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Cooper nods. “The Greek Association really is a marvelous institution,” he remarks.
“Yes, it is,” the maid says, just as gravely. Then she bursts out laughing and goes back to scrubbing the F.
“About what happened back there,” Cooper says to me, in a different tone of voice, as we stand waiting for the elevator. “That kid… he just… the way he treated that girl… I just… ”
“Now who’s got the Superman complex?” I want to know.
Cooper smiles down at me.
And I realize I love him more than ever. I should probably just tell him that, and get it out in the open so we can stop playing these games (well, okay, maybe he’s not playing games, but Lord knows I am). At least that way I’ll know, once and for all, if I have a chance.
I’m opening my mouth to do just that—tell him how I really feel about him—when I notice he’s opening his mouth, too. My heart begins to thump—what if he’s about to tell me thathe lovesme? Stranger things have happened.
And hedid ask me to move in with him, pretty much out of the blue. And okay, maybe it was because he felt bad about the fact that I’d just walked in on my fiancé, who happens to be his brother, getting a blow job from another woman.
But still. Hecould have done it because he’s secretly always been in love with me… .
His smile has vanished. This is it! He’s going to tell me!
“You’d better call your office and tell them you’re going to be late getting back,” he says.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, hoping against hope that he’s going to say,Because I plan on taking you back to my place and ravishing you for the rest of the day.
“Because I’m taking you over to the Sixth Precinct, where you’re going to tell Detective Canavan everything you know about this case.” The elevator doors slide open, and Cooper unceremoniously propels me into the car. “And then you’re going to keep out of it, like I told you.”
“Oh,” I say.
Well, okay. It isn’t a declaration of love, exactly. But at least it proves he cares.
12
The “rat” in “unreliable narrator”
The “lie” in “silliest”
The “end’ in “narcissistic tendencies”
The “us” in “total disgust.”
“Rejection Song”
Written by Heather Wells
“What do you mean, we have to go to tonight’s game?”
“Departmental memo,” Tom says, flicking it onto my desk. Or should I say his desk, since he’s apparently taking it over for the duration of Gillian Kilgore’s stay? “Mandatory attendance. To show our Pansy Spirit.”
“I don’t have any Pansy Spirit,” I say.
“Well, you better get some,” Tom says. “Especially since we’re having di
My jaw drops. “WHAT?”
“He thinks it’s just the ticket,” Tom says, in a pleasant voice I happen to know is solely for the benefit of Dr. Kilgore, behind the grate next door, “to show the public that the Fischer Hall cafeteria is safe to eat—and live—in. He’s upset about everybody calling this place Death Dorm.”
I stare at him. “Tom, I’m upset about that, too. But I don’t see how eating warmed-over beef-stroganoff and watching a basketball game is going to help.”
“Neither do I,” Tom says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “That’s why I’m taking a little peppermint schnapps with me in a flask. We can share, if you want.”
Generous as this offer is, it doesn’t quite make the evening sound more palatable. I’d had big plans for tonight: I was going to go home and make Cooper’s favorite di
And Cooper needed major buttering up, if I was going to get him to quit being so mad at me over the Doug Winer thing. After his initial chagrin over the way he’d manhandled the kid (or over me witnessing the way he’d manhandled the kid) had worn off—about midway through our meeting with Detective Canavan—Cooper had been quite vocal in his disapproval over my involving myself in the investigation into Lindsay’s death at all. I believe the words “damned stupid” were mentioned.
Which did not bode well for my plan of bearing Cooper’s children, much less asking him if my dad could move in.
Sadly, Detective Canavan was not in the least bit interested in any of the information I was able to impart pertaining to Lindsay’s complicated love life. Or at least, if he was, he didn’t act like it. He sat at his desk with a bored expression on his face through my entire recitation, then, when I was done, all he said was, “Ms. Wells, leave the Winer boy alone. Do you have any idea what his father could do to you?”
“Chop me up into little pieces and bury them in cement beneath the concrete foundation of one of the buildings he’s constructing?” I asked.
Detective Canavan rolled his eyes. “No. Sue you for harassment. That guy’s got more lawyers than Trump.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated.
“Was the Winer boy signed in the night Lindsay was killed?” the detective asked, though he clearly already knew the answer. He just wanted me to say it. “Not just by Lindsay, but by anyone else? Anyone at all?”
“No,” I was forced to admit. “But like I was telling Cooper, there are tons of ways people can sneak into the building if they really want—”
“You think whoever killed that girl acted alone?” the detective wanted to know. “You think the murderer and his accomplices all snuck in past a guard who is paid to keep people from sneaking in?”
“Some of his accomplices could live in the building,” I pointed out. “That could be how they got the key… .”
Detective Canavan gave me a sour look. Then he went on to inform me that he and his fellow investigators were already aware of Doug Winer’s relationship with the victim, and that I should—in fancy detective-speak—butt out, a sentiment that was echoed by a still-steaming Cooper on our way home.
I tried to explain to him about Magda and her request—that Lindsay’s character need not be assassinated during the investigation into her death—but this only resulted in Cooper’s pointing out that beautiful girls who love too much, as Lindsay appeared to have done, often meet unpleasant ends.
Which really only served to illustrate Magda’s point.
Cooper, however, was of the opinion that if the shoe fit, Lindsay was going to have to wear it. To which I replied, “Sure. If anyone could find her foot.”
Our parting, at the front door of Fischer Hall, was not what anyone would reasonably call amicable. Thus the need for steak before I introduced the topic of my father.
“I have to go home and walk my dog,” I say to my boss, making one last effort to get out of what I just know is going to be an evening filled with hilarity. Not.
“Fine,” Tom says. “But be back here by six. Hey, don’t give me that look. You were at the ‘Budget Office’”—He makes air quotes with his fingers—“for two hours this morning, and I didn’t say anything about it, did I?”
I make a face at him but don’t protest further, because he’s got a point. He could have busted me for my disappearing act earlier in the day, but he didn’t. Possibly he’s the coolest boss in the world. Except for the part where he wants to quit and go back to Texas, where girls apparently don’t get decapitated in their residence hall cafeteria.
Having to attend this mandatory di