illegally, haven’t you?Haven’t you? ”
Sarah, with a shudder, buries her face in her hands. She doesn’t reply.
But she doesn’t have to. Her body language says it all.
“No wonder Sebastian didn’t tell the cops where he was when Owen bit it,” I go on. “He couldn’t! Because he knew he’d get you in trouble, and you’d lose your job for letting a student live in the building illegally. Sarah! What were you thinking? Have you lost your mind?”
Sarah drops her hands and glares at me.
“It’s not Sebastian’s fault!” she cries. “It was my idea! And it was all the stupid Housing Department’s fault in the first place! He requested a roommate who kept kosher! And what did he get? A California surfer who checked off kosher because it was the more expensive meal plan and he thought that meant the food would be better! He didn’t even know what kosher was. And then when Sebastian went to his hall director to ask for a room change, he was told there was nothing available. What was he supposed to do? Compromise his religious values?”
“No,” Cooper says. “Apparently he preferred to compromise your job instead.”
Sarah inhales so sharply that her breath hitches. A second later, she’s hyperventilating.
Fortunately I find an abandoned Starbucks sack lying nearby and, after pushing her back down on the couch again, force Sarah to breathe into it for a few minutes. Soon she’s breathing normally once more.
Sitting between Cooper and me, staring sadly at the last page of the Victoria’s Secret catalog as Lucy devours it, Sarah says, “I guess I’m the biggest idiot in the world, aren’t I?”
“Not the biggest,” Cooper offers.
“We don’t have to tell them how long you let him stay there,” I say. “We can just say it was for that one night.”
“No.” Sarah shakes her head, so violently that her long, bushy hair nearly whips both of us. “I was the one who was blinded by love. Not even real love, because it’s not as if he cares about me as anything more than a friend. Like a guy like that ever could love a girl like me.”
“Stranger things,” Cooper says dryly, “have happened. Especially after a night or two in the Tombs. He might emerge with a new appreciation for the fairer sex in general.”
I long to elbow him, but Sarah is in the way.
I needn’t have worried. She’s not listening, anyway.
“I abused my power as a resident hall graduate assistant,” Sarah says. “I lied, and took advantage of my sign-in and key privileges. I’ll turn myself in.”
“Not for nothing,” Cooper says. “But to whom? Your boss is dead.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And my inclination is to chalk it up to temporary insanity. Spring fever, as it were.”
“I’ll never speak to him again,” Sarah says. “After we’ve turned over the sign-in log and I’ve given my deposition. And the GSC has gotten the president’s office to cave to all of our demands. And I’ve found him safe but affordable housing elsewhere. And made sure he’s received proper psychiatric counseling for whatever post- traumatic stress he might suffer from all of this.”
“That’s the spirit,” Cooper says, encouragingly.
“Of course,” Sarah says, as the three of us head back toward Fischer Hall to pick up the sign-in sheets and take them over to Detective Canavan’s office, thus speeding the release of the man with whom Sarah claims most emphatically to no longer be in love with. “It would be much better if we could just figure out who really did kill Owen. Not just for Sebastian,” she adds, hastily. “But so everything could go back to normal.” Cooper and I exchange glances.
“Yes,” I say. “It would.”
11
Walking with my baby in t he park
Past the dog run
And the young at heart
“Lucy’s Song”
Written by Heather Wells
Detective Canavan is less than impressed by the sign-in sheets we present him with forty-five minutes later—possibly because he’s tired after a long day of work, and just wants to go home (welcome to the club).
But also because, as he points out, they don’t exactly represent an iron-clad alibi, since anyone can sneak past a college security guard, shoot an interim residence hall director in the head, then sneak back.
I inform him that his lack of faith in New York College’s crackerjack security force is jarring, a remark to which he responds not at all… except to mention the small matter of the handgun they found in Sebastian’s murse.
“Handgun?” Sarah scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sebastian doesn’t own a gun. He’s a pacifist. He believes violence is never the answer. It doesn’t solve anything.”
Detective Canavan snorts at this.
“A pacifist who carries around an unlicensed thirty-eight.”
Since this also happens to be the same caliber bullet that mowed through Owen Veatch’s skull at the time for which Sebastian has no credible alibi, he’s the murder’s number one—and only—suspect. A ballistics test will tell the police if the gun is, in fact, the same one used to dispatch my boss. The sign-in sheets, if anything, only serve to solidify the case against Sebastian, since it gives the NYPD their first solid proof that Sebastian was actually on the premises at the time of the murder.
Um. Oops?
Sarah, when we walk out of the precinct and onto West Tenth Street, has been rendered visibly pale by all of this.
“Look,” I say to her, fearing she’s going to hyperventilate again, and furtively scanning the sidewalks for abandoned paper bags I can force her to breathe into. “It’s going to be all right. I’m sure he’s gotten in touch with his parents by now. They’ll get him a good lawyer. He’ll get arraigned, they’ll post bail, and he’ll be out by tomorrow morning.”
Cooper makes a noise when I say this, but I shoot him a warning look, and he closes his mouth.
“I know,” Sarah says quietly.
“And he’ll be all right overnight in the detention center,” I insist. “Detective Canavan will make sure he gets his inhaler. And his Allegra-D.”
“I know,” Sarah says. Again, quietly. Too quietly.
I glance at Cooper over the top of Sarah’s head. He raises his eyebrows. We both sense it: Something’s wrong. Sarah should be in hysterics. Why is she so calm?
We wait at the corner for an empty cab to come by and take us back to Washington Square. It’s a gorgeous spring evening, and there are a lot of people out and about, couples—both of the hetero and homo variety, some pushing strollers, some not—and singles, some walking dogs, some not, all stylishly attired (it’s the West Village, after all), enjoying the warm weather and twilight sky, strolling by the quaint outdoor cafés with their brightly colored awnings, the expensive home decor shops, the fragrantly scented cupcake bakeries, the specialty condom stores…
Sarah doesn’t seem to notice any of this. She keeps her gaze straight ahead, a faraway look in her eye. When Cooper successfully hails a cab and it pulls up in front of us, but she still doesn’t move, I reach out and pinch her, Muffy Fowler style.
Not hard, or anything. Just enough to get a reaction.
“Ow!” Sarah exclaims, jumping and rubbing her arm. She turns an accusatory gaze up at me. “What’d you
