Coven

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “I had a drink with him, and since when does my private life have any bearing on work?”

White was rubbing his eyes. “Prentiss, Prentiss, I been dealin’ with that phony con man cock hounding rich punk for the last six years. He’s a user, Prentiss. He’ll chew you up and spit you out, just like all the others. That nut chase son of a bitch goes through women faster than I go through cigars.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Lydia walked out, bemused. For the first time this morning, she thought of Wade. Was he really as bad as White claimed? At least he’s a good kisser, she thought frivolously. No, a great kisser. And with that frivolity she finally acknowledged what she’d been repressing since last night. She liked Wade St. John.

She liked him a lot.

She wondered if that was a big mistake.

««—»»

Wade leapt from bed, swearing. The goddamn Baby Ben hadn’t gone off, and now it was past 9 A.M., and he was going to be late for that humiliating parody he now thought of as “work.” Besser would come down on him, literally, like a ton of bricks. Wade grabbed a towel, dashed for the shower, when someone knocked on the door. Must be Jervis or Tom, he reasoned, and, dressed only in sagging Fruit of the Looms, he yanked open the door. “Can’t talk now, I’m late for—”

It was Lydia Prentiss who stood in the doorway. She did not seem shocked by his appearance; it was Wade who was shocked. Instead of the usual tan cop suit, she wore flip flops, cutoffs, and an orange bikini top. Her hair in a ponytail, she appraised him through mirrored shades. Her faint smile betrayed her amusement.

“Nice briefs,” she said.

“Uh, um,” he said. “Excuse me.” He left her at the door and pulled on his robe, hoping that his trapdoor (a mysterious provision of all underwear manufacturers) had not disclosed what dangled within. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.

Lydia propped her sunglasses up and walked in. To his dismay, she was toting a small suitcase. “This is some dorm room,” she said. “You’ve got your own shower, kitchen. Even a trash compactor.”

“Reckless luxury is what makes Exham College unique. Too bad the same can’t be said for academic performance… What’s with the suitcase?”

She glanced at it, then shot Wade the biggest, brightest, sexiest smile he’d ever seen. It was an angel’s smile—the kind of smile, in other words, that a girl flashes when she’s going to ask for something. Wade felt lost in it.

“Will you drive me to county police headquarters?”

“Sure,” Wade said.

Her smile faltered. “It’s only a hundred and fifty miles away.”

“Sure,” Wade said, still floating on the smile. But then it all came tumbling down. “Oh, no, I have to go to work. I have to clean toilets today, and I’m already late.”

“Well, not to sound presumptuous, before I came over, I took the liberty of asking the dean to give you the day off. He said yes. It’s all taken care of.”

Wade gaped. “You mean I’m off? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Wade rejoiced in silence. No toilets today, hot damn! He was showered and ready to roll in record time.

“I really appreciate this,” Lydia said when they got into the Vette. Wade took off the sunroof and put the suitcase in back.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, starting up his 400 horses. “I’d drive you to Timbuktu if it’d get me off work.” Within minutes he was out on Route 13. He noticed the same change in her composure as he had last night driving her home. The Vette seemed to unwrap some of her wires. He supposed that being a cop—particularly a beautiful female cop in a department full of shucksy Java men—had taken a toll on her. He saw that stress run out of her now, her hard edges going soft. “So what’s in the suitcase?” he eventually asked.

She rested back. “A cope of impactation,” she answered.

“A what of what?”

“It’s a hunk of wood—evidence, in other words. The county crime lab agreed to take a took at it.”

“How important can a hunk of wood be?”

“Sometimes very important. Anytime you hit something with a metal object, it leaves a molecular trace of its surface oxidation—its rust. Analyzing the rust can sometimes identify the grade of metal used, and from that, if you’re lucky, you can ID the manufacturer of the metal object. Unfortunately you need special equipment and indexes, and that’s why they generally only do stuff like this for a major crime. White doesn’t think this is major, but he’s letting me do it anyway. He just wants me out of his hair for the time being; I’m a troublemaker in his book, so he doesn’t want me fanning any fires.”

So Lydia’s a troublemaker, Wade thought. This could be interesting. “What did he think of the break in at the clinic?”

“He’s burying it,” she said. “Says it’s not worth pursuing. He also says you go through women faster than he goes through cigars. Is that true?”

That depends on how much he smokes, Wade thought. “You don’t believe everything you hear, do you?”

“Of course I do. I’m a gullible woman. Oh, and here’s something you might find interesting. I talked to the physician this morning. He told me about the files that got ripped off.”

“What kind of files were they?”

“Just basic medical records, a rundown on each student’s medical history, major operations, illnesses, drug allergies, stuff like that. All big campuses keep those kinds of records on their in house students. But the missing files are only those of the students specifically registered for the first summer session.”

“I’m registered for the first summer session,” Wade exclaimed. “One of the files must’ve been mine.”

“That’s right.” Lydia began to diddle with an unlit Marlboro. “The question is, what good are medical files to a thief?”

It made no sense. Who would steal files? he wondered. But whatever this was, Wade’s own files were involved, and sitting right in the middle of it was a Spaten Oktoberfest beer cap. The average burglar didn’t drink expensive imports. He drank Bud. Only one store in town sold Spaten to go, and Wade knew only one person who drank it regularly.

Tom.

Tom’s Camaro hadn’t been in the parking lot last night, had it? Come to think of it, it hadn’t been there this morning either.

««—»»

Czanek walked into Andre’s, surprised to find it half full at this hour. In the back booth, a shadow waved at him.

Czanek, of course, knew “Mr. Tull’s” real identity: Jervis Phillips, an upstate resident herded to Exham by rich parents. The boy had left a message on Czanek’s answering machine. There’d been a problem.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tull.” Czanek took a seat. A cold Heineken stood in wait for him. “Our little insect’s not working?”

“It works great,” said Jervis, “but I have a question. Did you plant one of those things for another client? On campus?”

What a question. As a matter of fact, Czanek had, but how could the boy know that? “I’m not obliged to say, Mr. Tull.”

“Like maybe at the sciences center, in Dudley Besser’s office?”