by Ali Franklin
Ryan was beginning to wake up. Shoving her feet into her slippers, she padded toward the kitchen in search of coffee. “So what did the detectives ask you? Do you know anything about Cora’s family?”
“Yes,” said Teddy. “Both of her parents are still alive and live in Pennsylvania. She has a sister there, too, and a nephew. Detective Jack was going to call them last night. I feel terrible for them. Can you imagine waking up to a phone call telling you your child is dead?”
Worse, Ryan thought, Probably murdered. Aloud, she asked, “Pennsylvania? Is that where she grew up?”
“Philadelphia, I think,” said Teddy. She did her undergrad work somewhere up there and did her grad work at Juilliard. She was extremely talented.” She fell silent for a moment. “By the way, did you call Oscar?”
Ryan was still thinking about Cora having been at Juilliard. Even an old pro like Ryan had to be impressed with that accomplishment. She shook her head, momentarily confused at Teddy’s question. Why would she call Oscar?
“It didn’t even occur to me,” she made a sound of exasperation. “Did you?”
“No. I bet Nicki did, though. Jack told me she was there last night. Was she shaken up?” asked Teddy.
“Nicki? No way. Tough as nails.” Ryan’s coffee had finished brewing and she selected a mug from the cupboard. She added cream and sugar, blew on the brew, and took a sip. Aahh. That was the stuff. “It was pretty impressive how she kept her cool with that crummy lead detective. That woman acts like she's the only one with a brain. It’s obvious she has no idea about Nicki’s background — and that Nicki's probably run more investigations than she has. How old do you think she is?”
“The beautiful one?” mused Teddy. “Early thirties, maybe? Doesn’t matter. She could come over here and interrogate me any day.”
Ryan heard an annoyed voice in the background.
“Sorry, honey,” Teddy called out. “I was just making a point to our single friend.” She cleared her throat and returned to the conversation with Ryan. “Anyway, Trainor said Cora was wearing an engagement ring. Did you see that when you…found her?”
“No, but I’m not sure I would have noticed. Was she engaged?'
“I have no idea. She used to have this girlfriend we knew,” said Teddy. “They were over here for dinner more times than I can count.”
“Did you tell the cops?” asked Ryan.
“Of course,” said Teddy. “I even gave them her phone number and told them where she works.”
“Where's that?"
“She works for the state. She’s some kind of computer geek who works with the family welfare system. One time when they were over here she told us about some of the families she had helped."
“Wow," said Ryan. “That must be a tough job.” She knew from her many years working with students that there were more needy kids than the state assistance system could help. She’d worked with hundreds of families trying to find enough scholarships and grants to send the first family member to college. She also knew how much working with that population could weigh on a heart. It sounded like Cora’s ex did it every day.
“She’s one of the good ones," said Teddy. "They broke up about a year ago."
"How was Cora when they split?"
"She didn’t seem too upset about it. Just kind of quiet.”
“Did Cora date anyone else after that?” asked Ryan.
“She never mentioned a new girlfriend. I saw her about once a week at the office, and I don’t think she would’ve gotten engaged without telling someone. If it had been her ex, Grace, I think she would have at least told me and Summer.”
Ryan readied her coffeemaker to brew another cup. “I wonder who the fiance was, then."
“No idea." Teddy was quiet for a moment. "I guess the cops will talk to Grace. I hope she's not a suspect."
Ryan remembered the snippets of conversation she had overheard in the classroom. "They said it was a crime of passion. They'll be looking for her significant other."
"They can’t think it’s her. She’s such a nice girl.” Teddy’s voice sounded pinched. "Ryan, what if they do?"
“Teddy, you watch TV. They always think the spouse or the partner did it — and they're usually right.” Ryan wondered if Grace was really the good person Teddy thought she was. What did people always say when reporters asked them about the next-door neighbor who turned out to be a serial killer? He was always such a nice man….
“I know they always think it’s the ex, but it can’t be right,” said Teddy. “I know this woman. I'm not allowed to call her until they've talked to her. They’ve probably started asking her questions already." Teddy's voice was clearly moving from its usual alto register closer to the soprano. "Oh, I really hope they don’t think she did it."
“Teddy, you don’t know what they think. They might even have a suspect already."
“What if it’s Grace? Ryan, we need to help her.” From the sounds coming through the phone, Ryan imagined (but was sure she was right) Teddy was pacing through her house, waving her arms through the air.
“Teddy, relax. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“We don’t know that. We have to help her." When Ryan didn’t answer, she continued. "You can help, right? I mean, you always run those student investigations as the dean. You know how to read people and get to the bottom of things.”
“Slow down,” said Ryan. “I investigate students who cheat on their midterms, not actual criminals. When something big happens, I just help Nicki.”
“That’s not all you do. Last year you helped catch that miscreant who was scaring everyone in the girls’ dorms,” Teddy pressed.
“Residence halls,” Ryan said automatically. It was a pet peeve of hers. They weren’t dorms — they were residence halls.
Ryan took a deep breath. “I’m sure your friend will be fine. The detectives are on the case, and Nicki can keep an eye on things for you.” She paused, imagined being in the middle of the chase. It could be exciting, but there were drawbacks. “I don’t want to spend any more time around that detective than I have to.”
"You should spend some time with her. That woman is ravishing."
"Whatever."
"Will you help me talk Nicki into staying in contact with the detectives?”
“Sure,” said Ryan. “How ‘bout I bring dinner over tonight? You could invite Nicki and we could talk to her then.”
“Great, but don’t bring anything. We’ve got plenty of food and we can send Summer out back to barbecue,” said Teddy. “She loves that.”
Ryan smiled at the thought of Summer standing over the grill, implements in both hands, her “Kiss the Cook” apron tied neatly around her waist. “About six-ish?”
“Perfect,” said Teddy. “Call me if you hear anything before then."
Ryan pressed the button to end the call and stared into her coffee cup. Yesterday afternoon they had kicked off their start-of-summer tradition. Hours later, a colleague lay dead. And now they had a crime of passion, a (possibly) hot detective, and a secret engagement. She shook her head.
Picking up her mug, she walked into the living room. The lid of her baby grand piano was covered with photos of family, friends, and students. She found her favorite group photo of the music faculty and lifted it from the piano. It had been taken shortly after Cora had come to Haverwood for her first full-time teaching position, bursting with idealism and a love for her art. Cora stood with her arms around the two people closest to her. They all looked so happy. Ryan ran her finger along the top of the frame before setting it down again.
She picked up another photo, the one that held pride of place in the center of the little gallery’s front row. This one was a closeup of Ryan and her father taken the day she was awarded her doctorate. Ryan wore her robe and hood. Her father had his arm around her shoulder and displayed the biggest smile she had ever seen. It had been such a joyful day. A bittersweet smile came to her lips.
She replaced the photo and walked over to th
e couch as she tried to imagine what had driven someone to murder a professor. And what she could have done to prevent it. Staring out the window, she rubbed the bridge of her nose.
8
The young woman straightened up in her office chair and rolled her shoulders. She tilted her head from side to side a few times and raised her arms into the air. She let out a big yawn and stretched like a cat. The clock in the bottom corner of her computer screen showed it was 9:00 a.m. She had done yoga after breakfast but her muscles still felt stiff.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen. After jostling the kettle to see how much water was left, she placed it on the burner and turned on the stove. She measured loose tea into a strainer, dropped it into the mug, and leaned against the counter. She knew it wasn’t true that a watched pot never boils, but she always turned her back on the stove when she was making tea. She supposed it was her own form of superstition.
She thought about the data retrieval project she had been researching since the previous week. It had been tough to find the first-level files through the internet, but she had eventually found the right path. She knew she needed more detailed information to finish the task and, based on the work she had already done, she guessed it would take at least another week to find the data she needed.
The process of tracking down information stored on one computer from a different computer had fascinated Grace Loh since the day her father had introduced her to the internet. She had imagined the possibilities were endless and that she would be able to learn anything she ever wanted. By the tender age of ten, she knew the world of data would be hers for the taking.
Over the years Grace had found her way to more information than she could ever hope to assimilate for homework assignments and personal projects. She learned how to build the Japanese fighting kites she and her sister flew on crisp fall days. She learned how the stock market really worked and how people with the right information could prosper. And once she found other people who were as fascinated with computers as she was, Grace was hooked. She learned that those people loved to brag about their skills, their new codes, and the sites they had hacked. Grace became a voracious learner about everything connected with computer science. She had found her passion.
Reading about other people’s illicit online conquests piqued Grace’s interest. Her own initial foray into the world of hacking happened during high school. Midway through her sophomore year Grace had realized she was not going to pass her chemistry class. By this time, she knew she wanted to attend one of the top schools in the country to study computer science. Earning a D in any class could make that impossible. Tentatively at first, Grace had poked around in the back end of her school’s computer systems, being careful not to leave any digital footprints. She had found it almost disappointingly easy to find Mr. Whitman’s gradebook and change the scores on her homework assignments. Two years later, she graduated from high school with an exceptional GPA.
The kettle whistled. Grace filled her mug and started back toward her home office. As she sat back down, she smiled at the picture of MIT’s Great Dome hanging on the wall above her desk.
Grace had secured early acceptance into MIT from high school. She excelled in computer science and all of its offshoots, including systems, theory, and artificial intelligence. She did not spend her time there inflating her grades — she naturally excelled in all things computer, and her other classes were more interesting as a result. Grace loved her time at MIT; there was so much to learn from her professors and her fellow students. Everyone there was excited to explore and blaze new trails in the world of computing. It had been an exhilarating time. After five years, Grace left MIT with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in computer science.
The doorbell rang, jerking her out of her reverie. She rose from her chair with a frown. People who rang her doorbell during the day were usually boring. She would try to get rid of them as nicely — and quickly — as possible.
Through the peephole she saw a tall, remarkably beautiful woman and a shorter dark-skinned man standing on her doorstep. They were holding up badges. She raised her eyebrows. Maybe not so boring after all. She opened the door.
“Grace Loh?” said the woman.
“Yes; can I help you?” Grace surveyed the two strangers.
“Haverwood County Sheriff’s detectives. I’m Trainor, this is my partner Prieto. May we come in?” The detective’s face made it clear that it wasn’t really a question.
“Detectives? Of course.” Grace stepped aside and held the door for her visitors. She gestured toward the living room. “Please, have a seat.”
Prieto sat on the far end of the couch. The woman remained standing. She moved slowly around the room, looking at the framed pictures on the wall and stooping to read titles in the bookcase.
Grace moved into the living room. “What can I do for you?”
The woman stopped moving and turned to face Grace. “Do you know a woman named Cora DeLuca?”
“Yes, she’s my ex-girlfriend,” answered Grace.
“When is the last time you spoke with her?” asked the man, pulling a small notebook and pen from the pocket of his blazer.
“We had lunch yesterday. Why are you asking me this?” asked Grace, looking from one detective to the other. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
“When and where did you leave her?” asked Trainor.
“Leave her?” Grace swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday. After lunch,” said Prieto.
“Oh. I left her in the parking lot of Nana’s, the restaurant at the corner of Fifth and Main.” Grace came farther into the room and sat in the chair facing the couch. “Is Cora all right?”
Trainor stepped in front of Grace’s chair and looked down at her. “Ms. Loh, Cora DeLuca was found dead yesterday evening.” Her eyes bored into Grace's.
“Oh, no,” breathed Grace. “Cora.” She lowered her head into her hands. After a moment, she dropped her hands into her lap and looked at Prieto. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he answered.
Grace looked up at Trainor the way a hurt puppy looks at the person who has just kicked it. She sniffed and lowered her head back into her hands.
“Oh, no,” she said again.
“Ms. Loh,” said the lead detective, “we’d like you to come down to our office with us now and make a formal statement.” She moved to the side and held out her arm as if to help Grace out of the chair. Grace lifted her head and nodded. Then she reached up to grasp Trainor’s arm and used it to stand.
They moved toward the front door. Behind them, Prieto asked, “Do you have a purse, Ms. Loh?” Grace pointed at the half-circle table nestled against the wall by the front door. Prieto handed her the small bag sitting atop it and picked up the ring of keys next to it.
“Detective Trainor can drive you in your car if you’d like,” he said. “That way you’ll be able to drive yourself home after making your statement.” He gave her what she interpreted as a supportive look and she nodded.
The drive to the station was silent, with both Grace and Trainor lost in thought. Once inside, Trainor showed Grace into a small, stark room with a stainless steel table and two metal chairs. The requisite one-way mirror covered the majority of one wall and a surveillance camera was mounted to the ceiling in one corner. The white tile floor was dingy with a gray swath highlighting the path that hundreds of suspects and witnesses had walked from the door to the table and back again.
Prieto entered the room and dropped two legal pads, two pens, and Grace’s purse on the table. He sat in the chair farthest from the door with his back to the mirror and motioned for Grace to take the chair across from him.
Trainor’s phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket. She read a message, then said, “Prieto, talk to you outside for a sec?” He stood up and turned to Grace.
“Be right back." Grace nodded.
C’mon, she told herself, don’t giv
e them a reason to suspect you. This is just standard practice, contacting the spouse or significant other. She forced herself to sit up straight and not think about Cora being dead. She sighed. But Cora was dead. That was going to take some getting used to.
Detective Trainor returned to the room. Pacing back and forth in front of the mirror, she asked Grace a series of questions.
“Ms. Loh, how long had you known Ms. DeLuca?”
The words sounded strange to Grace’s ears. No one she knew called Cora “Ms. DeLuca.” They either called her “Cora” or “Dr. Dee.” The way the detective said her name sounded cold.
“I met Cora about two and a half years ago. We started dating a few months later. We were together for about a year.”
The questions continued. By the time Grace looked at her watch, the conversation (she refused to think of it as an interrogation) had already lasted over an hour. Trainor asked each question at least twice, a different way each time: “When is the last time you saw Ms. DeLuca?” and then, “And the last time you saw Ms. DeLuca was…?” It almost made it difficult to tell the story.
Grace kept telling herself it was standard procedure. What really annoyed her was that Trainor wasn’t giving her anything in return. Grace kept asking what had happened to Cora. How had she died? Where had she been found? Who found her? Why would someone kill her? But the detective ignored the questions.
Grace told Trainor that the only scenario she could imagine was a psycho student who was angry about a bad grade. Or maybe Cora was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Grace had some time to think about it, she might be able to come up with some names of people who had something against Cora.
Switching gears, the detective asked, “So where were you yesterday between three and four p.m.?”
“I was at home, working.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No one was with me, if that’s what you mean. But there are records on my computer that show I was using it – and the router will show my computer was accessing the internet from my house all afternoon.”
