9

Touching me

Something always touching me

When I ride the subway.

“Subway Song”
Written by Heather Wells

“Um,” Kimberly says, looking up at me suspiciously, clearly uncertain who I was, and why I was suddenly sitting across from her. “Hi?”

“I’m Heather,” I say. “Assistant hall director?”

“Oh!” Kimberly’s suspicious expression changes to one of recognition, even casual welcome. Now that she knows I’m not there to try to—well, whatever it was she thought I was there to do…hit on her? proselytize?—she seems to relax. “Hi!”

“Listen,” I say. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. I mean, about this whole thing with Lindsay. I know you two were friends….”

Actually, I don’t know this. But I just assume two girls who were on the same cheerleading team would be friends. Right?

“Oh,” Kimberly says, in a different tone, and the bright, Crest-Whitestrip smile she’d flashed me vanishes. “I know. It’s so awful. Poor Lindsay. I…I can’t even think about it. I cried myself to sleep last night.”

For a girl who’d cried herself to sleep the night before, Kimberly looks pretty good. She apparently spent her break somewhere warm, because even though it’s winter, Kimberly’s bare legs are tanned. Apparently she isn’t too concerned about the cold outside, or the blizzard New York One still insists we’re supposed to be getting at any moment, but which has currently stalled over Washington, DC.

She doesn’t seem too concerned about eating breakfast in the place where, twenty-four hours ago, her good friend’s severed head was found, either.

“Wow,” I say. “You must be devastated.”

She crosses her long, coltish legs beneath the table and begins to twist a strand of her long black hair—straightened, naturally—around and around one finger.

“Totally,” she says, her doe eyes wide. “Lindsay was, like, my best friend. Well, after Cheryl Haebig. But Cheryl doesn’t really like to hang out anymore, ’cause, you know, she spends most of her free time with Jeff. Jeff Turner.” Kimberly blinks at me. “You know Jeff, right? He’s one of Mark’s roommates, in Two-twelve.”

“Sure, I know Jeff,” I say. I know all the basketball players, they’ve been down to the office so many times for disciplinary hearings, primarily of the keg-smuggling variety. Fischer Hall is supposed to be dry.

“Well, the two of them, they’re, like, practically married. They hardly ever want to party anymore.”

And now that Cheryl’s moved into Lindsay’s room and will most likely not receive a new roommate, she and Jeff will be able to canoodle uninterrupted….

But wait. That’s no reason so kill someone.

“So, after Cheryl, Lindsay was your best friend,” I say. “Gosh, that must be awful, to lose someone that close. I’m surprised you can—no offense—even eat in here.”

Reminded of her food, Kimberly takes a big bite of her egg-white omelet. Inspired by this, I take a bite of my bacon-and-cream-cheese bagel. Mmm. Heaven.

“Yeah, well,” Kimberly says, “I don’t go in for ghosts, and all of that. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

“That’s very practical of you,” I say, after taking a sip of my cocoa-coffee.

“Well,” Kimberly says, with a shrug, “I’m in fashion merchandising.” And indicates the intimidating-looking textbook in front of her. Introduction to Managerial Accounting.

“Oh,” I say. “So since you knew Lindsay so well, would you know of anyone who maybe had a grudge against her? Maybe wanted her out of the way? Enough to kill her, I mean?”

Kimberly twists the long strand of dark hair around her other finger for a while. “Well,” she says slowly. “A lot of people hated Lindsay. I mean, they were jealous of her, and stuff. I did tell that policeman, the one who came by last night, about her roommate, Ann.”

“Ann hated Lindsay?”

“Well, maybe not hate. But they didn’t get along. That’s why Lindsay was so psyched when Ann finally agreed to swap rooms with Cheryl. Even though Cheryl doesn’t hang out with us much anymore, at least Lindsay didn’t have to worry about all the stupid shit Ann was doing to annoy her.”

“Stupid shit like what?” I ask, taking another bite of my bagel.

“Oh, just dumb stuff. Erasing messages people left for Lindsay on her dry-erase board on the door. Drawing devil horns on all of Lindsay’s photos in the school paper before handing it to her. Using all of Lindsay’s tampons and not replacing the box. Stuff like that.”

“Well, Kimberly,” I say, “it sounds like Ann and Lindsay didn’t exactly get along. But you don’t really think Ann actually killed her, do you? I mean, why would she? She knew she was moving out, right?”

Kimberly looks thoughtful. “Well, yeah, I guess. But anyway, I told that detective guy to make sure she’s got a, whad-duya call it? Oh, yeah, an alibi. ’Cause you never know. It could be one of the Single White Female–type thingies.”

I’m sure Detective Canavan jumped on the “Single White Female–type thingie” lead. Not.

“What about boyfriends?” I ask.

This cognitive leap is too much for Kimberly’s tender young brain to process. She knits her slender eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“Was Lindsay seeing anybody? I mean, I know she was dating Mark Shepelsky….”

“Oh.” Kimberly rolls her eyes. “Mark. But Lindsay and Mark, I mean, they were pretty much over, you know. 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 Lindsay 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 anything important. So.” His icy blue gaze focuses on me like a laser. “You’re stopping by to see this one guy about what thing?”

Damn! How does he always know? Always?

“Well,” I say slowly. “See, it turns out Lindsay was seeing a new guy before she died. A Winer.”

“A what?”

“You know.” I spell it. “As in Winer Construction.”

His dark-lashed eyelids narrow. “Heather. Why does this sound to me like you’re investigating that dead girl’s murder?”

“Because I am,” I say, then hold up both gloved hands in protest when he inhales to begin his tirade. “Cooper, think about it! Winer Construction? The Winer Sports Complex? They’re bound to have skeleton keys to locks all over the city. Doug could totally have had access to the caf—”

“Did anyone sign him in that night?” Cooper demands.

Damn. He knows the workings of Fischer Hall almost as well as I do.

“Well, no,” I say. “But there’s a thousand ways he could have snuck in. Chinese food deliverymen do it all the time, to slip menus under the kids’ doors—”

“No.” That’s all Cooper says. He accompanies the word with a single head shake.

“Cooper, listen to me,” I say, even though I know it’s pointless. “Detective Canavan isn’t asking any of the right questions. He doesn’t know how to get information out of these kids. I do. I swear that’s all I’m doing. Gathering information. Which I will fully turn over to him.”

“Do you honestly believe I’m that gullible, Heather?” Cooper demands.

He is glaring down at me. The wind is biting into my face and making my eyes sting, but it doesn’t appear to be bothering him at all. Possibly because he’s got all that razor stubble to protect him.

“You know, it’s very stressful to work in a place people are calling Death Dorm,” I say. “Tom only just started working there, and he already wants to quit. Sarah’s being impossible. I’m just trying to make Fischer Hall a fun place to work again. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Counseling some kid because she put Nair in her roommate’s shampoo bottle,” Cooper says, mentioning an all-too-frequent form of roommate torture around New York College, “and finding the person responsible for boiling a cheerleader’s head on a cooking range are two entirely different things. One of them is your job. One is not.”

“I just want to talk to the Winer kid,” I say. “What harm can TALKING do?”

Cooper continues to stare down at me, as the wind goes on whistling. “Please don’t do this,” he says, so quietly I’m not entirely sure he’s said it at all. Except that I saw his lips move. Those oddly lush (for a guy) lips that sometimes remind me of pillows, against which I’d like to press my—

“You can come with me,” I offer brightly. “Come with me and you’ll see. All I’m doing is talking. Not investigating. Not at all.”

“You’ve lost it,” Cooper says. Not without some disgust. “I mean it, Heather. Sarah is right. You do have some kind of Superman complex.”

“Up, up, and away,” I say. And take his arm. “So. Coming?”

“Do I have a choice?” Cooper wants to know.

I think about it.

“No,” I say.