Mark’s so… immature. Him and Jeff—you know, Cheryl’s boyfriend—all they’re into is drinking beer and watching sports. They never took Lindsay and Cheryl out clubbing, or whatever. Which I guess is fine for Cheryl, but Lindsay… she wanted more excitement. More sophistication, I guess you could say.”
“So is that why she started seeing someone else?” I ask. When Kimberly’s eyes widen, I explain, “Mark stopped by the office this morning and mentioned something about a frat guy?”
Kimberly looks contemptuous. “Is that what Mark called him? A frat guy? He didn’t mention he’s a Winer?”
“A what?” For a minute, I think she’s saying Lindsay’s new boyfriend complains a lot.
“A Winer. W-I-N-E-R. You know.” When I continue to regard her blankly, she shakes all her long hair in disbelief. “Gawd, don’t you know?Doug Winer. The Winer family. Winer Construction. The Winer Sports Complex, here at New York College?”
Oh. Now I know what she’s talking about. You can’t pass by a building under construction in this city—and, despite the fact that Manhattan is an island and you’d think every piece of usable land on it has been developed already, there are quite a few buildings under construction—without noticing the word WINER written on the side of every bulldozer, spool of wire, and piece of scaffolding connected with the job site. No building in New York City goes up unless Winer Construction puts it up.
And apparently the Winers have earned a bit of money because of that fact. They may not be Kennedys or Rockefellers, but apparently, to a New York College cheerleader, they come close. Well, they did donate a big chunk of cash to the college. Enough to build the sports complex, and everything.
“Doug Winer,” I repeat. “So… Doug’s well off?”
“Um, if you call being filthy rich well off,” Kimberly says, with a snort.
“I see. And were Doug and Lindsay… close?”
“Not engaged or anything,” Kimberly says. “Yet. But Lind say thought Doug was getting her a tennis bracelet for her birthday. A diamond one. She saw it in his dresser.” Momentarily, the pathos of Lindsay’s death strikes, and Kimberly looks a little less bubbly. “I guess he’ll have to take it back now,” she adds mournfully. “Her birthday was next week. God, that’s so sad.”
I agree that the fact Lindsay did not live to receive a diamond tennis bracelet for her birthday is a shame, then ask her if Lindsay and Doug had had any disagreements that she knew of (no), where Doug lives (the Tau Phi Epsilon House), and when Doug and Lindsay had last seen each other (sometime over the weekend).
It soon becomes clear that though Kimberly claims to have been Lindsay’s best friend, either the two of them hadn’t been all that close, or Lindsay had led a remarkably dull life, because Kimberly is unable to reveal anything more about Lindsay’s last week on earth. Anything more that could help me to figure out who killed her, anyway.
Except, of course, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m not getting involved in the investigation into Lindsay’s death. Far from it. I’m just asking a few questions about it, is all. I mean, a person can ask questions about a crime without actually launching a private investigation into said crime. Right?
I’m telling myself this as I walk back into the hall director’s office, holding Tom’s coffee (I got him a new one, after the original went cold while I was talking to Kimberly) in one hand, and a new coffee-cocoa-whipped- cream concoction for myself in the other. I’m not too surprised to see that Sarah, our grad assistant, has shown up to work wearing an unhappy expression. Sarah’s unhappy most days.
Today, her bad mood appears to be catching. Both she and Tom are slumped at their desks. Well, technically, Tom is slumping at my desk. But he looks plenty unhappy, until he sees me.
“You,” Tom says, as I plop his coffee in front of him, “are a lifesaver. What took you so long?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, sinking onto the couch next to my desk. “I had to comfort Magda.” I nod at Tom’s office door, which is still closed. Behind it, and through the grate, I hear the low murmur of voices. “She still in there with Mark?”
“No,” Sarah says disgustedly. “Now she’s in there with Cheryl Haebig.”
“What’s with you?” I ask Sarah, because of the scowl.
“Apparently,” Tom replies in a long-suffering voice, since Sarah just sinks more deeply into her chair, refusing to speak, “Dr. Kilgore is one of Sarah’s professors. And not one she likes very much.”
“She’s a Freudian!” Sarah bursts out, not even attempting to lower her voice. “She actually believes that sexist crap about how all women are in love with their fathers and secretly want a penis!”
“Dr. Kilgore gave Sarah a D on one of her papers last semester,” Tom informs me, with only the tiniest of smirks.
“She’s anti-feminist!” Sarah asserts. “I went to the dean to complain. But it was no use, because she’s one of them, too.”Them, apparently, referred to Freudians. “It’s a conspiracy. I’m seriously considering writing a letter to the Chronicle of Higher Education about it.”
“I’ve suggested,” Tom says, still with that very slight smirk, “that if Dr. Kilgore’s presence is such an aggrievance to Sarah, she take the petty cash vouchers over to Budget for disbursement… .”
“It’s like five degrees outside!” Sarah yells.
“I’ll go,” I volunteer sweetly.
Both Sarah and Tom stare at me incredulously.
“Seriously,” I say, setting down my coffee-cocoa and getting up to grab my coat. “I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to get any work done, with you at my desk, Tom. And I could use some fresh air.”
“It’s like five degrees out!” Sarah shouts again.
“It’s no big deal,” I say. I wind my scarf around my neck. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”
I scoop up the petty cash vouchers sitting on Sarah’s desk, and sail from the office. Out in the lobby, Pete starts laughing when he sees me. Not because I look comical in all my outside layers, but because he’s remembering what I’d said about my dad.
Well? Why can’t he just want to rebuild his relationship with the daughter he barely knows?
Seriously, with friends like Pete, who needs enemies?
Ignoring Pete, I go outside—and almost turn back, it’s so cold. The temperature seems to have plummeted since my walk to work an hour ago. The cold sucks the breath from my chest.
But I’ve made up my mind. There’s no turning back now.
Lowering my head against the wind, I start across the park, ignoring the offers of “smoke, smoke,” from Reggie’s compatriots as I make my way toward the other side of campus—the opposite direction from the Budget Office. Which also happens to be the direction from which the wind is blowing in subarctic blasts.
Which is why, when I hear my name being called out from behind me, I don’t turn around right away. My ears are so numb beneath my knit cap, I think I must be hearing things. Then I feel a hand on my arm and whip around, expecting to see Reggie with his gold-toothed grin.
I don’t think it’s necessarily the wind that sucks away my breath when I see that it’s Cooper Cartwright.
“Oh,” I say, goggling at him. He’s as bundled up as I am. Except for the squirrels (and the drug dealers) we’re the only two living beings stupid—or desperate—enough to be in the park on this frosty morning.
“Cooper,” I say, through wind-chapped lips. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by to see you,” Cooper says. He’s breathing slightly heavily. Apparently he’s been running to catch up with me. Running. In this weather. In all those clothes. If it were me, I’d have collapsed into a gelatinous heap. But since it’s Cooper, he’s just breathing slightly harder than usual. “And Sarah and Tom said you were on your way to the Budget Office.” He jerks a gloved thumb over his shoulder. “But isn’t the Budget Office that way?”
“Oh,” I say, thinking fast. “Yeah. It is. But, uh, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and just stop by to see this one guy about this thing. Was there something important you needed to see me about?”Please, I’m praying.Please don’t let him have spoken to my dad before I’ve gotten a chance to speak to him about my dad… .
“Yeah,” Cooper says. He hasn’t shaved again this morning. His dark razor stubble looks delectably prickly. “My brother. And why he might have left a message asking to speak to me about you. Any idea what that might be about?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling slightly sick with relief. Although possibly that’s from all the whipped cream. “Yeah. He wants me to come to his wedding. You know, to show there’s no hard feelings—”
“In front of the photographers from People,” Cooper finishes for me. “I got it. I should have known it wasn’t any thing important. So.” His icy blue gaze focuses on me like a laser. “You’re stopping by to see this one guy
