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“Did you tell this to the police?” Cooper asks. “About Elizabeth having the guy over the night she died?”
“Yeah,” Marnie says, with a shrug. “They didn’t seem to care. I mean, it’s not like the guy murdered her. She died because of her own stupidity. I mean, I don’t care how much wine you’ve had, you don’t jump around on top of an elevator—”
I suck in my breath. “They were drinking? Mark and your roommate?”
“Yeah,” Marnie says. “I found the bottles in the trash. Two of them. Pretty expensive, too. Mark must have brought them. They were, like, twenty bucks each. The guy’s a big spender, for someone who lives in a hellhole like this.”
I catch my breath.
“Wait—he lives in Fischer Hall?”
“Yeah. I mean, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? ’Cause she never had to sign him in.”
Good grief! I’d never thought of this! That Beth might actually have had a boy in her room, but that there was no record of her having signed one in, because he hadn’t had to be signed in. He lives in the building! He’s a resident of Fischer Hall, too!
I look up at Cooper. I’m not sure where all this was leading, but I have a pretty good idea that it’s leading somewhere… somewhere important. I can’t tell if he feels the same, though.
“Marnie,” I say. “Is there anything, anything else at all that you can tell us about this guy your roommate was seeing?”
“All I can tell you,” Marnie says, sounding a
The student-run newspaper, the Washington Square Reporter, had run a photo of Elizabeth the Monday after her death, a photo from the freshmen class yearbook, and Marnie, I’m sorry to say, wasn’t exaggerating. Elizabeth hadn’t been a pretty girl. No makeup, thick glasses, outdated, Farrah Fawcett—style hair, and a smile that was mostly gums.
Still, photos by school-hired photographers are never all that flattering, and I had assumed that Elizabeth was actually prettier than this photo indicated.
But maybe my assumption was wrong.
Or maybe, just maybe, Marnie’s jealous because her roommate had a boyfriend, and she didn’t.
Hey, it happens. You don’t need a sociology degree—or a private investigator’s license—to know that.
Cooper and I thank Marnie and leave—though we couldn’t escape without Marnie launching, once again, into a chorus of I-know-I-know-you-from-somewhere. By the time we make it out into the hallway, I’m cursing, as I do nearly every day, my decision—or, I should say, my mom’s decision—to forgo my secondary education for a career in the music industry.
Trudging back down the stairs in silence, I wonder if Cooper is right.Am I crazy? I mean, do I really think there’s some psycho stalking the fresh women of Fischer Hall, talking them into elevator surfing with him after having his way with them, then pushing them to their deaths?
When we reach the tenth-floor landing, I say, experimentally, “I once read this article in a magazine about thrill killers. You know, guys who murder for the fun of it.”
“Sure,” Cooper says dryly. “In the movies. It doesn’t happen so often in real life. Most crimes are crimes of passion. People aren’t really as sick as we like to imagine.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He has no idea how sick my imagination is. Like how at that very moment I was imagining knocking him down and ripping off all his clothes with my teeth.
I wasn’t. Well, not really. But I could have been.
“Somebody should probably speak to the other girl’s roommate,” I say, resolutely pushing away my fantasy about Cooper’s clothes and my teeth. “You know, the one who died today. Ask her about the condom. Maybe she knows who it belonged to.”
Cooper looks down at me, those ultra-blue eyes boring into me.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You think it might belong to a guy named Mark who likes foreign films and has expensive taste in Bordeaux.”
“It won’t hurt to ask.”
“You got a guy on your staff who fits that description?” Cooper wants to know.
“Well,” I say, thinking about it. “No. Not really.”
“Then how’d he get the key from behind the reception desk?”
I frown.
“Haven’t worked that part out yet, have you?” Cooper asks, before I can reply. “Look, Heather. There’s more to this detective stuff than snooping around, asking questions. There’s also knowing when there’s actually something worth snooping around about. And I’m sorry, but I’m just not seeing it here.”
I suck in my breath. “But… the condom! The mystery man!”
Cooper shakes his head. “It’s sad about those girls. It really is. But think about how you were when you were eighteen, Heather. You did crazy things, too. Maybe not as crazy as climbing onto the roof of an elevator on a dare, but—”
“They didn’t,” I say, fiercely. “I’m telling you, those girls did not do that.”
“Well, they ended up at the bottom of a shaft somehow,” Cooper says. “And while I know you’d like to think it’s be cause some evil man pushed them, there are nearly a thousand kids who live in this dorm, Heather. Don’t you think one of them might have noticed a guy shoving his girlfriend down an elevator shaft? And don’t you think that person would have told someone what they’d seen?”
I blink a few more times. “But… but… ”
But I can’t think of anything else to say.
Then he looks at his watch. “Look. I’m late for an appointment. Can we play Murder, She Wrote again later? Because I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah,” I say, faintly. “I guess.”
“Okay. See you,” he says. And continues down the stairs at a clip so fast, there’s no way I’ll catch up with him.
Though on the landing below, he stops, turns, and looks up at me. His eyes are amazingly blue.
“And just so you know,” he says.
“Yes?” I lean eagerly over the stair railing.The reason I’m so against you investigating this on your own, I am expecting—well, okay, hoping—he’ll say,is because I can’t stand the thought of you putting yourself in harm’s way. You see, I love you, Heather. I always have.
“We’re out of milk,” is what he says instead. “Pick some up on your way home, if you remember, okay?”
“Okay,” I say weakly.
And then he’s gone.
10
Let’s run away
Someplace that’s
Warm all day
I’ll make it worth your while
If you stay
I said
Let’s run away
Throw all our cares away
They can’t tell us
What to do
This time it’s just
Me and you
“Run Away”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Dietz/Ryder
From the album Rocket Pop
Cartwright Records
“Who was that?” Sarah wants to know. “That guy who left just now?”
“That?” I slip behind my desk. “That was Cooper.”
“Your room-mate?” I guess Sarah has overheard me on the phone with him or something.
“House-mate,” I say. “Well, landlord, really. I live in the top floor of his brownstone.”
“So he’s cute and rich?” Sarah is practically salivating. “Why haven’t you jumped his bones?”
“We’re just friends,” I say, each word feeling like a kick in the head. We’re. Kick. Just. Kick. Friends. Kick. “Besides, I’m not exactly his type.”
Sarah looks shocked. “He’s gay? But my gaydar didn’t go off at all—”
“No, he’s not gay!” I cry. “He just… he likes accomplished women.”
“You’re accomplished,” Sarah says, indignantly. “Your first album went platinum when you were only fifteen!”
“I mean educated,” I say, wishing hard we were talking about something—anything—else. “He likes women with, you know, a lot of degrees. Who are stu