Jake waited for the answers, trying not to smile as he imagined the inner struggles of the pompous ass Edward Tarrant and his annoyingly theatrical colleague Sasha Vogelby. He loved it when he posed a simple question and the people he asked couldn’t seem to figure out an answer.
It was easy to come up with the truth. Only a lie was difficult. And, as apparently in this situation, a lie that had to be corroborated by people who couldn’t compare notes was the most difficult of all. Jake enjoyed the silent attempts at communication between these two. Communication that couldn’t possibly be successful.
“So, you’re thinking about whether you’d been at Ms. Morgan’s parties,” DeLuca said. “I must say I’m not sure why you’d have to do that.”
“They weren’t parties. And I’m not ‘thinking,’” Tarrant said. “Of course I’ve been there. It’s an Adams Bay property, and I was instrumental in providing that housing to Ms. Morgan. I’ve probably been there more than she has, come to…” He paused, huffed out a breath. “Be that as it may. My answer, which I most assuredly did not have to ‘think’ about, is yes.”
“I have, too.” Sasha Vogelby slid a cell phone from her skirt pocket, then replaced it as Tarrant glared at her.
Were they texting? Couldn’t be, Jake thought.
“Exactly when?” Jake asked.
“Now that I would have to think about.” Tarrant looked at his watch, as if to communicate how little time he had.
Jake got the hint. Jake didn’t care. “Do you have a key to the house?”
“Or do you need to think about that?” DeLuca said.
“Of course I don’t.” Tarrant was clearly not a member of the DeLuca fan club. “As for the dates, I’ll have Man—my assistant check the calendar,” Tarrant went on, addressing Jake. “It must have been some sort of school affair, gathering, whatever.”
“Me, too.” Vogelby stepped forward. “Probably the same event, whatever it was. Avery was always having—”
She stopped.
“Yes?” Jake said.
“Nothing.”
“You can go, if you like, Ms. Vogelby.” Jake knew she’d be more cooperative away from Tarrant’s supervision. “We’ll be in touch.”
Jake saw how she glanced at Tarrant before she bolted from the office. The door clicked closed behind her.
“Just a few more things, Mr. Tarrant,” he said. “We’ve asked the surveillance company—you’re aware there’s an alarm system with surveillance?”
Tarrant blinked. “Yes, certainly.”
“So you know, then, we’ll be able to collect all the video of whoever came and went from the Morgan House. In fact, that’s already in the works,” Jake lied. Turned to DeLuca. “It’ll be ready soon, correct, Detective?”
“Far as I know,” DeLuca said, nodding, seamlessly playing along. “But, Mr. Tarrant? Speaking of video, do you have any? Of Ms. Morgan?”
“Good thought,” Jake said. For all his quirks, DeLuca was a solid partner. “Or of those parties?”
“They were not—” Tarrant began.
“Rehearsals, then. Are there videos or pictures of them? Students these days photograph everything.” Jake turned to DeLuca, wondered why he hadn’t thought of this earlier. “We should check YouTube.”
EDWARD TARRANT
Damned cops. He, Edward Tarrant, had nothing to do with Avery Morgan’s death, nothing whatsoever, and yet these two, questioning him, were making him feel not only guilty, but as if he were participating in some sort of cover-up with Sasha Vogelby. No wonder she’d failed as an actress. She couldn’t even keep an expressionless face as these two bozos clumsily attempted to elicit information. And unless she was deliberately playing the role of a guilty person, she was certainly acting—if you could call her pitiful performance “acting”—like she was terrified. He wished he’d been able to strategize with her, not that there was anything to strategize.
Which reminded him of his wife. And of Reginald Buchholz. Father-in-law. And boss. Which reminded him he hadn’t even crafted the school’s formal public relations response. Which reminded him someone had probably killed Avery Morgan, because there were homicide cops in his office, and that the inevitable avalanche of reality was one loose pebble away from burying him alive.
Vogelby had just fled, lucky woman, and now the cops were asking about video. First the surveillance video, for God’s sake, which he’d certainly be on. He should have thought of it, but who knew it would matter? Could they actually get that from SafeHouse?
And now they were talking about YouTube! He’d been smart enough to wipe that party video off the face of the Internet, and they couldn’t look at his computer without getting a warrant. By which time he’d have erased his last pictures of Avery. He felt a pang of sorrow. Unusual, but he was tired, and pressured, and in an excruciating situation. Still, better to be safe. If that was even possible now.
“Ah, video,” Edward said. “There was one on YouTube. Because of my role here, I had it taken down. Because it has AB students in it.”
The look on this cop’s face was absurd. As if he’d trapped Edward like some sort of insect. Pathetic, those two, the preppy one so smug and entitled, and the skinny one sarcastic. Real cops. He couldn’t believe he had to deal with this. He had so many other fires.
“We’ve got a state-of-the-art I-T division,” Brogan was saying. “Even if it’s been removed from YouTube, it’s never really gone. We’re the police, Mr. Tarrant. We can get whatever we want.”
Edward wanted to kill these assholes. He’d fight them instead, and win. Using their own damn rules.
“With a search warrant or a subpoena,” he said. He couldn’t resist, even though it was showing his emotional hand a bit more than he ought. “I know the system, too, officers.”
“‘Detectives,’” DeLuca corrected him. “Is that a problem? If you have a video, and I now assume you do, why can’t we see it? Is there something on it you’d prefer not to be public? We’re not the public, Mr. Tarrant.”
Edward imagined that video, let it play out in his mind yet again. What was there to lose? The camera never actually revealed him. Nonetheless, if they questioned others at the gathering, they’d certainly place him there. Would that be a deal-breaker? It was easily explainable. Had he somehow revealed their relationship? That he could not remember. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, contemplating.
A knock at the door. “Yes?” he said.
A reprieve, whoever it was.
JAKE BROGAN
Jake almost laughed out loud at the relief on Tarrant’s face. Whoever was knocking on his office door was clearly Tarrant’s lifeline. Any interruption gave the guy more time to figure out his next move.
Amusing how these blue-blazer types always thought they were in control. Sooner or later, they’d realize the cops were in charge. Only a question of how to get to yes. Right now, Jake needed to get there a little faster. This guy was clearly trying to keep that YouTube video from them. Which meant that video was exactly what they wanted.
A young woman opened the door, white female, approximately 19 y-o-a, Jake’s cop brain catalogued.
“Yes, Manderley?” Tarrant’s voice oozed charm. “What can I do for you?”
Again Jake stifled a grin. Manderley’s baffled expression telegraphed that the Tarrant she knew had somehow been replaced by a polite duplicate.
“Just, um…” The girl, a leggy fawn in the headlights, looked at Jake and D, eyebrows knitted. She’s forgotten her skirt, Jane would say. “To see if you need anything.”
“How nice.” Tarrant couldn’t have sounded more chivalrous. “I’m fine, right now, and hold my calls, please. Ah, unless it’s President Buchholz. You’ll put him right through, naturally. Or my wife.”
Manderley, nodding, closed the door behind her.
“Your assistant?” Jake said. Wife? Jake tucked that nugget away. “And her last name is?”
“Rosen,” Tarrant said. “Why does that matter?”
“Everything matters,” DeLuca said.
No need to antagonize this guy, Jake thought. His Grampa Brogan had always advised him to use a person’s own power as leverage. Gramma Brogan still told him, “You’ll catch more flies with honey.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jake said. He’d combine both methods. “I know you’re concerned about your campus. It’s a difficult situation, and I’m sure you have many compelling responsibilities. So we’re grateful for your help. As for the video, we’ll get it, sooner or later, so we’d be appreciative if you’d simply show us. It will give us valuable insight into who knew about Ms. Morgan’s home, allow us to watch her interactions. Listen to her. Our goal is not to embarrass any students, or to harm Ms. Morgan’s reputation, sir. Our goal is to solve this case, and if it is a homicide, bring to justice whoever killed Avery Morgan. I know that’s your goal, too.”
Tarrant eyed his computer. So that’s where the video is. Jake could almost watch the man’s thoughts marching though his brain, the options getting weighed, the outcomes calculated. Jake had seen this before, the turning point in a case, the moment when a subject decided he’d be worse off by stalling and might as well join the good-guy team. He’d even seen bad guys make that decision. They were the only ones who ever regretted it.
Now Tarrant was tapping at his keyboard, and moving his silver mouse over a thin black pad.
Jake, waiting, glanced at D, who raised a silent eyebrow.
“It is indeed my goal,” Tarrant said, not looking at them, talking slowly as he tried to mouse and talk at the same time. He paused, turned to look Jake square in the eye. “Certainly I want justice for Ms. Morgan.” He put a hand on each side of his monitor—Jake noticed there was no wedding ring—and swiveled the screen toward them. “Best I can do, gentlemen.”
Jake stood, and D hovered behind him as Tarrant double-clicked the white triangle over the video. The pictures, full-color and full-screen, exploded into reality. A peal of girlish laughter, startlingly clear, came from off camera. Night, twinkling lights in the trees. Swimming pool in the background, and center stage, a woman.
“Is that her?” Jake asked, pointing.
“Yes.” Tarrant leaned forward, an inch, didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
The woman, in a white top, her dark hair pulled back in a ribbon, sat with one arm draped across the back of her white plastic chair. Attractive, Jake thought. Caucasian female, dark hair, age approximately forty-five, maybe older. The woman in the pool, come to life.
A drink was in front of her, hard to tell what, in a yellow plastic cup. Another cup was to its left, but no one sat in the corresponding chair. The armrests of Ms. Morgan’s chair and the empty one were close together, touching, Jake noticed.
“Who are all these people?” Jake asked. The others surrounding Avery looked young, though it was increasingly hard to tell these days. “Are they students? Which ones? Are they in her classes?”
DeLuca flapped his notebook to a new page. “If you can point to them one by one, and identify them. Also if there’s anyone you don’t recognize. That’s important, too.”
Sounds of splashing and laughter provided a festive background, accompanied by the thumping bass of some unidentifiable rock music. It was impossible to clearly make out the faces of the students, if that’s who they were, in the shadowed pool.
“You can pause it, if you want,” Jake said.
Tarrant clicked the mouse, stopping the video. “None of this is about ‘wanting.’ I cannot give you their names. Even those over twenty-one are Adams Bay students, and as such, are entitled to privacy protection. What’s more, FERPA specifically prevents—”
“What-pa?” Jake hated jargon, especially as an excuse rattled off by a pretentious academic.
“The Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act. FERPA. It expressly prohibits colleges from releasing certain education records. But, frankly, I’m not sure why their identities matter.”
“They matter if Avery Morgan was murdered.” Jake didn’t try to keep the contempt out of his voice. “And that means—”
“Well, of course,” Tarrant tried to interrupt.
“And that means whatever privacy rules you’ve made or think you understand disappear into college handbook limbo.” So much for honey. Jake had completely had it with this guy. “Now, sir? Please start the video again. We’ll need to watch the whole thing. And then we’ll do it again, with the names. All of them. I can pick up this phone and get a warrant faster than you can say ‘contempt of court.’”
Jake ramped it down, de-escalating. “And happy to do that if it’ll make your decision easier to sell to your boss. Clear?”
“A court order is a court order,” Tarrant said.
“Great,” Jake said. “When was this taken, anyway? There’s no date stamp.”
Tarrant clicked his mouse, and the party hubbub echoed through the office again.
“In May, I think. Before the end of the spring semester,” Tarrant said. “Avery Morgan arrived in … February, if I remember correctly. I could look it up.”
“Do,” DeLuca said. “And the identifications?”
Tarrant shook his head, reluctant again. “Well, even if I agreed. I can’t possibly recognize every—”
“Mr. Tarrant?” Jake kept his eyes on the video. This was a flat-out party, far as he could see. It looked nothing like a rehearsal, or a formal lesson of any kind. Why would they have characterized it that way? Maybe because “Party with the teacher” was not something they’d want in their school brochures. Underage drinking was even more problematic, and there was no doubt that had taken place—Tarrant had just admitted that some of the attendees were under twenty-one.
For now, Jake would ignore it. Let this guy also think Jake hadn’t noticed the ubiquitous beer bottles. Or the yellow cups. “We’re in a ‘sooner or later’ situation here. That means, sooner or later, you’ll have to tell us.”
“You indicated you could get a warrant.” Tarrant’s voice had turned taut, taunting. “So do that.”
DeLuca took out his cell phone. “With pleasure.”
On the video, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Shadows moved through the background, the once-raucous music stopped.
“Avery, watch this!” A voice, off screen, cried out. “You ready?”
Avery Morgan twisted in her chair, following the changing sound. With a blare of orchestration, a new selection of music blasted over the scene, and a line of students, some wearing bathing suits and others in cutoffs and T-shirts, all carrying drinks, danced—Jake guessed it was dancing—in a line in front of the camera. Some were singing, a few pretending their beer bottles were microphones. Avery Morgan stood, applauding, then adjusted her long skirt, picked up her drink, and stepped out of the picture, leaving the camera lens trained squarely on the teenagers’ antics.
Kids these days, Jake thought. Calling her “Avery.” His own college interactions with professors were formal and arm’s-length, certainly never first-name. Appropriate or not, it did look like these students, if they were students, were having fun, animated and enthusiastic, arms linked, lost in their performance.
Had any of these students been “special” friends of hers? Did any of them know more than they realized? Morgan called out to one of them, a young woman, then hugged her. Had any of these people been inside her house, that night, or before? Whose drink had been parked next to hers? Did any of these revelers know she was now dead? Had one of them caused her death? Killed her?
Avery Morgan walked through the picture again, briefly blocking the camera shot. She laughed apologetically and fluttered a playful wave at whoever was taking the video. She stopped at the edge of the screen, then beckoned to someone, smiling.
“Over here!” Jake heard her call out.
Tarrant tapped the mouse, stopping the action. “That girl comes into the shot, they hug, then the food and beer arrives, then it ends.” Tarrant looked at his watch again. “Gentlemen? I have an appointment out of the office, so…”
DeLuca clicked off his phone. “Warrant’s in the works.”
“We’ll need to see the rest, Mr. Tarrant,” Jake said. Passive-aggressive tactics might work on students, but not on them.
Tarrant moved the mouse, and the video flickered back into life.
In one quick move, DeLuca leaned forward, close to the screen, squinting. Momentarily blocked Jake’s view.
“Jake,” DeLuca said. “Look.”
“I can’t, long as you’re in the way,” Jake said. D leaned back, and Jake watched the scene continue. A delivery person had appeared, carrying what looked like three pizza boxes stacked on top of each other. On top of that, a brown paper bag, almost obscuring the delivery person’s face.
But not quite.
“Holy sh…” Jake said under his breath. Grady.