The Bride Wore Size 12 (27 page)

No, I tell myself. It’s not possible. Jasmine and Howard were friends. They went to that party together. I saw them myself in the fifteenth-floor hallway on the video monitor. They were laughing, having fun.

Then I remember Howard’s desperation in the office, the tears in his eyes as he asked how his parents were going to pay for both him and his brother to go to college at the same time.

Was it possible the murder of Jasmine Albright had nothing whatsoever to do with Prince Rashid and his secret bride, and instead had to do with a boy, distraught over losing a lucrative student employment contract—as Howard must surely have known he would, if word got out that he’d been at an alcohol-fueled rager while serving as the RA on duty?

Was
that
the photo that Jasmine had snapped on her phone, and threatened to Tweet? Howard Chen, drunk while on duty?

But that’s ridiculous. No one would kill for such a reason. Except . . . people had killed over much less.

Who benefits?

Howard.

Eva would never have detected the tooth marks on the back of Jasmine’s lips if I hadn’t found out about the party and asked her to take a second look.

Detective Canavan had said whoever had nearly succeeded in strangling Cameron had known what he was doing, and knew something about human anatomy.

Howard’s major is premed.

“Gavin,” I say in a tight voice. I so want it to not be true. “How many residents have checked into the fourteenth floor so far?”

Gavin pulls out my check-in binder and flips to the fourteenth floor. “Not that many. It’s mostly upperclassmen, so we probably won’t get the rest until this weekend. So far it’s only the girls in fourteen-twelve. And Jasmine, of course, but she’s—”

“Never mind that,” I say. “Check the registration cards of the girls in fourteen-twelve. See if any of them had a lockout the night of the party.”

“
All
of them?” Gavin asks dubiously. Looking up one registration card is a pain in the ass. Four is beyond tedium.

“All of them,” I say.

“Okay.”

He sighs, and gets to work. Nothing at the desk is computerized, a result of New York College’s outdated conviction that if it supplied the residence hall public areas with computers, the student workers would immediately steal them and/or spend their shifts looking at pornography, when in fact what I know from experience they’d most likely do is spend their shifts writing screenplays.

It can’t be Howard, I tell myself as I wait, idly flipping through a copy of
Cosmo
I find at the top of the mail forwarding pile. Howard spent the entire time after the discovery of Jasmine’s body vomiting down the trash chute. What cold-blooded murderer does that?

One who regrets his actions, but can’t go back and change them.

How had Howard known I’d been at the student center, talking to Cameron Ripley?

Oh
God.
That’s right. Howard had run into me and Lisa as we were returning from the meeting with President Allington. He’d been trailing along behind the campus tour Jasmine Tsai was giving her residents. Howard could easily have left the tour and followed me to the student center—I’d never have noticed, I was on the phone with Cooper—then walked into Cameron’s office after I left, and—

Well, we know what followed. At that time Howard didn’t know all the RAs who’d gone to the party were getting fired. He’d thought he still had a job to save.

Cooper was right. I was lucky to have escaped Cameron’s office with my life.

My cell phone rings. I reach—very carefully—into my bag to retrieve it. It’s Cooper.

“Hi, honey,” I say in as normal a tone as I can muster considering I’ve just realized how close I came to being killed by a deeply disturbed homicidal maniac in my own place of work—and not even the one I
thought
was a homicidal maniac, a different one altogether. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” he says. His voice sounds sexily sleep-roughened. “But I’d be better if you were here, in bed with me, so we could play nurse and patient some more. That’s a very good game.”

“I know, I enjoyed it too. Sorry I had to go, but my shift at the hospital was over. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you and give you your next injection.”

I notice Gavin giving me an odd look from over the tops of the registration card boxes, so I get up and walk toward the front desk window for more privacy.

“I believe I’m the one who gave
you
the injection,” Cooper says with a happy growl.

“You certainly did.”

I notice out the window, which faces Washington Square Park, that Howard Chen, Joshua Dungarden, and several of the other ex-RAs are returning to the building from wherever it is they’ve been. Howard in particular does not look happy. He’s lagging a little behind the others, staring at his own feet. Apparently, their attempts to get their jobs back from either the president or Joshua Dungarden’s father’s friend who works in the law school have not gone well.

“Cooper,” I say as the RAs stop to talk to the residents protesting on their behalf in front of Fischer Hall. “I have to finish up something here at work. I’ll talk to you as soon as I’m done, okay?”

“You sound weird,” Cooper says. “Is everything all right?”

“It will be,” I say. “I think. In a little while. I’ll call you back.” I hang up.

“What was
that
about?” Gavin asks curiously.

“None of your business,” I say. “What have you found out?”

“Only that none of the girls in fourteen-twelve has had any lockouts whatsoever.”

“What?” I leave the window to go to the desk to see for myself, but he’s right. The back of each girl’s registration card, where lockouts are listed, is clean.

There’s only one reason Howard Chen could have checked out the master key to the fourteenth floor at a quarter to three in the morning the night Jasmine Albright died.

And that was to kill her.

33

E
vidence. That’s what I need. Canavan will laugh at me if I go to him with what I have so far.

Simply finding Howard’s fingerprints in Jasmine’s room won’t convict him, because they were friends, and she probably invited him into her room a number of times before the night of her murder. If his fingerprints are in the
Express
offices, though . . .

Wait, he’ll probably say he volunteered there, or something. That won’t convict him either, though the security tape from outside the offices of the
Express
just after Cameron’s attempted murder probably could, providing the footage is clear enough to see Howard’s face.

And what are the chances it is? No one’s arrested him so far. He probably had his hoodie pulled over his head.

I need more.

“Gavin,” I say. “I need you to do something for me. It’s really important, but it also might be a little dangerous, and technically also a little bit illegal.”

Gavin rises from the reception chair, planting both Goofy slippers firmly on the floor. “I’m in.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gavin says. “I’ve told you before, I’m your servant until the day I die. Or the day you die. Which will probably come before I die since you’re so much older than I am, but on that day I shall weep copiously until I have tears to weep no more.”

I want to roll my eyes at his theatrics, but they’re kind of cute and happen to suit my purposes at the moment.

“Okay,” I say. “I want you to use my master key to let yourself into Howard Chen’s room—it’s okay, he’s outside right now—then stand there and listen for a ring tone. If you hear it, grab the phone, come back downstairs, and give it to me. Do you think you can handle that?”

Gavin yawns. “Child’s play.”

“Good.” I unhook the building’s master key—there are only four copies; mine, Lisa’s, Carl’s, and Julio’s—from my key chain and hand it to him. “Hurry. Room fifteen-fourteen. If there’s no ring tone in five minutes, come back down, unless I call you sooner on your own smartphone. That will mean that Howard’s on his way up, and you need to get the hell out of there. Got it?”

“Got it.” Gavin is already running for the elevator. Meanwhile, I’ve taken my emergency phone list from my pocket. Jasmine Albright’s number is the first one listed on it, since her last name came first on this semester’s crew of RAs.

Funny how she’d sneered at my emergency phone list, I think, and now it just might help catch her murderer.

I figure I’ll give Gavin a minute to catch the elevator, then key into Howard’s room before I dial. Howard is still outside with the other fired RAs, talking to the protesting freshmen. This is going to work. It’s going to work fine.

Of course, it’s likely Howard’s destroyed Jasmine’s phone. What kind of fool would keep such an incriminating piece of evidence?

Then again, Howard hasn’t shown many signs of intelligence so far. Funny how med students—and even doctors—can be so bright about some things and so dumb about others.

“Excuse me.” An impossibly young-looking girl approaches the desk, speaking in a voice so low it’s practically a whisper.

“Yes?” I say to her.

“I heard a rumor you guys give away”—her voice drops even lower, so low I have to lean forward to hear her—“free toilet paper here. Is that true?”

“The rumors are true,” I say, and hand her two rolls from the shelf beneath the phone. “Enjoy.”

The girl’s face brightens as if I’ve handed her rolls of twenty-dollar bills. “Oh,
thank you,
” she cries, and rushes off.

Considering how much her family is paying in tuition, you wouldn’t think free toilet paper would make her so delighted. But I’m glad to have brightened someone’s day.

I’m sure Gavin couldn’t have gotten to Howard’s room yet, but I pick up the desk phone and dial Jasmine’s number anyway. It rings four times before her voice mail picks up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Jazz
.
”
She sounds confident and happy. Obviously she couldn’t have known at the time she was recording this message what kind of fate was awaiting her.
“You know what to do.”

Beep
.

I hang up and dial again. Please, I pray as I do so. Please let Gavin pick up. I know there’s no such thing as closure. But please help us find the person who did this to Jasmine, so we can keep him from ever doing it to anyone else again.

“Hey,” Pete calls, from across the lobby at the security desk. “What are you doing over there, Heather?”

“Oh, filling in for Gavin for a few minutes while he gets something to eat,” I say, dialing again.

Pete looks around the empty lobby. “I didn’t see him go into the caf.”

“No,” I say casually. “He went up to his room. He has some special cereal he likes.”

What am I doing? I ask myself as Jasmine’s phone rings in my ear. I’m even lying to my closest friends and coworkers now. I’ve gone insane.

This probably has to do with what happened yesterday, the thing with Cooper and my mother and Ricardo. That’s what Lisa would say anyway, if she were here. That I should go see a therapist, because I have issues. Mommy issues. It always goes back to our mothers. Isn’t that what shrinks are always supposed to say?

“Who are you on the phone with?” Pete wants to know.

“Oh, no one,” I say, hanging up. “Wrong number.”

A second later, I pick up and dial one last time. Come on, Gavin, I pray. Great. Now I’m praying to Gavin.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick
—

“Hells, woman.” Gavin’s voice fills my ear. “You didn’t tell me this was
Jasmine’s
phone! Am I speaking into a
dead girl’s
phone? It’s pink and has unicorn stickers all over it. I hope ironically. Anyway, it says ‘Jazz’ on it in purple sparkles.”

I close my eyes. Thank you, God.

“Gavin,” I say, opening my eyes again. “Where was it?”

“Under his damn pillow,” Gavin says. He sounds manic with excitement. “This guy is a
freak
. Who keeps a dead girl’s phone under his damn pillow? I am so putting this into my screenplay. Hell, I am starting a
new
screenplay just so I can put this in it. You should see this shit. This guy is Hannibal Lecter the Second. How did he pass the test to become an RA?
I’d
make a better RA than this guy. Who hired him?”

I wince.
Simon Hague,
I want to reply, but I’m too professional.

“Can I have some trash bags, please?” a voice at my elbow asks.

I duck to grab some from beneath the counter.

“Gavin,” I whisper urgently into the phone, “please do as I asked. Leave Howard’s room now, and come back down here with that phone
immediately
.”

“Oh, hells no, I’m not leaving,” Gavin says. “This is research, dude. I have never seen anyone who makes his bed so damned tight. You could bounce quarters off this shit. This guy’s mom must have warped his brain to make him so anal.”

Mommy issues.

“Gavin.” My throat has gone dry. That’s because as I’ve straightened up to hand over the trash bags, I see the face of the person who’s asked for them.

It’s Howard Chen.

He looks as shocked as I feel. His lips are parted in confusion, his eyes wide, his fingers, on the trash bags I’ve just handed him, white-knuckled.

“Did I hear you tell
Gavin
to leave my room?” Howard asks. “And to come back down here with a phone?”

“No,” I say quickly, giving a completely fake laugh. “Of course not. Why would Gavin be in your room, Howard? He’s in his own room, on a break, and he’s taking way too long, which is why I’m telling him to get off the phone and get back down here.”

“Uh-oh,” Gavin says in my ear. “Got it. He’s back. Getting out of here, quick.”

There’s a click. Gavin’s hung up.

“Okay, Gavin,” I say, pretending Gavin’s still on the line. “No, I don’t care if you’re talking to your mom, I want you back down here now. I have work to do and need to get back to my office.”

I slam down the handset and roll my eyes at Howard. “God. Gavin’s so annoying sometimes, right? So, you’re going to start moving out, huh, Howard? Is that why you need trash bags? Getting rid of old stuff?”

Howard isn’t falling for my act.

“I know what I heard,” he says in a voice without a hint of humor—much like his face. “You said, ‘leave Howard’s room now, and come back down here with that phone.’ ”

“Now, why would Gavin be in your room, Howard?” I ask, walking over to the pile of newspapers on which I’ve left my purse. My heart has begun thumping a little erratically. Earlier, I had absolutely no intention of taking out the gun Hal insisted I bring to work.

Now I’m even more determined not to. What I need is my cell phone, so that I can discreetly text Pete over at the security desk and have him call 911, as well as Dr. Flynn over at psych services and also campus security.

Howard Chen may indeed be the “lying little punk” Gavin recently accused him of being, and he’s also no doubt a murderer.

But he’s also a student at this college, and a deeply disturbed one at that, who needs our help.

Instead of answering, Howard simply stares at me, his eyes narrowing. The hand on the trash bags is no longer white-knuckled.

This is a good sign. Maybe I’m getting through to him.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” I say, taking my purse with me as I stroll casually back to the area of the desk where the reception phone sits. I have the best chance of surreptitiously slipping out my personal phone there, without his noticing.

“Why don’t you just go on up to your room and check if you’re so worried about people invading your personal space,” I say to him, confident that Gavin’s long gone from Howard’s room by now. “I’m sure you’ll find it exactly the way you left it.”

“No, I won’t,” Howard says. He’s released the trash bags completely, and slipped both hands into the deep pockets of his hoodie.

“Howard,” I say. I’ve dug my smartphone from the pocket in which I keep it. “I think you’re being a little paranoid. Maybe this whole thing with the president’s office is getting to you. I swear to you it’s going to work out, though.”

Pete,
I’m texting as I speak.
Howard Chen killed Jasmine. Call 911/Psych/Security. But do not alarm him! Dangerous!

I add a frowny face for emphasis and hit send.

“It’s not going to work out,” Howard says emotionlessly.

“Hey,” Gavin says, panting as he throws open the door to the desk and jogs in. “Sorry that took me so long. Thanks for the break, Heather. I was starving.”

Howard stares at him, dead-eyed. “I thought you were calling your mother.”

Gavin darts a quick glance at me. “Oh, yeah. I grabbed something to eat while I was returning her call.”

“Well, I’m glad you got that straightened out,” I say in a briskly businesslike tone, darting a glance over Howard’s shoulder at Pete. He’s received my text, thrown me a wide-eyed, startled glance, and begun pointing questioningly at Howard, who fortunately doesn’t notice since his back is to the hefty security officer.

“Yes,” I say, nodding energetically. “We definitely have it all straightened out now.”

Pete’s nodding and giving me the thumbs-up as he reaches for the phone on the wall behind him.

“I don’t think we do have this all straightened out, Heather,” Howard says somberly, and draws his smartphone from the pocket of his hoodie. He pushes a button on it.

My heart gives another staggered leap. I don’t know quite what I’m expecting—maybe for the package room to explode—but it certainly isn’t what occurs, which is that Gavin’s pajama bottoms begin playing Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.”

“Oh, shit,” Gavin says, looking down at his pants pocket. The material of his pajamas is so thin, I can see a bright pink phone flashing in his front pocket as the ring tone continues to sound.