Roger woke me up by barking from the front room at about six the next morning. He must have seen a rabbit or squirrel near the house. Even this deep in his golden years, Roger remained vigilant against the ferocious threat posed by all rabbits, squirrels, and cats that stepped within a two-hundred-foot radius of our front door.
I groaned and swung my legs off the bed. My head didn’t hurt, but my mouth was dry. The room felt cool and comfortable. Since it was still early, I dressed in a sports bra and shorts and took a jog through the woods behind my house. Roger didn’t even follow me out the door.
The storm that had destroyed the campsite where we found Laura Rojas had knocked down almost a dozen trees in my woods, creating an obstacle course on my running trail. That was okay. It made my muscles work all the harder.
By the time I got back to the house, sweat, dried leaves, and a thin layer of dirt covered my skin, but I felt wide awake and energized. Even with a full day of grinding work ahead of me, I felt good. After my run, Roger sat with me in the kitchen as I scrambled eggs and toasted bread. It started earlier than I had expected, but it became a nice morning.
By eight, I had showered, dressed, and driven to work. The parking lot at the station was full, and the lobby buzzed as the evening and day shifts swapped places. I said hello to people as I passed and then attended the morning briefing in the conference room. Delgado and Harry had yet to find Aldon McKenzie; Paige Maxwell and Jude Lewis hadn’t shown up; and no one had reported any other major crimes in St. Augustine overnight. Typical day.
After the briefing, I swapped my notepad with work on Laura Rojas’s murder with the notepad I had taken to the hospital when I interviewed June Wellman. Her case was as important as anything else I had been doing, and it threatened to get lost in the shuffle. She deserved better than that.
I checked my cell phone to ensure it had a full charge and then walked to my truck, which I drove to Waterford College. Benedictine monks had founded the school almost two hundred years ago as a Catholic seminary, but over time, its mission had changed until it became a private, nondenominational liberal arts college for the sons and daughters of wealthy Midwesterners. It was a good school.
As I drove through Waterford’s brick front entrance, I left the rural, poor streets of St. Augustine and entered an affluent world of privilege and power. Mature trees swayed in the morning breeze, and undergraduates walked to class, backpacks slung over their shoulders as their eyes remained glued on cell phones. No leaves or weeds littered the sidewalk, and no cracks marred the roads. The Federalist-style academic buildings looked as imposing as any courthouse in the world.
The college employed its own police force, but they deferred to us on major felony investigations. I stopped by their office to tell them I was on campus to interview students, which they seemed to appreciate. A sleepy-looking uniformed officer offered to escort me around the school, but I told him I could manage on my own. Besides that, I carried a map and a gun. The world was my oyster.
I started at June’s sorority. It was a little before nine when I arrived, and half the girls in the house—June included—were still asleep. The girls I spoke to seemed nice, but few of them had gone with June to the fraternity the night Chad had raped her, so few of them had firsthand accounts of what happened. Of those girls who went, none saw Chad slip anything into her drink or force her to drink more than she wanted.
Next, I walked to Chad’s fraternity. Someone had locked the front door, so I rang the doorbell until an older woman in an apron opened.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I said, flashing her my badge. “I’m Detective Joe Court. I’m looking for Chad Hamilton. Have you seen him this morning?”
The woman blinked. “I’m the cook. I don’t see the boys until lunch.”
“Please get someone who can help me.”
She began to say something, but a tall, handsome young man stepped into the doorway before she could. His slick smile reminded me of a dead criminal defense lawyer I once knew. He wore jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt that hugged his chest and broad shoulders. College girls probably swooned over him. I could use that.
“I’m Jake, the chapter president. Molly’s the cook. She doesn’t know the brothers. Can I help you?”
I flashed my badge at him.
“I need to talk to Chad Hamilton.”
He looked at my badge, but then his eyes strayed to my chest and hips. He wasn’t leering, but he wasn’t subtle, either. When he looked at my eyes again, he gave me a cheesy grin and held the door wide open.
“Beautiful women are always welcome in the Sigma Iota house.”
“Terrific, thank you,” I said, stepping inside. The fraternity’s entry had carpeted stairs that led up to the first floor and down to the basement. The house smelled like bleach and stale beer with just a hint of vomit and body odor. It reminded me of my station’s drunk tank.
I took the stairs to the lobby and found two guys in pajamas lounging in front of a giant television.
“Either of you two Chad Hamilton, by chance?”
The guys looked to Jake, their president.
“This is a detective,” he said, the cheesy smile never leaving his face. “She’s a police officer.”
One guy sat up and held up his hands.
“I’m just a pledge.”
Jake chuckled. “It’s all right, Tony. She’s here to talk to some brothers. Why don’t you go home? You look like you haven’t showered in days.”
Tony nodded and left, barely taking the time to put on a pair of sandals. The other guy followed without saying a word, so I looked to Jake.
“Now that I’m in, I would appreciate it if you told me where Chad was.”
A frown replaced Jake’s smile. “I think he’s upstairs in his room, but we only allow brothers and guests up there. It may be a while before he comes down. You’re welcome to wait here.”
“I’d like to talk to him. You think you could get him for me?”
He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth before shaking his head. “Chad can be grumpy when he wakes up, so I think it’d be better if we waited. Unless you have a warrant. If you have an arrest or search warrant, you’re free to go up yourself and get him.”
He smiled again. I returned it.
“So you’re the fraternity’s lawyer and its president. Good for you.”
“I’m not a lawyer, but I am prelaw, and part of my job as the house president is to protect the brothers when appropriate.”
“Well, you’re doing a fine job, Jake,” I said, looking around the lobby for the fire alarm. I found one near the front staircase, so I crossed the room and pulled it. An ear-piercing wail filled the air. Jake hurried after me and tried to push the handle up to turn the alarm off, but I wagged a finger at him and shook my head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He took a step back. “What are you doing?”
“Fire drill!” I shouted. “It’s important to conduct regular fire drills in communal living environments like this. As a sworn law enforcement officer, this is part of my community policing duties.”
Footsteps pounded on the floor above me.
“Everybody, get the fuck up. This isn’t a drill!” shouted a voice from upstairs. I looked at Jake and smiled.
“I’m glad to hear at least one of your brothers is taking this seriously.”
Within moments, young men—and more than a few young women—streamed down the steps. I waited by the fire alarm for another few minutes until everybody left. Then I joined the men and women on the lawn in front of the house.
“Okay, guys!” I shouted, holding up my badge. “Thanks for cooperating with the drill. Everybody but Chad Hamilton is free to go back inside.”
Several guys grumbled, but nobody complained aloud. A young man walked toward me. His pale skin and curly red hair spoke of Scandinavian ancestry. I must have gotten him right out of bed because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked at me and then to Jake, confused.
“I’m Chad,” he said, looking at me up and down. “Who are you?”
“Detective Joe Court, St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. I’m glad you’re up. Let’s talk.”
“Can I get a shirt?”
I smiled and looked at Jake. “Be a dear, Jake, and get your brother a shirt. He’s underdressed.” I looked at Chad again. “We need to talk about June.”
His chest and face turned red.
“Oh, shit.”
“Good,” I said, smiling. “It sounds like you know what we need to talk about. Let’s go inside. I hope you’ve got good answers for me.”