stars!”
Pete ignores her, goes to the phone by the security desk, and holding up a key chain, on which is attached a student ID card—and a little rubber replica of the cartoon character Ziggy—begins reading the information from the ID card to his superiors at the security office.
“Roberta Pace,” he reads tonelessly. “Fischer Hall resident. First year. ID number five five seven, three nine—”
I stand a little ways from both the security and the reception desks, feeling myself begin to shake. I don’t know the name. I don’t ask to see the photo on the ID. I don’t want to know if I knew the face.
It’s right then that Rachel rounds the corner from the ladies’ room.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her gaze going from my face to Pete’s to President Allington’s.
It’s Tina, behind the desk, who speaks.
“Another one fell off the top of the elevator,” she says, in a small voice. “She’s dead.”
Rachel’s face drains of all its color beneath her carefully applied MAC foundation.
But when she speaks a few seconds later, there is no tremor in her voice. “I assume the authorities have been notified? Good. Do we have an ID? Oh, thank you, Pete. Tina, beep Maintenance, and have them turn off all the elevators. Heather, can you call Dr. Jessup’s office, and let them know what’s going on? President Allington, I am so sorry about this. Please, go back to your breakfast… ”
Aware that I’m shaking and that my heart is beating a million times a minute, I slip back to my office to start making calls.
Only this time, instead of calling Dr. Jessup’s office first, I call Cooper.
“Cartwright Investigations,” he says, because I’ve called him on his office line, hoping he’d be there.
“It’s me,” I say. I keep my voice down, because Sarah is in Rachel’s office next door, calling each of the resident assistants on their cell phones and telling them what’s happened, then asking them to come back to their floors as soon as possible. “There’s been another one.”
“Another what?” Cooper asks. “And why are you whispering?”
“Another death by elevator,” I whisper.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Dead?”
I think about Pete’s face.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Jesus, Heather. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say, for the third and final time. “Listen… could you come over?”
“Come over? What for?”
The firemen from Ladder #9 come striding past our office door just then, in their helmets and coats. One of them is carrying an axe. Obviously, no one told New York’s bravest what the nature of the emergency was when they called.
“Downstairs,” I say to them, pointing to the stairs to the basement. “Another, um, elevator incident.”
The captain looks surprised, but nods and leads what has suddenly turned into a very grim procession past the reception desk and down the stairs.
To Cooper, I whisper, “I want to get to the bottom of what is going on over here, and I could use the help of a professional investigator, Cooper.”
“Whoa,” Cooper says. “Slow down there, slugger. Are the police there? Aren’t they professional investigators?”
“The police are just going to say the same thing about this one that they did about the last one,” I say. “That she was elevator surfing, and slipped.”
“Because that’s probably what happened, Heather.”
“No,” I say. “No, not this time. Definitely not this time.”
“Why? Is this latest one preppie too?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But that’s not funny.”
“I didn’t mean it to be funny. I just—”
“She liked Ziggy, Coop.” My voice cracks a little, but I don’t care.
“She liked what?”
“Ziggy. That cartoon character.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Because it’s like the uncoolest cartoon character ever. No one who likes Ziggy is going to elevator surf, Coop.No one.”
“Heather—”
“And that’s not all,” I whisper, as Sarah’s voice drifts from Rachel’s office, self-importantly intoning, “We need you to come back to the building as soon as possible. There’s been another death. I am not at liberty to reveal the details just now, but it’s imperative that you—”
“Someone took the key,” I tell Cooper.
“What key?” he wants to know.
“The key that opens the elevator doors.” I am losing it. I know I am. I am practically crying. But I struggle to keep my voice from shaking. “No one signed it out, Coop. You’re supposed to sign it out. But they didn’t. Which means whoever has it doesn’t want anyone to know. Which means whoever has it can open the elevator doors anytime they want… even if there’s no car there.”
“Heather.” Cooper says, in a voice I can’t, even in my agitated state, help finding incredibly soothing. And sexy. “This is something you need to tell the police. Right away.”
“Okay,” I say, in a small voice. In Rachel’s office, Sarah is going, “I don’t care if it’s your grandmother’s birthday, Alex. There’s been a death in the building. Which is more important to you: your grandmother’s birthday, or your job?”
“Go tell the police exactly what you told me,” Cooper’s soothing, sexy voice is saying in my ear. “And then go get a big cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar in it and drink it all while it’s still hot.”
This last part surprises me. “Why?” I say.
“Because I have found in my line of work that sweet milky drinks are good for shock when there is no whiskey available. Okay?”
“Okay. Bye.”
I hang up, and then I call Dr. Jessup, and explain to his assistant—because she says Dr. Jessup is in a meeting—what’s happened. Upon hearing the news, his assistant, Jill, says, in an appropriately panicked voice, “Oh my God. I’ll let him know right away.”
I thank her and hang up. Then I stare at the phone.
Cooper is right. I need to tell the police about the key.
I tell Sarah I’ll be back in a minute, and leave the office. I walk out into the lobby—and find it a sea of confusion. Basketball players mingle with firemen. Administrators are on every available phone, including Pete’s and the one at the reception desk, doing damage control. Rachel is nodding her head as the fire chief tells her something.
I glance toward the front door of the building. The same police officer who’d been there the day Elizabeth died is standing there again, not letting any of the kids outside back into the building.
“You’ll get back in when I say you’ll get back in,” the cop is snarling at a skinhead with a lip ring who is going, “But I have to get to my room to get my project! If I don’t turn in my project by noon, I’ll get an F!”
“Excuse me,” I say to the cop. “Can you tell me who is in charge here?”
The cop glances at me, then jerks a thumb in Rachel’s direction.
“Near as I can tell, that one over there,” he says.
“No,” I say. “I mean, is there a detective, or—”
“Oh yeah.” The cop nods toward a tall, gray-haired man in a brown corduroy jacket and plaid tie who is leaning against the wall—and, though he probably doesn’t know it, getting glitter all down his back, since he’s brushing up against a poster urging students to attend an audition for Pippin that is heavy on the Elmer’s glued glitter. Except for an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth that he appears to be chewing on, he is doing absolutely
