Breakfast becomes a solemn gathering. Hardly a word is spoken before coffee. Sandra, her niece Caroline, and her sister Charlotte, inhabit a deeper rung of grief after sleeping, while Émile slips into a funk of his own. Revived by caffeine he emerges from it, and guides Caro into reciting the names of the dead girl’s friends and acquaintances as he writes them down. She stumbles over one person, a lady professor by the name of Shedden. When he questions her hesitation, Caro explains that the professor and Addie seemed to have been friends for a while, though not of late. They may have had a falling-out.
“A falling-out,” Cinq-Mars repeats.
Caro is uncomfortable. “They used to hang off campus. Seemed a bit creepy to me. Then it stopped. Addie never said why. She didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Creepy,” her uncle notes. He tries to keep his inflection casual.
“You know what I mean,” Caro says. “Addie was bi. So she said, anyway. Okay? But, you know, with a prof, who’s older … that’s what’s creepy. But I don’t know for sure. No one does. Addie talked way too much about her boyfriends. She had too many of them, too. Women, only a few. She said virtually nothing about them. That’s how it was with her. Always. Embarrassed, maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s what you didn’t want to talk about in front of me yesterday, but you told the police.”
“You know. You’re my uncle.”
“So’s Bob.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Poor joke. It’s early.”
The arrival of State Trooper Hammond at the farmhouse doesn’t lighten anyone’s mood, but at least the officer arouses their curiosity.
Émile steps outside to greet him and the women follow, taking up positions along the front porch where they hope to eavesdrop. Caroline once dubbed the front porch the family swamp, a place to swat mosquitoes and complain about the weather. While it serves those purposes well, it’s also an observation post when unexpected visitors show up, usually to buy a horse or to book riding lessons. The trooper is not interested in such activities, and as he extends his hand Émile is surprised that he remembers the man’s name. “Trooper Hammond. Good morning.”
The return salutation sounds terse to his ear: “Mr. Cinq-Mars.” Émile senses that he won’t welcome the man’s purpose in being here.
“What’s up?” he asks the visitor.
“We need to talk.”
“This early in the morning?” He does his best to come across as friendly. “You might find me grumpy, sir, but sure thing. How can I help? Would you like to go inside? Have a coffee?”
The officer adjusts his Smoky the Bear and examines the house. He notices Sandra and the young woman he interviewed yesterday observing him.
“I think I can say what needs to be said out here,” the trooper decides.
“Is there a problem?” Cinq-Mars inquires.
“Doesn’t need to be,” the trooper reflects. “Shouldn’t be a problem as long as we can both agree that you’re it.”
“It? I’m the problem?” He’s not entirely surprised. He didn’t take to this man from the outset. The trooper crosses his arms as though to demonstrate that he will brook no challenge.
“You’re a retired cop,” the trooper points out.
Cinq-Mars flashes a smile. “Since when is that a crime? Or anybody’s problem?”
Hammond ignores him. He looks over at the horses in the paddocks, then back again. “Emphasis on the word retired.”
“A fact of life,” Émile points out to him. He knows where this is headed. “I’m told it beats the alternative.”
“Stop muddling.”
Surely, Émile thinks, the word he means to say is meddling. While English is second nature to him now, he still encounters a gap or two, given that French is his first language. Perhaps both words fit. “Who’s muddling? Or meddling, do you mean?”
“I’m not going to excuse you, a man with your credentials. You know better. Last night you were out to the scene of two different murders, not to mention worming your way onto the crime scene yesterday A.M. This might come as a shock to your system, sir, you’re not needed here. Neither are you invited. Big surprise, we can manage without you.”
“I wouldn’t worry about any shocks to my system, Trooper Hammond. Good of you, though, to drive out here to let me know.”
“It goes beyond that.”
“Sure hope so.”
“Not only are you not needed, you’re not wanted, either.”
“That’s clear.”
“I’ll make this easy on you.”
“Just don’t shock my system.”
“Don’t be flip with me, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’”
“What?”
“You didn’t hear me?”
“It’s a term of respect.”
“Only when said respectfully.”
The trooper has unfurled his arms now, and moves his feet around and rotates his waist. He puts his hands on his hips. In another time, in another situation, without three women watching him, he might have been inclined to throw a punch, and still might do in this circumstance if Émile were two decades younger. “I’m not going to hit an old man,” he whispers.
“Speak up. I can’t hear you. Neither can my witnesses.”
“Stay away from this investigation. Don’t talk to anybody involved. You don’t visit any crime scenes and you don’t discuss the matter with Chief Till. That man’s going to be in his own cesspool of trouble if he doesn’t put his ass under a microscope. Are we clear on that? Is any of this too complicated for you? Go back to being retired. You’re not on the job anymore and you never were around here. My advice? Invest in a magnifying glass to study your belly button instead. Otherwise, I’m placing you under arrest for obstruction of justice if there’s even one more incident, I don’t care how minor. Just so you know. Are we clear?”
“I don’t know why people ask that question.”
The trooper is baffled a moment. “What question?”
“Are we clear? Do you think it comes from that movie?”
The words are almost on Hammond’s lips, “What movie?” before he rethinks their conversation.
“You’ve been warned,” Hammond tells him. “That’s out of respect for you being on the job in your time. This is not your time, sir. Or mister. Or whatever you want to be called. Old man. It won’t be detective. This is not your time and it’s not your country. It’s not your case and your interference will not be tolerated.”
Cinq-Mars knows that the trooper wants to be able to say it once more—is that clear?—but he declines, and gets back in his car.
As he drives off, Émile watches him go, then returns to the house. The women appear dispirited. Even contrite, as though they’re taking blame upon themselves. He’s had his knuckles rapped.
He stops before the porch and looks up at them.
“Sorry about that,” Caroline commiserates. She now believes that any contribution to the investigation of her friend’s murder that he might have made has been short-circuited. “I guess maybe we got you into trouble.”
“Trouble? What? Him?” Émile fires back. “He’s not trouble. Don’t ever pay attention to a man like that. Three murders on his watch and what is he concerned about? Who might be stepping on a crack in his sidewalk. That’s his main bugaboo. That tells me he’s lost, without a prayer. Maybe he can whistle Dixie but he can’t solve a major crime. Now then,” he says to Caroline in particular.
“What?” she answers back, still confused.
“Why the heck are you hanging around here? If you’re planning to lend a hand, do you have time to dilly-dally? Get a move on.”
In a twinkling, her attitude turns, her mother and aunt grin, and the young woman is suddenly eager and focused. She beats it back into the house to get a few things together, then commandeers her grandmother’s old Ford. Émile, for his part, will head into town as well. He has work to do, too. Let Hammond try and stop him. Aware of his defiance, Sandra grins. She’s even laughing a little behind her tears.
“What?” A vague snarl.
She puts her hands up to simulate compliance. She knows he’s royally ticked off.
* * *
The morning sun scales the mountains and ascends into a familiar sky, yet the village is sleepy as Émile wends his way into Hanover. He’s decided that he likes it here. The quality of the sensory experience is one that he has previously tried to assess—what is it that makes an American town feel American? It’s not only the flags. In affluent New England, the respect for architecture is generally more prevalent than it is back home in Canada, although European villages are artful in preserving the past, and tidier, so that’s not it, at least not in its entirety. As people move through their routines, there’s a feeling of relaxation particular to these Main Streets that he finds less evident in the rest of the world. Émile begs to differ with those Americans who might think they are the hard workers and the go-getters of the universe. He detects an atmosphere quite different in the morning air of small Yankee towns. People seem to believe that everything is right with the world and they’re at ease with that. What might occur on any given day is only what everyone expects. Even on this rare morning, a troubling time in the aftermath of three murders, folks chat, perhaps more intently than usual, yet they drop into the post office, grab a cup of coffee from a shop, greet friends, juggle their purses and newspapers, adjust their backpacks, and somehow look and feel gifted with the art of living. A provenance is built into their confidence, a daily ratification that this is the moment that’s been awaited, it’s been foretold, this is the time that is and the time that has always been ordained. It’s not the future nor even the mythic past. Our time is the present, they’re saying, or thinking, or just living as if that’s the case, which is what makes a place fine and livable, if not wholly perfect. That’s the essence of what’s different, Émile concludes. These pristine New England towns seem perpetually aware of their own pageantry, and whether it’s in the architecture or in the tone of personal exchanges, citizens feel obliged to inhabit and inhale an atmosphere, one they both celebrate and rely upon to sustain them. As if they are standing in as icons on a postcard, or see themselves as the nostalgic relics of a future age, for is this not the only moment that counts? The present is not only now, it’s here and it’s forever and it’s American, thank God. These folks don’t do panic or consternation, Émile attests, or don’t do it well, nor do they suffer threats to their well-being with dramatic concern. As long as the sun shines upon the shade trees, and the children skip, and the old folks nod from their park benches, and the coffee shops are open, and a Mercedes can pull in behind a jalopy and a cop can smudge both cars’ tires with chalk, then the disposition of the people on the streets is congenial, all is well, and all will remain well today, a fine day that is bound to fold gently into tomorrow.
Storm-free.
Émile is less certain of that, of course, perhaps because he’s not American, yet he finds the general temperament appealing, even if he tends to feel that he’s treading through an alternate universe.
He ponders, also—and this is a more difficult notion to grapple—the stillness that persists as sunlight shines upon American towns. He’s not experienced it elsewhere. In a meditative moment of his own, he wonders, not for the first time, if it’s him. That is, if the stillness that he detects does not occupy a space inside him where previously his mind merrily computed away, ringing up calculations. An aging thing, perhaps. Is it that his focus is less intent than before, less geared to the task at hand? Is that why he was slow to get off the seat of his pants this morning? Chief Till is younger. He’ll check him out. Perhaps he can hold him to a standard he’s no longer able to fully attain himself.
Hell, he thinks. I’m retired. I’m allowed to hang back. Yet to continue in such a vein will only prove Hammond right, that he ought to keep his nose out of things. Once that conclusion snaps to mind he knows he won’t allow it.
He parks near the police station and tramps inside.
Cinq-Mars is interested in taking the chief of police by surprise, to observe how he starts his day after being subjected to the darkest crimes of his career. Émile is aware that he’s feeling the need for friends in high places, and while he’s inclined to believe that Till is an honest cop and probably a half-decent example of one, he’s anxious to find out how he conducts himself when circumstances demand more of him than what’s been required previously. His counterpart among the troopers failed his first test, knotting his colon over nothing more than jurisdiction. Till may also fail. The man’s a worry because he knuckled under rather quickly to the New Hampshire state trooper, managing only a passive-aggressive counterpunch in soliciting Émile’s help. As well, Till’s remarks indicated that he’s had difficulty in the past being respected. He admitted that he once required an old lady—Émile’s mother-in-law—to run interference for him to help keep his job. Those could be benign experiences, or they could be warning signs, and Émile needs to assess him further before placing his trust in the man. The first thing he must find out: does Chief Till respond to a crisis by sleeping in after a late night, then by taking a two-hour breakfast to think things over, or is he on the job at the crack of dawn as he ought to be?
He finds him at his desk when he’s escorted there by a rookie constable. He looks busy enough. His toast-and-jam has scarcely been munched.
“Morning, Émile. Have you solved all three cases yet?”
“Have you?”
“You’re the one with the huge rep, so I was hoping. Coffee?”
“Had mine, thanks. What’s on tap for today?” Cinq-Mars tests him. Till makes a gesture with his hands in front of his face which Émile fails to comprehend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First thing I got to do is extract this boot from between my teeth.”
Émile is willing to play along with the metaphor. “Who did the kicking?”
“Hammond.”
“He gets around.”
“You, too?”
“Kept my groin covered. Of course, I’m independent. A foreign national. A visitor. I’m not on anybody’s payroll and under no one’s authority. He has less freedom to lord it over me.”
“He’s got me greeting the parents this morning, when they land.”
“Addie Langford’s?”
“Pleasant job, huh?”
“The man’s a coward. It’s his case.”
“That’s why. He says. His time is too precious. Although he’s got time to kick me in the head and bitch to you. I’m not allowed to talk to you, by the way.”
“You accepted that?”
“I suggested he study the Constitution. That’s when he kicked me in the teeth again, warned me that the upcoming elections favor the incumbent mayor. With a new mandate he might have another go at me. Your mother-in-law won’t be around to bail me out. He’s right, too. After that he went to see you, I guess.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I could care less. An order from him becomes a de facto order from the governor if I put up a stink. He’s given me an order. Meet and greet the grieving folks. With Kleenex at hand, I suppose. I’ll do my job.”
“Hard duty,” Émile commiserates.
“I could wiggle off that hook, shift it to a subordinate, but hell, might as well be me. Anyway, better me on the ground to meet them than that slice of bacon.”
A perspective that’s not without merit. Émile’s impressed.
“What are you up to today?” Till inquires.
“Lying low, officially.”
“Unofficially?”
“Lying low,” Émile repeats.
“Which means what exactly?”
“Chief Till, you sound as though you don’t believe me?”
“Detective Cinq-Mars, where are you plunking down your ass right at this exact moment? On a park bench? Lying low as you say? Are you not in the office of the local police chief, a man, I presume, you’re forbidden to visit? What are you doing in his office?” Till answers his own question. “Testing him. How can you call that lying low?”
If he was required to rate this fellow on a scale that evaluated their compatibility to be cops in the field, Till was scoring high marks. Rather than being happy about that, Émile is growing nervous. Although he’s liking this guy, it’s too soon to trust him beyond his usual skepticism.
“I was hoping to make a social call,” Cinq-Mars admits. “I don’t mean this visit. I’m in your office because I hoped that you might make an introduction which would let me call on someone else. I’m presuming that the chief of police and the president of Dowbiggin are acquainted? Mutual cooperation has been necessary over time, I imagine, between your offices?”
Till requires a moment to let the request sink in. He even repeats it out loud. “You want me to introduce you, an outsider, a retired cop, to President Palmerich.” He checks his watch. “I’m off to the airport shortly. Can’t do it in person right away. I could pick up the phone. Set something up.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He suspects that a speed bump is coming.
“Ah, Émile, it’s my neck that’s being stuck out here.”
“You mean Hammond?”
“No, I mean the president of the Dowbiggin School. No one in the state sits in a more prestigious chair than the president of Dartmouth College, not even the governor himself. Dowbiggin is a giant step down from that, of course, but it’s still on the stairs. Between the two administrations, there is communication. There’s protocol that a guy in my position needs to observe. If I’m to introduce you…”
He lets Émile fill in the blanks. “You want to know if I’ll behave.”
“Something like that. I want to know what you’re up to, and … frankly … how you want me to handle the introduction. I’ll be doing you a favor, fine, on that basis I’m willing. Will I be doing Josh Palmerich a favor? Or myself a favor? He and I have good relations. I could set it up and tell him to watch out, to tread carefully. A warning, essentially. Or say that it’s in the school’s best interest to cooperate with you. I can even suggest that he trust you. Whichever. After the meeting, I want him to agree with my assessment. The question is, what should my assessment be?”
Till has given him more to think about than anticipated. He has a point. The chief’s primary concern is to protect an ongoing relationship with the president of Dowbiggin, and through him to the other powers in the state. He can do that whether Émile plans to be antagonistic or congenial, as long as no one is blindsided in the interview. In essence, Till is asking Émile to propose his strategy in advance of the conversation, then stick to it.
Of course, he may want to approve of his strategy first.
Émile is tempted to be tough on the issue of rape on campus with the college president. He anticipates a whitewash on that one, but if there is a line between those previous incidents and the current murders, then it must be drawn. He is also interested in establishing relationships in this town that may prove useful over the breadth of this case, so he has a decision to make.
“I’ll be gentle,” the visitor declares at last. “Our interests and the president’s are mutually beneficial. Everyone wants to find out who killed a Dowbiggin student, a member of the faculty, and a custodian. The institution has been desecrated. Only the truth can help it now. I’ll float your circumstances before him, Chief. Point out that your hands are tied. Talking to me is a way for the president to help us out, and himself out, before the troopers make a botch of it. You can’t go see him. You’ve been officially told to bugger off. I’ve been told the same thing but nothing’s official in my case. It’s a free country, even for a tourist. I can talk to anybody I want. Go ahead, Chief, invoke my history to the president, make me look good, then ask him to grant me leeway. If things go badly, if evidence turns up that’s harmful to Dowbiggin, I won’t turn him against you or me without first giving you a healthy heads-up and him a fair warning.”
Now it’s Till’s turn to trust him or not. As he mulls it over, Cinq-Mars gives him a modicum of further assurance.
“Listen, Chief, we have no choice. With Hammond on the warpath, you won’t be allowed to talk to the people you should be talking to, and I can’t let myself appear to be more than a blip on his radar screen. I won’t be riling anyone, let alone people in power. Not even Hammond if I can help it. Think of it this way. We’ll be using Hammond’s sour mood to help us get on track with others and that will assist us in working through the case. You have to love the irony. His attitude is our opportunity. His bad mood opens doors for us.”
That’s an argument Till can buy. He picks up the phone. Before dialing, he remarks, “I caught it, by the way. What you just did.”
“What did I do?”
“Made yourself necessary.”
That may be true, but Cinq-Mars doesn’t want him to be thinking that way, arousing suspicions. “Chief, we’re necessary to each other. That’s my take.”
“Let’s hope so,” he responds, rather sternly. The remark expresses a genuine expectation while also standing as a subtle warning.
Till dials.
* * *
Prior to convocation, the agenda for President Joshua Palmerich has been hectic. The festivities require his time, as does the annual influx of key donors. Private meetings and public appearances abound. The sordid events on campus have complicated his schedule, and in advance of Émile’s arrival he made it clear that their talk will be brief. In his previous life, Émile could blow past such constraints by flashing a badge, but now he both recognizes and accepts the altered circumstances. For him to question someone these days, he must first negotiate the right to do so, then keep people onside throughout the interview. No bullying. Lucky to have the meeting at all, he’s prepared to make the most of his allotted time.
In being admitted to the president’s office, then, he’s surprised to find the man not the least abrasive. The contrary, he appears to be receptive to the intrusion. He comes across as remarkably relaxed for a man whose institution has been hit by three inexplicable murders.
“Needless to say,” Palmerich notes, although Cinq-Mars is thinking the opposite, that the point is worth making, “I was glad to receive Chief Till’s call. A good man. We’ve had opportunity to work together in the past.”
“Not to keep you, I’ll come to the crux of the issue,” Cinq-Mars responds. “Chief Till has been ordered off the case, to give the state troopers a clear run. That jurisdictional wrangle is largely political, governed more by ego than pragmatism. I don’t agree that it’s the best decision. I’m here in his stead and I will keep him apprised. In this way his office can work alongside the school and, hopefully, assist the troopers see this through to the right conclusion, and swiftly. We must … it’s delicate, how shall I phrase this?”
President Palmerich lightly taps his desk to allay his fears. He is not a naturally distinguished-looking man, in Émile’s opinion. He dresses well, and in keeping with his office his grooming is impeccable, and yet it’s not a stretch to imagine him running a small grocery store or a gas station. A bagginess to his skin, especially under the eyes, nurtures a wearied look that’s long-standing, as though it runs generations deep. The man’s designer glasses exude a contemporary fashion flair, his tie is silk and his watch an expensive timepiece. Then again, the curvature of his spine and a higher than normal pitch to his voice weakens the overall presentation. Something in his appearance seems off. He’s a man, Cinq-Mars surmises, who has survived on intelligence and dogged ambition throughout his career, not charisma.
“I spoke to Trooper Hammond yesterday at length,” Palmerich relates. “Again this morning. Stressful conversations, in light of the events. Given my association with Chief Till, I was hoping to speak with him today. That you’ve arrived as his emissary, or as his surrogate, is welcome, Mr. Cinq-Mars. The governor also called and advised me to work with Trooper Hammond—insisted, might be the better word—and I will. I lobbied for Chief Till, but if this arrangement, your presence, grants the university the benefit of both men and both departments, then I view that as a positive.”
“You understand, sir, that Hammond may take exception.”
Palmerich shrugs. “Neither the governor nor Trooper Hammond need know if you and I happen to discuss affairs of state. I confess, I did a quick Google search of your name. A famous police detective with a degree in agriculture, majoring in animal husbandry—which, I admit, is a new one on me—with a penchant for theology, one newspaper account stated, and spirituality. What a mix, Detective! How could I not agree to see you? Chief Till’s recommendation is enough for me, but I have to say that your credentials are both a curiosity and impressive, especially when it comes to incarcerating the wicked. Now, sir, how may I help?”
Cinq-Mars thinks he has to be wise in his approach to his first line of inquiry. “Incidents have occurred on campus previously, over the last year or two.”
“Over four years, I’m sorry to say. Do you think they’re related?”
“I’m not jumping to that conclusion, no. Yet the rapes cannot be ignored. You have far more knowledge about them than I do—I have none. Let me ask, do any of those events bear resemblance to any aspect of what happened yesterday, on or off campus?”
He summons a shrug that rises up through his torso. “Not to my mind. One or more of yesterday’s victims may have suffered a rape. I haven’t been officially informed of that. If so, that would be a connection. I’m not cognizant of any similarity, and certainly we’ve not had anything that violent.”
“Previously, no knives, no guns, no attempts to choke?”
“Two incidents were more violent than others to be sure, in terms of physical force and physical injury, but minus those particular aspects.”
While he’d love to isolate the murders from the rapes, that can only occur if they truly are unrelated. “Were any previous victims forced to dress up? Put on a costume?”
“To that I can categorically say no.”
“Was the clock tower involved in any of the previous incidents?”
“No.” Palmerich first looks at Émile, then away, then back at him with a concerned furl to his brow. “Actually,” he says.
“Are you serious?”
“No one was raped in the clock tower. But one victim, after the fact … I read her transcript … complained that she suffered inappropriate touching during a public visit to the tower prior to her rape. This was long before she was abused and it was deemed inconsequential. We have a winter festival. A festival tradition is to open the clock tower to anyone who wants to make the climb and enjoy the view. She didn’t issue a complaint when the incident took place. At the time she got mad and confronted her aggressor. The rape investigation brought it back to her mind; she mentioned it in passing in her deposition. She herself did not allege that the incident was connected to the rape, but it gave the police a suspect to track down and question. I forgot about it until this moment.”
“I’ll want to talk to her.”
“Chief Till will need to conduct the interview himself. I’m obliged to protect the victim’s privacy. Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For jogging my memory. Hammond brought up the rapes yesterday but by the end of our discussion, I believe he dismissed any possible connection. Now you’ve made one. Or at least, connected inappropriate touching to the tower.”
Cinq-Mars is not inclined to believe that he has. Overturning stones, to his mind. “Sir, it’s tentative. We’ll see how it plays out.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, Detective, you’ve demonstrated to me that this shadow investigation of yours may have merit.”
In returning his gaze, Cinq-Mars realizes that a slight disconnect that he’s felt from this man—what has been off—is attributable to a form of strabismus—his eyes cross. The man’s gaze is slightly askew: when he thought they were making eye contact they weren’t, and when he thought they weren’t they might have been. Recognizing that helps him to settle into the talk. Chief Till need not have warned him about alienating this man. He has no such intention, and decides to underscore their successful bond with a couple of easy requests before digging into a more difficult issue.
“I was hoping,” he begins, “to gain access to a few places on campus. The first would be Professor Toomey’s office. Feel free to have a security guard in the room with me. I promise to only look, not touch, and certainly not take anything away. I’ll leave that for Hammond. That said, I’d be happy to get into the room before him. I don’t imagine he’s been there yet.”
Palmerich’s nod appears to confer consent, although Cinq-Mars isn’t sure. Perhaps the president is waiting to hear what else he will request.
“As well,” Émile elaborates, “I’d like to visit Malory Earle’s specific workplaces. I won’t be talking to her coworkers, leaving that to Hammond. It would only confuse them anyway. My next request is undoubtedly more difficult. The clock tower remains cordoned off, I expect. In any case, it’s normally out of bounds and the entire seventh floor is restricted. I entered the tower yesterday, at its base—if anyone can say that being seven stories up is a base. In any case, I’d like to revisit, to make the climb to the top, to see what that might provide.”
Again, a noncommittal nod. Cinq-Mars continues on once more.
“Professor Toomey came to you from the State Department. Prior to that he was in something or other that was clandestine. Such as the CIA.”
“How did you know?” Finally, a reaction.
“I put two and two together,” Cinq-Mars tells him.
“An interesting computation. You’re close. I’ll say nothing more. Allow me to play this card: I can neither confirm nor deny that opinion.”
The two men share a smile.
“With that in mind, if there is anything, past or present, that strikes you as a red flag connecting his past to his murder, or to the other murders, then I hope you’ll share that information. With me, of course, but if you prefer, only with the police.”
“I understand. Nothing pops to mind, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’m sorry to have to say this: We have to move this interview along.”
Cinq-Mars would prefer to be more circumspect as he arrives at a key objective. “I noticed that Professor Toomey was in possession of an invitation to a cocktail party on campus this week.”
“You have an eye for such details, Mr. Cinq-Mars. If the invite came from this office, then I believe I know which one he’s expected to attend. A party given annually for many of our principal donors.”
“If I may be direct, why was he invited?”
“His State Department background, I suppose. If we’re calling it that. Someone may have requested that he be included, or he may have asked to be included. I’d have to check. We do desire to have a number of professors there, showing the colors, an organizer may have thought it was his turn. I confess, though, that when I noticed his name on the list, I was surprised.”
“Why?”
He pulls his hands apart, then knits them together again. “We like to have our most prestigious minds present. Along with those who know how to work a room. As well as those with a recent claim to fame to talk about. He doesn’t fit any of the three categories, and in fact he’s virtually obliged by duty to be circumspect. Not good party material. What would he talk about, for instance? State secrets?”
“I was wondering if I might go.”
Palmerich is taken aback. “Excuse me? Go? Why?”
“Sir, you know that a valuable necklace was placed around the throat of the victim yesterday.”
“I saw it. I saw the victim where she lay, for a moment.”
“The necklace has monetary value and yet was left behind. Donated, perhaps, to enhance the image the killer was trying to project of the victim. This leads me to suspect that the perpetrator may be a person of means. You have a gathering planned for persons of means—”
“I’m sorry. I see where you’re headed. That is speculation and it is a bit wild, Mr. Cinq-Mars.”
“I’m accusing no one, of course, and have no reason to do so. But persons of means need to be considered—”
“Our donors specifically? That would be folly, if not suicide, for me to subject any of them to that sort of scrutiny.”
“The scrutiny—which is too strong a word—I assure you will be covert. No one will suspect a thing. Mere reconnaissance.”
“This is an affluent part of the world, sir. Those individuals traveling up for our convocation ceremonies will not be the only people of wealth on hand. With all due respect, that’s a bit of a stretch.”
“Sir, no one is being accused or is being considered a suspect. As you say, there will be other persons of means on hand. Yet, with respect to the wealthy people who live in the area, they have lived here without such crimes as we saw committed yesterday. That the killer, or one of multiple killers, is, in fact, an outsider, perhaps with connections to the university, and also a person of means, merits consideration. Your party brings together persons of wealth who are also, many of them, outsiders. That’s a gathering I’d like to infiltrate, just to take notes. If my identity is mysteriously revealed by an unforeseen accident, we’ll say that I’m on hand as an additional security detail, in light of what has transpired. People will understand. You won’t be vilified for having me around, but commemorated, probably, should I be found out.”
“I’m less concerned with being commemorated than I am with being tarred, feathered, and rolled down a mountainside in a barrel, if I’m lucky.”
They enjoy a chuckle, but Cinq-Mars falls to a more serious tone. “I can manufacture an identity for myself, if you prefer. Look, one thing that happens if we segregate the earlier rapes from these murders is that it points more strongly to an outsider, or outsiders. Proper police work has to take the donors into consideration. I understand your predicament, but consider this. On the off chance that a donor is complicit, do you want that person to be discovered and then have it reported that you shielded him, along with the other contributors, from being investigated? More tar and feathers, I’d say. The allegations won’t interest me, it’s others who will take a hard look. My request puts you in a difficult bind here. I apologize for that, as I do appreciate the conundrum.”
Palmerich looks agitated. He is, Cinq-Mars thinks, secretly furious. He’s about to lose his support and must come up with a new idea quickly.
“Sir,” Cinq-Mars begins, stalling for time.
“Yes?”
As if an intruder had dropped it on the floor, Cinq-Mars picks it up, and marvels: a bargaining chip. He’s amazed by how the mind works. He had discussed with Chief Till that the head trooper’s antagonism signaled an opportunity for their side, and now he can make use of his own thesis. “This slant to the investigation may well occur with me or without me. If it’s official, then you can expect a more heavy-handed experience. Red flags might be public ones in that case, and the university may find itself uninformed. If I’m able to run through this angle quickly and discreetly, no one will ever know unless it’s a matter of import. In which case, the spirit of cooperation the university fostered will be reciprocated, and that cooperative spirit will be what’s reported in the press.”
Cinq-Mars sees now that when the president is genuinely noncommittal he does not gratuitously nod. Instead, he holds him in a steady gaze. The retired detective is noted for the intensity of his own hard look. Criminals have been known to confess under the pressure of his glare. He sees that this man is equally as intimidating as he himself is deemed to be. Indeed, the man’s strabismus makes the intensity of his gaze difficult to suffer, as the recipient doesn’t know how to engage the hawklike stare. Cinq-Mars feels sympathy for any misbehaving student on the hot seat in this office, feeling like a morsel about to be chewed. He wants to reassure Palmerich that he hasn’t issued a threat, only a friendly warning, but it’s too late for that.
Although Palmerich relents, he continues to withhold his acquiescence. “Mr. Cinq-Mars, I shall give the matter serious thought and let you know, although my advice is to not get your hopes up. I shall grant your other requests. And yes, a security guard will accompany you as you move around on campus.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. I consider the university fortunate to have you examining this matter.” He interrupts himself and a smile plays on his lips. “I was going to say … examining this matter on our behalf … but I have no idea if that is correct.”
Cinq-Mars stands. “I’d express it that way, sir. Essentially, I want the truth to come out on behalf of the victim, who was a good friend of my niece. You want the truth, I’m sure, on behalf of your student and your employees. Even, if I may say so, your donors. We’re on the same page. Oh, and I’d like to ask further questions about Miss Earle, but I’ve taken far too much of your time already. Later on, perhaps.”
“Later on, then. I know nothing of the poor soul, I fear. Mr. Cinq-Mars, there’s something you should know. It’s my suspicion that you don’t know this already.”
Émile waits.
“Regarding the invitation issued to Professor Toomey. The same invitation was held in the fingers of Addie Langford when she was put on display in the tower.”
Cinq-Mars pretends he wasn’t aware.
“Then I must attend that party,” he attests, and stands.
“We shall see, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime, if you’ll wait outside, I’ll request a security guard to be your escort on campus.”
The president stands as well, and the two men shake hands.
By holding back a question about Malory Earle, he has been able to finagle a second talk if he needs one. Cinq-Mars is happy with that. He’s generally content with their progress together.
And yet, all he’s thinking about as he departs is how he’s going to crash that cocktail party, by hook or by crook.