The Last Good Girl (20 page)

U.R. 4.1.13

Y.H. 4.15.13

T.E. 4.22.13

I.R. 5.1.13

M.N. 5.3.13

U.O. 5.15.13

I.P. 5.21.13

R.O'D. 5.25.13

L.L. 6.1.13

R.W. 9.2.13

I.G. 9.3.13

M.B. 9.11.13

K.LR. 9.17.13

J.G. 9.30.13

K.B. 10.31.13

R.T. 12.31.13

D.H. 1.6.14

B.F. 2.5.14

M.H. 2.14.14

J.L. 3.3.14

T.R. 3.15.14

J.G. 4.2.14

P.T. 4.12.14

M.R. 5.1.14

S.McV. 5.2.14

I.S. 5.4.14

Z.M. 6.1.14

E.S. 9.1.14

G.V. 9.2.14

R.M. 9.3.14

K.H. 9.4.14

W.F. 9.5.14

C.R. 9.15.14

T.W. 9.22.14

C.T. 10.15.14

M.V. 11.12.14

I.K. 12.3.14

S.S. 1.12.15

K.J. 2.5.15

J.J. 3.3.15

Anna recognized the handwriting from the notebooks in Dylan's room. These entries had been written by Dylan himself. She skimmed the list, then focused on the fall of 2014. And there it was: “E.S. 9.1.14.” Emily Shapiro, September first. Anna pulled out her phone and took a picture of the page.

“Looks like he really started to get lucky in 2012,” Sam said.

“Maybe that's when he perfected his recipe,” Anna said. “And he slowed down in the fall of 2014, after Emily's case got some traction. Could've been worried.”

“Look at this one, September of 2013,” Sam said. “K.LR. Kristen LaRose?”

“Barney's mistress. She gets around.”

“Do you think he raped all of them?” Steve said.

“There weren't this many cases filed against him,” Sam said. “Not even a fraction.”

“Rape is the most underreported crime in America,” Anna said. “Over eighty percent of victims never report it.”

“Who knows. Some of these might've been consensual.”

Sam turned the page. There were several pictures of young women. One picture was of Emily Shapiro, lying in bed next to Dylan, squinting blearily at the camera.

Sam's radio crackled to life. A disembodied voice came through the speaker. “Randazzo, you'd better come up here.”

Sam pressed the button on her shoulder and spoke into it. “I'm in the middle of something. Is it important?”

The radio crackled again. “Uh, yeah. There's a guy here, saying we have to stop the search and leave the house.”

“Tell him to fuck off. Politely.”

“I would,” said the radio voice. “Except he's the district attorney. He's got a bunch of state troopers here trying to confiscate our evidence.”

Sam cursed a rainbow of obscenities. Then she pressed the button and spoke into the mic. “We're on our way.”

T
hey jogged back through the dark hallway and up the stone stairs, then climbed out of the coffin into the Crypt. They kept going, out the dynamited door, up the basement steps, and through the handsome foyer. Sam called for all the FBI agents who were searching the house to follow them out the front door and onto the fraternity's wide front porch. Anna took a big breath of the cold outdoor air, incredibly fresh after the bone-lined basement. A big man in a tan suit stood on the porch, facing a stoic FBI tech who was refusing to hand over a box of evidence. A bunch of state troopers in tan uniforms stood on the porch behind the man.

Anna stood next to the FBI tech. She was in charge of legal challenges. She looked at the big man in the tan suit.

“Hello, I'm Anna Curtis, an Assistant U.S. Attorney. May I help you?”

“I want this search stopped,” the man said.

“Sir, I'm at a disadvantage, since I don't know who you are or why your wishes should carry any weight.”

The man puffed out his chest and pulled out the credential clipped to his belt on a retractable cord. “I'm Bill Xanten, the Tower County district attorney. And this is a lawless travesty.”

“Nice to meet you.” Anna had read his name in the papers many times and wondered how it was pronounced. Zanten. Good to know. “We have a warrant.”

“Let me see it.”

She handed him a copy and looked him over as he read. He was a man whose thick waist spoke of meat and potatoes, and whose symmetrical auburn roots spoke of a hair transplant. He wore a gold wedding ring, a gold watch, and a Michigan-shaped American flag lapel pin. His bulbous nose flared with anger as he looked up from the warrant. “I don't know how you got this, but no searches happen in my county unless I'm informed of them. I'm ordering you to stop.”

“The warrant is signed by a federal judge,” Anna said. “I'm a federal prosecutor, investigating a federal case. With all due respect, there's no signature block for the county DA, and we don't need one. We have jurisdiction, we have a warrant, and we respectfully ask that you step aside.”

“You said your name is Curtis, right? You're the girl who assaulted Dylan Highsmith in this very house. Surely you don't think you should be in charge of searching here.”

“Mr. Highsmith cannot choose his prosecutor, nor can he choose to get one removed from his case by assaulting her. I have decided to stay on the case despite Dylan Highsmith's unexpected groping. That doesn't change our legal basis for this search.”

“You're going to be in charge of this case for approximately two more minutes—until I get you kicked off. I've been the top attorney of this state for the last ten years, and I will be for the next ten. You'll want to be on my good side when I decide whether to prosecute you for assaulting Dylan Highsmith.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Damn straight I am.” He turned to his troopers. “Stop this search. Take anything these agents have collected and return it to the house.”

“Do not do that.” Anna made her voice as loud and authoritative as his. “Mr. Xanten may make whatever legal challenges he'd like—in the future. Right now all he has is hot air. I have a federal search warrant. Any trooper who interferes with this lawful search will be arrested by the FBI and charged with federal obstruction of justice.”

The troopers eyed the FBI agents. Standing on opposite sides of the porch, they looked like two sports teams facing off: the locals in tan, the feds in dark blue. Blue outnumbered tan three to one. It didn't change her legal standing, but it helped the practicalities.

Xanten stepped forward till his chest was close to Anna's face. He was six inches taller and probably a hundred fifty pounds heavier. Looking up, she could see the hairs inside his nostrils. His breath smelled of stale coffee and salami. Her instinct was to step back—but she made sure she didn't. She put her hands on her hips and kept herself planted in place.

“Young lady,” said Xanten, “you don't know who you're messing with.”

She smiled up at his nose hairs. “I think you don't know who
you're
messing with. I grew up in Michigan. I still read the
Detroit Free Press
. I know you were Robert Highsmith's campaign manager the first time he ran for office. In fact, now that I think about it, aren't you godfather to one of his kids? I'd say that's a pretty serious conflict of interest, wouldn't you?”

“I don't know what you mean—”

“Then you'd better look it up,” Anna said. “
You
are
exactly
the reason we need federal prosecutors on this case. And right now, you're impeding my search and obstructing justice. As a professional courtesy, we won't arrest and prosecute you—if you leave. Now.”

Xanten looked at the twenty-five FBI agents behind her, then at the eight troopers behind him. She could see the calculations whirring through his hair-transplanted head. He would lose a shoot-out. He would also lose any inquiry into the legality of his actions. He'd hoped to bully her into stopping the search. It hadn't worked.

“You're going to regret this, young lady.” Xanten turned and herded his troopers down the porch steps. He shot one last furious look back at her. “You have no idea what you just started.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Anna said. “Appreciate the assistance.”

Xanten slammed into his brown sedan. She waved good-bye, making sure no one could see that her hand was trembling.

My whole body is shaking. I'm, like, totally confused.

Dylan is walking around—like he owns the place, same as before. How's this even possible?

I wasn't prepared. If I'd been prepared, maybe it wouldn't've been so, like, shocking.

I was walking a couple dogs, Fenwick and a little white terrier named Fiona. Just having a regular day, you know? Snow was coming down, these big white flakes, and I was thinking how pretty the world looks under fresh white powder. The trees were all glittering like fairy ice sculptures. It was one of those days where you just have to love Michigan and winter.

And I look up, because someone is coming toward me on the walking path, and I go to smile at whoever it is. And it's Dylan.

What the hell? My heart starts pounding.

I thought it was a vision, a mirage in the snow. It's, like, I've worried about him jumping out of the bushes for so long. He's the bogeyman who keeps showing up in my nightmares. Sometimes I see a kid with dark hair and think I need to run. Before it's always been a different boy, right?

So this time, I do a double take, and then I look again. I'm sure it's gonna be someone else. But it's him. Not lurking in a bush, or driving behind tinted windows. Walking through campus, open and notorious. A big grin on his face, like he has every right.

So I'm like, “What are you doing here?”

And he says, “You don't own this campus.”

And I'm like, “There's a stay-away order. You can't be here.”

He comes right up to me, takes hold of my scarf, and pulls me into him, so his words are fogging my face. And he says, real soft and slow, “I can do whatever I fucking want.”

My heart is racing. I'm frozen. Just terrified. It's like my nightmare come to life.

That's when Fenwick bit him. Snarled and lunged and bit him right in the ass. Fiona got in on the action too and started biting his ankles.

Dylan tried to run away and slipped and fell on the ice. A couple kids saw him flailing around in the snow and laughed. I think I might've even laughed too. God, I love those dogs.

I patted them and told them they were good puppies. Fenwick turned to look at me, his big pink tongue flopping out of his big white teeth, and he gave me that amazing dog smile.

Dylan walked off, calling me a “crazy bitch.”

I wish I were a crazy bitch. I don't think crazy bitches get as scared as I was.

I'm still, like, shaking. I just can't stop shaking.

Why is he here?

I talked to my friends. Preya heard from her friend Mackenzie, who heard from her cousin Addie, that Dylan's finishing his last semester. He'll graduate with his class this spring. But, I thought, they had to be wrong.

So I . . . well, I called the registrar and pretended to be an HR rep from Smith Barney, checking on his transcript for a job interview. Don't judge, okay? I was flipping out, and I had to know. Anyway, they confirmed it. Dylan is a registered student, expected to graduate with honors this June.

But—how can that be? He was expelled.

He was expelled.

He was EXPELLED.

What is going on?

I
know who killed Emily Shapiro,” said the man on the phone.

Anna looked at the caller's info. The number was a 313 area code—here in Michigan—but unfamiliar. She'd answered because any call could be a break in the case. She watched Xanten and his state troopers drive away as she stood on the frat's porch. Sam was telling the other FBI agents to go back in and continue their search.

“Who is this?” Anna said.

“My name is Landon LaRose,” said the voice on the phone. “I'm Kristen LaRose's husband.”

Anna grabbed Sam's arm and pulled her inside. She led her into an empty den and put the phone on speaker. She needed a witness to this conversation.

“And you say you know who killed Emily Shapiro?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Can you come to my house to talk?”

Anna and Sam looked at each other and nodded.

“Yes, sir. Are you available in an hour?”

“Yeah, come on over.”

He gave them his address.

Over the next forty-five minutes, Sam sent FBI photographers into the Crypt and the Underground to take pictures. Anna called for a forensic team to collect the bones. She led them down to the tunnels and bone room, where they stared in the same horror she had. They had the grim task of collecting, categorizing, and DNA testing these remains. Anna sent the shimmery scarf from Dylan's room for DNA testing, and the liquor bottles for testing for date-rape drugs. She called the university registrar and requested a list of all the names of students enrolled for the last four years, to compare to the initials in the
Earthly Pleasures
book.

As she ticked off items on her to-do list, her chest tightened with the urgency of getting it all done as quickly as possible. Bill Xanten was a powerful force in Michigan. She'd won the battle today, but Xanten would continue the war, and he'd do whatever he could to protect the Highsmith family. She had to find Emily before he could interfere.