen in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds, and I saw Crawford get the same panicky look he had on his face the second time I vomited on his shoes. I opened my bottom desk drawer and rooted around for a water bottle. It might have been my weakened, almost-hallucinogenic state, but I could have sworn I saw Wyatt instinctively put his hand on his gun. He relaxed when he saw the water bottle, and I was sure then that he had planned on killing me.

”Detectives, I'm going to have to do this another time. I'm not feeling well, and I have to go home,” I said, one aspect of that statement being true. I opened the bottle and drained it in two swigs. ”Maybe I could come to the station house or precinct house or whatever it is you call it so we don't have to do this here. Pick me up in your cruiser. I don't have a car.”

”We don't drive cruisers,” Crawford interjected. As if it mattered.

Wyatt persisted. ”You didn't answer my question.”

I looked at him.

”Why your car?” he repeated, as if I had forgotten the question in the last twenty seconds. ”It doesn't make sense.”

If he didn't know, then I surely didn't. I was exhausted with thinking about a possible answer. ”I . . . don't . . . know,” I said, as slowly and clearly as I could. I tried to stare Wyatt down. ”Do I need a lawyer, Detective?”

He shrugged. ”I don't know. Do you?”

”I don't think so, but the way these questions are going . . .”

Crawford took over. ”How well do you know Vince Paccione?” he said in his same, whispered tone. He acted like we were still in the chapel and he was conducting the interrogation there.

”Not at all. I see him every now and again on campus, but that's it. I don't think we've exchanged three words all year.” I needed more water, but I was afraid if I opened my desk drawer again, Wyatt and his itchy trigger finger would shoot me dead.

”And how well did you know Kathy?” he asked.

”I already told you, remember? She was in my cla.s.s. I knew her a bit better than most of my students but only because I had known her mother. I would ask how her mother was, and she would give me her mother's regards. Nothing more.”