Final Exam (21 page)

Thirty-One

The next morning, I got up, walked the dog, got dressed, and was out of the building in record time. I wanted to get to my computer to do a search on Costas and the Tsagarakis family and I wanted to do it before things got hectic in the office area. I entered the office at six-thirty in the morning, way before anyone had any thoughts of getting to work.

I logged on to the computer and waited for it to warm up, spinning around in my chair to catch the view of the sun rising over the cemetery, seen just beyond the back courtyard of the building and across a narrow drive. Maybe most people wouldn’t think that the sun coming up over the gravestones of deceased nuns was a sight to behold, and I had probably fallen into that category at one time, but this was my first time seeing it and it was truly a spectacle. It almost made me want to get up at the crack of dawn every day to witness it.

Who was I kidding? I knew that wouldn’t happen. In no time, I’d be back to running down to my office five minutes before office hours or seconds before class. But it was nice to dream.

The computer came to life and I put in the name “Costas Grigoriadis.” In an instant, a list of sites appeared, the first one being a company Web site for “T&G Limousine.” Interesting. I paired “Costas” with “Tsagarakis” knowing that I would get more hits with a broader topic but hoping that my hunch was correct and that T&G would come up again.

Bingo.

I browsed the site and found that Costas was the founding partner of T&G and Nicholas Tsagarakis was the copartner, joining the company in 2002. So, they had been together for several years. Prior to Nicholas’s joining the company, the fleet had been eight cars; now they boasted more than fifty cars. Sounded like a very successful business. And it sounded like Nicholas had brought with him an influx of cash when he signed on if the increase in the number of cars was any indication.

They were based in Newark, New Jersey, an interesting coincidence given the events of the last few days.

I didn’t know if Nicholas was Brandon’s father, uncle, or distant relative, but if I had to guess, I would say that he was his father, judging from the picture on the Web site and the strong family resemblance. Costas was on there, too, looking about as close to a Greek Neil Diamond as one could get, dressed in an extremely ornate smoking jacket with an ascot. Classy.

Great. Now “Cracklin’ Rosie” was stuck in my head. I took a little detour to see if I could find out what a “store-bought woman” really was, searching the official Neil Diamond Web site. No dice. This was going to drive me insane.

I thought about the family business and the impending Brandon and Amanda nuptial, jumping to the conclusion that Amanda was now going to do the family proud and marry her stepfather’s business partner’s son, a man she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Because, I deduced, if her family was down with arranging a marriage, divorce was probably out of the question.

I typed Nicholas’s name into the search engine, the same article about the joint venture coming up first, followed by a
New York Times
wedding announcement from 2003. I clicked it open, leaning in. There was a picture of Nicholas with a very young, very nubile, and extremely busty lady who was clad in the lowest-cut wedding dress I had ever seen. This was going to be good.

Athena Papadopolous, 27, of Great Neck, Long Island, wed Nicholas Tsagarakis, 48, on Saturday October 10th, at St. Spyridon Greek Orthodox Church in Manhattan. Ms. Papadopolous is in cosmetic sales for Henri Bendel and Mr. Tsagarakis is the owner of T&G Limousine. The bride was attended by sixteen attendants, including maid of honor Tiffany Caswell. Mr. Tsagarakis’s best man was his son, Brandon.

That was all I needed to know. Brandon was Nicholas’s son. I went back to my search on Nicholas and came up with four additional wedding announcements, the earliest dating back to 1980 and his union to Ms. Padadopolous being the most recent. What a dog. I wondered which union had produced Brandon. A couple of the weddings took place within a year of each other, making it impossible to tell.

I turned back around in my chair and stared out the window, seeing a few students walking along the little path that ran next to the cemetery and that dumped into the parking lot in front of Siena. I had a lot to digest, mentally. It was a gorgeous morning so I decided I had learned all that I needed to for the time being and that it was time to enjoy the weather. I left the computer on, but locked up my office and headed out, thinking that a trip to the river was in order.

I walked down the back staircase and through the student union and toward the exit by the commuter cafeteria, the smell of bacon distracting me and making me lose my train of thought. I veered off and headed into the cafeteria, placing an order with Marcus. I was standing by the coffee machine pouring milk into my coffee when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and found myself face-to-face with Merrimack, his beady little eyes trained on me.

“I heard we’ve been having some excitement in Siena.”

I shrugged, trying to play it off. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He crossed his arms. “We’re not worried about what
you
can handle, Professor.”

I saw Marcus and a few of the cafeteria staff hovering behind the counter trying to eavesdrop but trying desperately not to look like they were. I focused on the spectacular view of the river behind Merrimack’s head to distract myself from getting mesmerized by his rat eyes. “And I have done my best to keep the entire situation quiet,” I recited dutifully.

He shot a look at the cafeteria staff and they dispersed, leaving only Marcus behind to tell me that my order was ready.

Merrimack wasn’t finished. “This wasn’t what we were expecting when we set up this living arrangement, Professor.”

“Me, either,” I agreed.

The look on his face told me that that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He seemed surprised and disappointed by my candor. “It is in the best interest of us all to find a replacement for Wayne.” He uncrossed his arms and made a step toward the cafeteria door. “Nothing would please me more than to send you home.” The look of disgust on his face stunned me. He exited into the hallway.

I made the rash decision to follow him. “Hey, Merrimack!” I called after him as he scurried down the marble-floored hallway toward his office.

He turned slowly, not believing that I had broken the unwritten code that he had established: he was the alpha male, I was the female who got pissed on, and I had to take it. Not so fast, buddy. I approached him, wishing I were doing anything but what I planned on. And that was setting the record straight. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said.

“Please do not point at me,” he said.

I dropped my hand. “I am not your problem. If the evidence proves reliable, and I think a giant bag of dime bags of pot may prove irrefutable, Mr. Brookwell was going to turn out to be a giant problem for you.”

“Are you insinuating—”

“I’m not insinuating. I’m telling it as it is. Wayne was a dealer. Plain and simple. And you should thank your lucky stars that he got out of Dodge before his dealings hurt someone or he got found out and got dragged out of here in handcuffs.” I was on a roll. “Because let me be perfectly clear, Dean Merrimack: if it wasn’t for me and my . . .”—and here’s where I lost my momentum—“boy . . . man . . . friend . . . Crawford, you were going to be in a world of hurt. It’s only because of him that we have been able to keep this as quiet as we have.” I stopped, flushed and out of breath from my diatribe.

“Are you finished?” he asked, regarding me with loathing and contempt.

I straightened to my full six feet in my heels. “I am.” I turned and started back toward the cafeteria. “And now, I’m going to return to the cafeteria to eat my French toast.”

That went well, I thought, as I sat by the window trying to cut my breakfast with shaking hands and an unstable plastic knife. I replayed the conversation in my head and determined that I had handled it precisely the way I wanted. What was Merrimack going to do? Fire me? Good. Maybe then I could go home.

I thought of Dobbs Ferry longingly and then flashed on my red bedroom and the amount of work it was going to take to fix that redecorating debacle. I took a bite of bacon, realized I wasn’t hungry anymore, and pushed my plate away.

Marcus wandered over and stood next to my table, wiping his hands on his pristine white apron. Marcus is a middle-aged Jamaican man with close-cropped white hair and an extremely sexy voice and accent. I could always count on him for a smile and a great meal, despite the fact that I was buying it in a college cafeteria.

“How are you, Alison? I heard you’re living on campus. Man, that’s gotta stink,” he said, smiling. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, leaning in to talk to me. “So what happened to Wayne?”

I ran my napkin across my maple-syrup-coated lips. “That’s a long story.”

“He coming back?” he asked, a little too interested.

“I don’t know. Right now, he’s in a spot of trouble,” I said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “What kind of trouble?” he asked, looking truly concerned. I wondered if Wayne ate in the cafeteria as much as I did; I didn’t recall ever having seen him there.

I put my wrists together to indicate Wayne’s legal status.

Marcus whistled through his teeth. “Really?”

“Really.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Did you know Wayne well?”

Marcus smiled again, this time a little sheepishly. “Let’s just say that we had a business arrangement.”

The realization of what he was telling me slowly dawned on me. I slumped in my chair. “You, too?” I asked, incredulous. I thought Wayne’s clientele consisted mainly of the kids on campus.

He waved his hands in the air. “No, no! It’s not what you think. My sister is going through chemotherapy and someone suggested that she . . .”—he struggled for the right word for the setting as students started to come into the cafeteria—“partake?” He explained to me how the antinausea meds she was supposed to take made her nauseous while the pot settled her stomach and gave her an appetite. “I saw Wayne making a little transaction in the back parking lot one day and got the idea that I could help my sister out by becoming one of his customers.”

That was convenient; if Marcus was anything like me, and it seemed he was, he wouldn’t have the first idea of where to buy a bag of pot. I don’t know why, but I felt a little better knowing that the guy who made many of my breakfasts and more than a few of my lunches wasn’t as high as a kite when he was doing so. I told him that I hoped he had a nice stash because Wayne wasn’t coming back any time soon.

Marcus gave me a quick hug before he went back to the kitchen, taking my plate of half-eaten food and tossing it in the garbage can. I finished my coffee and headed back to my office. It was only eight o’clock, but I knew Crawford got to work early. I took a chance and called him at the squad.

“Fiftieth Precinct. Homicide. Detective Crawford. How can I help you?”

I stifled a laugh. If you were calling to report a murder, would you sit through that litany of phone etiquette? “Hiya, Crawford.”

“Hi,” he said, sounding sort of glad that I called. I remembered him muttering that he hated me as we drove off from the encounter with the state trooper the night before and I wondered if there was some lingering anger. “What’s up?”

“What’s not up?” I said.

He waited a few seconds. “Care to elaborate?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Here’s what I found out: Costas is partners with Amanda’s fiancé’s father—I think—in a limousine business. His name is Nicholas Tsagarakis. If I had to guess, I would say it’s the same limo company that Wayne was driving for. So Amanda’s engagement seems to me to be some kind of arranged marriage between the children of business partners. Kevin told me that Wayne was moonlighting for them. Extra money, I’m guessing.”

“Good work.”

“And the pot is definitely Wayne’s,” I said, saving the best for last.

“How do you know?”

“Besides what we learned from Mary Catherine, which was hearsay at best, let me just say that someone in the building told me that he had bought pot from Wayne for his sister who is undergoing chemo.” I pulled my chair up to my desk and pulled out a pad, making notes of what I had just told him. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

“An anonymous tip from an anonymous source who talked to someone who needs to remain anonymous? That’s not going to help me,” he said. “I need specifics.”

“Can’t give you any. It would put my friend in a precarious position.”

He let out a deep sigh on the other end. “I’ll tell Carmen and Gorman,” he said, like it was a threat. Carmen and I were becoming closer with every case (and there had been a couple over the past year), and Gorman? Well, I’d have him eating out of the palm of my hand in no time.

“You do that,” I said. “You coming over later?”

“I’ll see if I can. What role am I playing tonight?”

“Well, if you get here before eleven we can play firefighter saving damsel in distress.”

“Anything but a firefighter.”

“Graphic designer going over the design plans with the lead contact on the Anderson account?”

“That’s better. I’ll call you later,” he said.

Before he hung up, I wanted to know one thing. “Hey, Crawford? What’s a store-bought woman?”

“What?”

“A store-bought woman. ‘Cracklin’ Rose, you’re a store-bought woman.’ What does that mean?”

“I can only guess that’s it someone for hire. You know, available for dates?” he said. He let out a deep guffaw. “Where do you get this stuff?”

I didn’t go into my whole “Costas looks like Neil Diamond” thing so we just hung up with him grateful that I didn’t give him my elaborate explanation of why I needed to know this vital information.

I plugged away at my computer for a while, corrected a couple of papers, and played a couple of hands of solitaire, noting that I still had over an hour until my next class. I would never get up this early ever again. It gave me too much time to get into trouble.