Coke with a Twist (A Mercy Watts short) (2 page)

The next morning, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Dad wanted a progress report, every floor in my hospital wanted me to work a double shift, and Mom called for no reason. Typical Mom. Lastly, Pete texted his friend’s number to me.
 

After a couple of hours of stalling, I got up the nerve to cold call her. Pete had already asked her to arrange a meeting with the sorority president. I gave her my e-mail address and she promised to send me the entire list of current little sisters. She asked no questions, expressed interest in meeting me, and we hung up. She’d made my meeting with the president at four.
 

I spent the rest of the afternoon rifling through my closet trying to find something suitably college. Something that said, “I’m one of you.” I put on a Gap long-sleeve tee and low-rise khakis. I pulled my blonde hair back and installed a bow. The look was pretty generic, but I wanted to resemble Marilyn as little as possible.

I needn’t have bothered. The sorority house wasn’t what I expected. Whatever happened to columns and class? It looked like a turn-of-the-century apartment house with rusting gutters and peeling paint. Once inside, a freshman doing the doorman thing greeted me. She had a bow, too. I told her about my appointment with Jennifer Kestler. I signed in and she went to get Kestler. After five minutes, she came back and told me Jen would be out in a minute. I sat, uninvited, on one of the flowery wing backs. The freshman eyed me as she fiddled with some pens in a cup. She looked at my boobs with a disapproving frown. I wanted to inform her that they weren’t implants, just nature’s way of giving me a permanent backache. Instead I asked, “Why are you watching the door?”

“It’s for security. Freaks try to get in sometimes.”

Apparently, no freaks were expected during her five-minute absence, so it was okay to leave the door unguarded.
 

“What a pain,” I said with a sigh. “Everybody has to sign in?”

“Only from eight till ten. We use our keys after hours.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
 

Then I noticed she had homework in front of her. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know Josh Byers?”

“No.” That was it. No explanation this time.
 

“He’s in your brother frat.”

“Is he?” She opened her book and picked up a highlighter. Interview over.
 

Jennifer Kestler came out wearing a lacrosse uniform and a sleek ponytail. She shook my hand and led me into what she called the audio-visual room. It was the TV room.
 

“What can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for information on Josh Byers and Lara Haven.” No use beating around the bush. If the front desk denied knowing Byers, the wagons were already circled.
 

“I don’t know how I can help you,” she said.
 

“How well do you know them?”

“He’s in our brother frat. I don’t know her at all.”

“You heard about what happened to her?”

“Yes.”
 

“And?” I was getting impatient.

“And nothing.”

“You’re not concerned.”

“She wasn’t one of our girls,” she said.
 

“So it’s okay?” Breathe, I thought. Don’t get pissy.

“No. It’s not okay.” Her face was stone. Her lips set into a thin line.
 

“But you know him,” I said.

“Vaguely.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

“Has anyone else talked to you about him?”

“No. Why would they?”

“You’re connected.”

“We’re not connected.”

“All right. You’re socially connected,” I said.

“Not even that.”

“Are you saying you’ve never spoken to him?”

“No. I might have.”

I took a leap. “You were at the frat the night it happened. Did you speak to Byers?”

“No.” She sounded sure and, for once, honest.
 

“How about the rapists?”

“You don’t know they’re rapists.” She showed her first flash of anger on that one.
 

“They confessed.”

“It was a plea bargain.” Jennifer jutted her chin out at me and looked pleased with herself.

“So they lied.”

“They wouldn’t lie,” she said.

“So they wouldn’t lie and they’re not rapists.” I was irritating her. It felt good because she was sure irritating me.
 

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said.

“Which of your girls has dated Byers?”

“None,” she said.
 

So much for honesty.
 

“None? In three years, none of you has dated him?
 
Did he ever have a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t know.”
 

What would you know? I had to take a deep breath not to say that out loud.
 

“Can I talk to some of the other girls?”

“I don’t think so. I have to go now. I have a date.” She tried to lead me to the front door, but I said, “Don’t bother. I can make it out.”
 

I felt her eyes on me as I walked down the hall. I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t think of a reason to stay. When in doubt, stall.
 

I paused at the front desk. “I’m not feeling so good. Do you mind if I sit for a moment? Cramps. You know how it is.”
 

The desk girl looked like she had no idea what I was talking about. Yeah, right. After five long minutes spent bent over in my chair, I still hadn’t thought of a way to talk to anyone, but sometimes waiting does the work for you. A couple guys came in and asked to see DeeDee and Loni. They signed in and asked to be taken straight back. Desk Girl took them without hesitation. Their security sucked.
 

They went around the corner and I had a miraculous recovery. If everyone had to sign in, excepting those that had the brains to avoid the so-called security, then Byers’s name would probably be in the book if he was going out with somebody. I scanned the book and came up empty.

Luckily, the books for the last couple years were in the second drawer down. Six months before, Byers had signed in for Becky Strattman. I was running out of time, but a quick scan of previous pages revealed that he’d visited Becky a lot. She had to be a girlfriend. I heard footsteps, shoved the books back and jumped into my seat.

I stretched and smiled at the desk girl. “Tylenol is finally kicking in.”
 

She couldn’t have cared less. During my stretch, I noticed the pictures of the girls on the wall neatly categorized by year. I walked over still stretching and tried to find that year’s pictures. They weren’t up yet, but the previous year’s were. They even put the names of the girls under their pictures. How nice of them. Especially since they couldn’t seem to remember anyone. Now I would recognize Becky when I saw her.

I left, drove a couple of blocks away and parked. I got out the binoculars Dad gave me for my fifteenth birthday. I liked them until I discovered he expected me to use them on his cases. I could see the front door of the house and the cars pulling into the lot. Most of the girls were walking since it was close to the main campus. Quite a few blondes came and went, some real, most not. Becky wasn’t one of them.
 

I waited an hour and started getting antsy. I never was good at surveillance. Invariably, I had to go to the bathroom, fell asleep, or get so bored I wanted to attack the person under surveillance. For the love of God, do something. Most people were boring, but they probably think they’re interesting as all get out.
 

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I broke down and called Morty. Dad does a huge business in divorce/infidelity and Morty is his go-to guy for surveillance. Morty doesn’t get bored. He is a dungeon master for his Dungeons and Dragons cronies. He sits and works on the latest plan of attack. Eventually curtains would be drawn back or there’d be a covert kiss in the doorway and Morty would be ready.
 

If he’s at home and awake, he’s doing checks and talking to contacts. Morty loves the work. He was a wedding photographer, but he quit when he started fantasizing about beating the brides to death with his camera.

“Mort, it’s me. I need a favor.”

“Is it billable?” he asked.

I pictured Morty sitting at his desk with his belly hanging over the keyboard. He’d be smiling his twisted smile while he calculated how much he could charge me. Great, not only was I not getting paid, now I had to pay Morty.

“Sure, why not.” It would take two minutes. I could afford two minutes.

“Be quick. I’ve got three other lines going.”

“I need you to call a sorority and find out where Becky Strattman is. You can say you’re her English professor or something.”

“Does she have an English professor?”

“Probably.”

“You’re tired of sitting in the car, aren’t you?”
 

“Yes, I’m bored stiff,” I said. “You want the number or not?”

Ten minutes later, I got a call back. Becky had a late lab and got out at six. Morty had taken the liberty of finding the building and the most likely exit. More billing. Great.

I headed over to the science building, bought a mocha breve, and plunked myself down on the steps to accost her when she came out. There was a homeless guy opposite me with a large cardboard box. He looked as bad as a person could look and that wasn’t helping him get rid of whatever was in the box. People would look in and practically run in the other direction. After a half hour, I couldn’t stand it and decided to take a look. I prepared for the worst, his underwear or something, but it was a kitten. The nastiest, most pathetic cat I’d ever seen and that was being generous. It sneezed, spraying phlegm on the side of the box, and looked up at me with crusty orange eyes.

“Want a kitty?” he asked.

“Not really. Just curious.”

“You sure? He’s a nice kitty.”

I gave him a wave and sat back down with a bucketful of guilt. I wanted a cat, not that cat, but a clean, purring animal would be nice. I needed something to come home to. Something that didn’t care when I came home just as long as I did.

Quarter after six, Becky came out with a group and headed down the stairs toward me. They separated at the second flight and I took my shot.

“Becky Strattman?”
 

She turned to me and said, “Yes.”
 

I was taken aback for a moment. She was much prettier than her picture. She was almost luminous. She looked like JonBenet Ramsey if she’d been allowed to grow up. The beauty pageant JonBenet, that is, not the little girl in pigtails.
 

“Hi.” I extended my hand and she gave my fingertips a shake. “I’m Mercy Watts. I talked to Jennifer Kestler earlier and she said you might be here.”

“What do you want?” The words rushed out of her mouth. She caught herself and gave me an apologetic smile to make up for her rudeness. It always amazed me how well name-dropping worked at getting people to talk. Becky never imagined I might be lying and I felt a little bit guilty about it. Not guilty enough to stop lying, of course.

“I wanted to ask you some questions about Josh Byers.” Her face knotted and I’m sure her stomach did too. He broke up with her. No doubt about it.

“Why?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“Private detective. I was hired to find him.”

“His family hired you?”

“Yes. They’re very concerned.” More lies. Shame on me. “They said you know him rather well.”

Becky flushed and said, “Can we go somewhere?”
 

I agreed and we went to a coffee bar down the street. It was filled with students done with a hard day of mind expansion. They were happy. Becky wasn’t. We ordered at the counter and sat.

“How well do you know Josh?” I said.

“We dated for over a year. We broke up last May.”

“Have you talked to him lately?”

“No. You’re really a detective?” She looked suspicious, but not worried.

I nodded. Please don’t ask for ID.
 

Becky looked into her hands and I thought she might start crying.

“Do you know Lara Haven?” I asked. “The girl that got raped at his frat.”

“No, but I read about the case. It’s totally awful what happened to her.” She seemed genuinely affected, but she was thinking fast, too. Those hands were mighty interesting.

“Have you heard anything that might help? Anything about the GHB?”

“Why are you asking about that?” she said, looking back at me.

“Because that’s what she was given and we need to find out why.”

“And how.”

“We know how. It was slipped into her Coke. She was trying to sober up before she went home,” I said.

“Oh.”
 

“What do you know about GHB?”