Part 3 (1/2)

Max looked at me and stuck her finger down her throat in mock disgust. I was a terrible liar, and she knew it; fortunately, Diane couldn't see my face turn scarlet as I concocted this untruth.

”Wow, that's really nice of you, Alison. I don't think any of the professors here would be so considerate,” she said, making me feel even worse. ”Yes, any soph.o.m.ore who is a resident will be in that hall. Males are on one and two and females are on four, five, and six. A group of displaced juniors are on three.” She paused for a moment. ”I can look up the names of the soph.o.m.ores you need if you want to save some time.”

I hesitated a moment. I didn't have any Joliet soph.o.m.ores in my creative writing cla.s.s, so I would have to come up with other names besides Vince's on the spot. But getting his room number would save a lot of time in the long run. ”Well,” I said, ”I've got Vince Paccione . . .”

I heard her punch some keys on her computer keyboard. ”One twelve.” She paused for a moment. ”Didn't he date that poor girl from St. Thomas who was murdered?”

I noisily rifled through some papers on my desk, ignoring her question. ”And . . .” I called out to an imaginary student at my door. ”Be right there!” I returned to Diane. ”Oh, Diane, I've got a student. Gotta run. I'll find the others when I get there. Thanks so much for your help!” She was still talking as I hung up the phone.

Max looked at me. ”That was pathetic.”

”Thanks.” I stood up. ”So what now?”

”Now, we break in.”

We left my office through the back door and went to Max's car, which was parked in the lot at Regis Hall, right behind my building. I had no idea how we were going to get into Vince's room, but I was determined to find something that would either implicate Vince or exonerate me. Max drove down the avenue, cutting through the posh neighborhood that separated the two campuses. She drove to the back of La Salle Hall and parked her car next to a Dumpster, illegally.

We got out of the car, and she hit the b.u.t.ton on the key tag that chirped, flashed the lights, and locked the doors, all at the same time. Max stared at the back of the building. ”One twelve, right?” she asked.

I nodded. We walked up and looked in the window closest to us. Each room had two sets of double-hung windows that faced the back parking lot. Max said that she had dated a guy in La Salle when we were in school and his room was the first one to the right-102. She counted down the windows until she pointed at what she thought was one twelve.

”How did you remember that?” I asked.

”I climbed in and out of that window a hundred times.” She stood with her hand on her hip. ”Back in the day, they didn't allow visitation after nine. Remember?”

I didn't. I didn't date a lot in college, and the guys that I did date always dropped me off before visitation ended. Rule-following nerds seek out other rule-following nerds; it's one of life's sure bets. Too bad I hadn't stuck to that in choosing a husband.

”Go inside and wait for me.” I didn't move fast enough for her. ”Go!” she said, and pointed to the door.

I was getting cold feet. I stood rooted to the pavement until she gave me a push. I went in through the back door and looked down the hallway, first to the right and then to the left. I didn't see anyone, so I made a left and tiptoed in my heels down the hallway. I stopped in front of 112 and waited. I didn't know what Max had in mind, but I did as I was told.

The hallway had the smell of stale beer, Doritos, and feet. I stared at the cinder-block wall in front of me and prayed that n.o.body would come down the hallway. I was so paralyzed by fear that I didn't even have the ability to produce sweat.

I heard Max's entrance. She came through the back window, rolled over onto something, cursed like a sailor, and landed on the floor. A few seconds later, she opened the door. She studied the bulletin board to my left. ”Hey, Rufus Wainright is playing here next Sat.u.r.day,” she said. ”Do you want to go?”

I looked around nervously, and hissed, ”Focus!”

”Get in here,” she said, and grabbed me by the collar, dragging me into the room.

Vince's room, like every room in this dorm, was a double. Beds were on opposite walls, with built-in shelves above them. At the top end of each bed was a desk pushed against each wall and to the side of each window. The screen of the left window was open: Max's mode of entry. At the bottom of each bed was a closet. Max looked at me, and mouthed, ”Vince?” as she pointed to the bed on the left. The bed was covered with a chenille bedspread and had two pillows.

I shrugged and went to the desk. A day planner lay open and I turned to the first page. Vince had scrawled his name in the front of it, along with his Staten Island address. I looked over at Max and nodded. I flipped to the day when my car was stolen, but Vince didn't have any entries for that day or any of the days that followed. Unfortunately, it didn't say anything like ”kill Kathy, steal professor's car,” or anything to that effect. Either Vince didn't see the advantages of using a planner, or he led a very empty life. Or both.

Max picked up Vince's mattress and looked underneath it. ”See anything?” I asked.

She dropped the mattress and shook her head. She went into the closet, burrowing in like a pack rat. I could see her rear end and feet and nothing else. She tossed the closet in no time flat and came out. ”Nothing.”

I looked at the articles on the desk: a picture of Vince's family, his books, a bong, and his car keys. Not a thing that would link him to the murder or let me off the hook. I opened the top drawer gingerly and found a mess of papers, pens, pencils, and other detritus, but again, nothing incriminating.

I heard voices in the hall. I froze in place and looked at her, wild-eyed. She was by the closet, standing still and holding her breath. We stood looking at each other until the voices got softer and whoever it was moved down the hall.

”Let's go!” I whispered as loudly as I could. I was definitely going to confession-or jail-when this escapade was over.

She looked at me and pointed at the window. I jumped up onto Vince's desk and threw myself out the window and onto the pavement, rolling a few inches, ripping a huge hole in my panty hose, and sc.r.a.ping the h.e.l.l out of my s.h.i.+n. Max, better prepared for the break-in than I, in black pants and black-cotton turtleneck, hoisted herself out and perched on the sill. She put both hands on either side of her feet, deftly jumped onto the pavement like a gymnast, not a hair out of place, and landed flat on her feet, high heels and all. She pulled the screen down, and we made a run for the car.

We got in and looked around. There was n.o.body in the back parking lot or coming down the path from the gym. When we got in the car, I smacked Max's arm. ”I can't believe I let you talk me into that!” I muttered through clenched teeth.

”Oh, calm down,” she said, and started the car. ”n.o.body saw us.” She pulled a wide U-turn in the parking lot and headed off the campus.

”Not that we know of,” I said, looking out the window. I pulled a hand across my sweaty forehead. ”Jesus.”

”Yes, Jesus saw us,” she said in a patronizing tone, and made a left.

I started to reply but couldn't come up with an appropriate response and gave up. I breathed deeply and put my head on the headrest. ”Nothing there,” I said, disappointed. ”Max, what am I going to do?” I asked, feeling tears well up in my eyes again.

She shrugged. ”Don't know.” She started the car. ”Hey, you want to get some wings and a pitcher at Maloney's?” she asked.

I looked at her, incredulous. With Max, there's always time for food. When we were in college, Maloney's was our place of choice-two dozen wings and a pitcher of draft beer for $3.50 on a Friday afternoon. I still visited Maloney's occasionally with Father Kevin. After fifteen years, the price of a pitcher and a dozen wings had gone up to $6.50.

I was kind of hungry. ”Sure.”

She pointed the car toward Broadway and found a parking spot a few doors north of the bar. She eased the car into a very tight spot, parallel parking like a pro. The el rumbled above us as a train headed away from this final destination in the Bronx toward Manhattan. We got out and headed south on Broadway to the bar.

It was just after lunchtime, and the bar was empty, except for the ancient bartender, Sully, and one older man at the end. They were discussing the ever-controversial topic of the designated hitter. The bar was dark, dank, and smelly, but comfortably familiar. Sully looked up when he saw me; he had been bartending at Maloney's since Max and I were in school. ”Hey, Doc,” he said, wiping the bar down with a dingy, yellowed rag that was probably dirtier than the bar he was cleaning.

”Hi, Sully,” I said, and went over to the bar. I leaned in and gave him a kiss. ”How's things?” I asked. ”Do you remember Max?”

He looked at her. ”Sure, I do. Max Barfly?” he asked, breaking into a toothy grin. He had given her that nickname in our freshman year and it stuck.

She snickered. ”That's me.”

”The kids don't drink kamikazes anymore,” he said, sadly. Max had been the kamikaze shot queen for three years running; a bout with mono in senior year forced her to give up her crown. He balled the rag up and threw it into the sink behind the bar. ”What can I get you ladies?”

”Two dozen and a pitcher,” Max said. She turned to me. ”What do you want?” She laughed; this was something I had heard a hundred times while we were in school. ”Just kidding.”

I led her to one of the wooden booths across from the bar. I sat and stuck my right leg out to the side to examine the damage from my roll on the pavement; my stockings were torn, and I had a nice b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.pe on my s.h.i.+n. ”I didn't stick my landing like you did,” I explained as I got up to go the bathroom and wash up in the dark, dank, and smelly bathroom (Maloney's had found a decorating motif and was sticking to it). I pulled off my panty hose, stepping out of one shoe and then the other as I extricated myself from my hose. I didn't want to put even one bare toe on the bathroom floor; I had been to this bar enough times to know what went on in the bathroom and how infrequently the floor was mopped (never). I tossed my stockings into the garbage can and took some paper towels from the dispenser, wet them, and pressed them against the sc.r.a.pe on my leg, sopping up as much of the blood as possible and trying to get the area relatively clean. I ran the water in the sink and washed my face. When I was done, I emerged, cleaner and a little calmer than when I had entered.

Max was hunched over a big plate of wings when I returned and a pitcher of beer sat in front of her. She had poured each of us some beer into the plastic cups that Sully provided. Her mouth was ringed in orange wing sauce, and she had her sleeves rolled up almost to her shoulders. She took a swig of beer and left an orange imprint around the side of the cup. ”So good,” she murmured, as she tossed some bones onto the wing platter.

”Nice,” I said, and picked up her bones with a napkin, creating a new burial ground for her discards. ”Don't you remember anything? You don't mix old bones with new wings.”

I picked up a wing and nibbled at it, not having as much of an appet.i.te as I originally thought. I put the wing down and pushed my beer away. I'm not a big beer drinker; when Father Kevin and I come for wings, Sully always makes me an Absolut martini from a private vodka stash that he keeps in a locked cabinet under the bar. ”So what do you think I should do now?” I asked her.

She picked up a napkin and wiped her hands as much as she could; the paper ripped off and stuck to her fingers. ”Keep thinking. I think the fact that your car was involved in this was random. But maybe not. Why would someone steal your car?” she asked.

”Because they could?”