Stalking Death (11 page)

"Bright enough. Quick. Manipulative. Actually, he's very smart. He's just a little lazy."

"Doesn't get good grades?"

"I didn't mean..." She shrugged. "He does okay. He could do better if he wanted to."

Just like Shondra. I wondered what his evaluations said. "Is he popular?"

"Yes," she said. "No. I mean, I guess it's kind of mixed."

"Why?"

"His repu... uh... his politics." She stared longingly down at the pencil, at a loss without a prop.

"Could you elaborate?"

"Why? Why are you asking about him? He's the real victim here, if anyone is. It's obvious Shondra picked him because his political views offend her."

"What is your basis for that conclusion?"

"My what?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You said you weren't a cop, right? So how come the interrogation, anyway?" She explored her ear, checking each of the empty holes, then quickly dropped her hand when she saw me watching. I manufactured a look of surprise. "Interrogation? I'm just trying to get the big picture. It's not like I'm asking whether you smoke dope in your room or were ever arrested or are sleeping with a student."

I'd just thrown out some random problems other schools had, but one of those was a bingo. I could tell by the way her eyes widened and her shoulders hunched. Before she could regroup, I said, "So, about Alasdair MacGregor? Is there a history between him and Shondra?"

Her eyes flashed to her watch and she popped out of her chair. "I'm sorry but I have to go. A class."

"It says on your door that you're available for the next hour."

"That's an old sign."

"It says Fall schedule. You're less than a month into the semester." The mean part of me wanted to see her squirm.

She flopped sulkily back into her chair. "He's like a lot of the kids we see. Macho exterior, insecure interior. He's really haunted by the pressure from his family. St. Matthews is the family school. MacGregors always go here. They're always campus leaders. Alasdair is trying to find his own niche. Looking for a place he can excel. Sometimes he... sometimes they... make bad choices. All the kids, I mean."

But she didn't. She meant Alasdair, who was deemed worthy of some slack, while Sondra wasn't. "What kind of bad choices? Has he been in trouble?" She didn't answer. "What about his relationship with Shondra?"

"I don't believe there is one." She said it too quickly, then scooped up the pencil and went back to being a mini-majorette.

I shifted my eyes away from her, circumnavigated the room, looking for clues about her personality. The messy room, with the Indian bedspread thrown over the sofa and the Papasan chair, looked more like a student's room than an adult's. So did the heap of kicked-off shoes and sandals under her desk. Of course, I have a heap like that in my place, too, or did until I started sharing quarters with Andre. He's so neat I'm lucky he doesn't make me spit shine them and lay them out in rows. Not that I would. Something I shared with Shondra Jones—a lot of attitude.

"To your knowledge there's been no fight, argument, insult, feud or rivalry which might have made her want to get back at him? No ugly words, no racial slurs? No sexual advances?"

She dropped her eyes. "No."

"What about a romantic relationship?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be kidding? Shondra's a very pretty girl."

It came out before she could stop herself. "Because she's black. Alasdair has these... I told you... conservative views. He would never be interested in someone black."

"Are you basing this on things he's said or things you've inferred?" She just blinked at me with a slightly stupid look I wanted to slap off her face, and didn't answer. "Were you in the dorm last year?"

"I was in a different dorm."

I'd had enough. Often, I learned as much from what people didn't say. And she hadn't told me plenty. I snapped my notebook shut and stood up. Held out my hand. "Thanks for your time," I said.

She returned the handshake as minimally as was humanly possible. A quick stab in the air in the vicinity of my hand. Handshakes are another thing that can tell you about people. As she hurried to open the door, I swept the matchbox on her desk neatly into my pocket. She closed the door behind me so quickly she almost took my ass off.

I went down the hall, into the bathroom, and shut myself in a stall, a bit breathless at my own behavior. Holding the little matchbox neatly between my fingertips, I slid it open and stared at the definitive evidence that she smoked dope in her room.

I wondered if Shondra knew about this. If people weren't just intimidated by her size, but because she knew their secrets. Secrets could be a form of currency. Had secrets like this contributed to their reluctance to call in the police? Had her ability to trade in their own currency been part of their eagerness to see her gone?

Chapter 8

I hadn't arranged to speak with Mrs. Leverett. From Maria Santoro's description, it would probably be more of the same, but I was here anyway so I stopped on the first floor and knocked. The noise level had increased with girls returning from class. A student passing behind me said, "She teaches a math class this block."

"Maybe I could catch her afterward. Do you know where the class is?"

"All math classes are in Eaton." The look she gave me was wary now that I'd revealed myself to be a stranger. She backed away even as she asked, "Do you know where that is?"

She was a 'pastel blonde,' with baby-fine hair and skin like porcelain. She wore pastel colors, too, a long tan skirt with a pale aqua twin set. Her toes, peeking from open shoes, were painted to match her top. She had hopelessly innocent blue eyes, a slightly snub nose, and a small mouth gelled a shiny soft pink. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger and waited for my answer.

"I have a map," I said.

"Are you a reporter?" she asked.

"Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid. I'm an educational consultant." It had the usual effect. As she turned away, I asked, "Have there been reporters around?"

"One," she said. "But he was black and a guy. So he didn't come into the dorm."

"Did you talk to him?"

The blue eyes widened. "Oh, no. Not me, I'd never. But he tried to talk to Alice. I heard her telling the other girls about it."

Trying not to make her nervous, I asked, "What's your name?"

She glanced quickly around, as though looking for permission to tell her name to a stranger. "Cassie McLeod," she said quickly. "I'd better go."

"I was hoping you could show me the way to Eaton."

But Cassie was spooked. "It's not hard if you've got the map."

"I guess you're right. And I'm sure you've got important things to do." I turned toward the door, elaborately casual.

"Is this about Shondra?" she blurted out, flushing a becoming pink. "Excuse me. I've got to go." She turned and hurried up the stairs.

Todd Chambers hadn't mentioned a reporter. Had that omission stemmed from ignorance or because he didn't want me to know? With whom had that reporter spoken? What had he learned? And what potential fallout could we anticipate?

This was a can of worms indeed. Right now I was wishing I'd just rubber-stamped that letter and gone home to Andre, leaving St. Matts to handle its own problems. If only I were a lazy slacker like Maria Santoro. But Andre was working and so was I. I checked my watch—still an hour until I met with Todd Chambers—and headed off to Eaton.

I followed the map and was almost at Eaton when a deep voice from behind said, "Excuse me?" I turned, found myself about level with his shirt pocket, and kept on looking up until I found a handsome face that was much too young to be so troubled.

"Are you the consultant lookin' into my sister's problem?" He had a preacher's voice, which, in this soundbite age, would probably end up doing sports commentary or voiceovers. Selling products instead of values or responsibility.

"If you're Jamison Jones." I held out my hand. "Thea Kozak. EDGE Consulting."

He wrapped his hand around mine with the studied gentleness of the very large and strong. "Have you got a minute?"

We sat on the stone wall in front of Eaton Hall, looking out over a rolling green campus punctuated by vibrant trees. The beauty of the day seemed to have no effect on his spirits. After a few sighs and some shifts of his restless body, he began. "I'm real worried about my sister. About what she'll do," he said. "She's been pressurin' me to help her out. And I don't know."

He sighed again, shrugging his big shoulders. "I'm tryin' to stay out of it, but hey, the way Mr. Chambers and them are actin', I just may have to."

"What does she want you to do?"

He gave me a calm and careful examination, taking in my color, my suit and my briefcase, then countered with a question. "What does Mr. Chambers want
you
to do?"

Sign off on a bad letter, I thought. Aloud, I said, "Help him draft a reassuring letter to parents so they won't worry about a campus stalker."

"But you talked to my sister," he said, "and people in her dorm. Why'd you do all that if you're only supposed to write a letter?"

I wasn't the only one who sounded like a cop, was I? I was glad to see they were teaching them to think and question here at St. Matts, and not just learn by rote. And I was learning how fast information traveled on this campus.

"What's that letter supposed to say, anyway?" Before I could respond, he answered his own question. "That everything here at St. Matts is just fine and my sister's a crazy, paranoid minority who's makin' it all up because she don't... doesn't... like someone's politics, right?"

Got it in one. Despite Jamison's poise and maturity, I was little surprised Chambers liked him so much. Administrators of Chambers' stripe weren't usually kindly disposed to this level of student insight and questioning. At all schools, there was a strong, and necessary, element of 'because I said so.' Maybe he pulled his punches with Todd Chambers, but didn't think he had to with me. Or maybe it was enough that he was putting the St. Matthew's basketball team on the map.

"I'm really not at liberty to discuss it." Which, much as I wanted to tell him the truth, I wasn't.

"Not at liberty? Thought this was a free country?"

"I've been retained by the Administration to..." Too stuffy. "I mean, I..."

Before I could finish, he pushed himself up off the wall, his geniality gone. "No. I don't suppose you are. Not if they're payin' the bill. You think what they tell you."

He jerked his chin in the direction of the Administration Building. "What's wrong with their heads over there, do you suppose, that they think sending some lyin' letter's gonna make this thing go away? I tried to tell Mr. Chambers that, after Shondra asked me for my help, but he's got that witch wife whisperin' in his ear. He used to be a half-decent guy, when he first come... came here, but he doesn't listen anymore. All he thinks about is that building and what he's got to do to get it paid for. He don't care about us no more."

Did Chambers know this was his community's perception? "What does your sister want, Jamison?"

"I guess," he said, "according to what I've learned in my constitutional law class, that she wants due process." His eyes, fixed on my face, dared me to be surprised.

"A hearing, you mean, on the harassment charge, with Alasdair forced to be involved? I should think, if she's telling the truth, that what she'd want is to have the whole thing stop."

He studied me carefully, like I was something he was going to have to write a paper on, then nodded with surprise and approval. "Sounds like maybe you believe it's really happening."

"I'm keeping an open mind," I said.

"What did Shondra tell you?"

"When it started and how it escalated. Then she decided she didn't want to talk to me and told me we didn't have to worry, she was going to handle it herself. I take it that means getting you involved?"

His shoulders slumped. "That's part of it."

What was the rest? A lawyer? The press? Some national black students association? "What does she want you to do?"

"Talk to Alasdair."

I wondered if either of them had actually used the word 'talk'? "You going to?"