Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  Where would the wall be weakest? Not on the corners. She knew enough about the structure of a building to know the corners would have bearing posts.

  She returned to the kitchen for a big spoon and then came back to the empty room and started tapping the wall, waiting for a hollow sound. Between the window and the corner she heard it. She raised the skillet to strike the wall but then noticed a closet at the end of the room.

  Inside the closet was empty, except for an old ironing board propped up against what she assumed would be an exterior wall. The wall was about three feet wide.

  She moved the ironing board aside and tapped. The edge of the wall sounded dense but the center of the wall sounded light.

  Perhaps she would find only plaster and studs between it and the exterior brick. The closet was hidden from the rest of the room by a louvered door. He might not notice.

  She swung the skillet as hard as she could against the closet wall. The plaster wall gave. She struck again and, through the gaping hole, she could see wooden studs about twenty-four inches apart between the inner and outer walls. She would be able to slip between them. This could be an escape hole to the outside. As long as he didn’t discover it.

  She worked slowly and carefully using the skillet to break the edges of the initial hole and widen it. She used the big spoon to scoop up the pieces of plaster and empty them into the space between the interior and exterior wall. She was careful to keep the width of the hole the same as that of the ironing board she planned to use as a cover. It was hot and she felt sweaty and had to leave the closet from time to time to cool off. She checked the sky outside the window so she could figure out the time of day. She had to make sure she would have time to clean up and return to her bedroom before he came home. She missed her watch. He had taken it along with her bag and her cell phone.

  Chapter 14

  Joe pushed his half-finished dinner away. “No clues on the man in boots yet. Also, no notes or calls to Wynan demanding a ransom. So the longer this goes on, the more I am sure she’s been taken prisoner for some reason...or…”

  “Or killed.” I stared at my food and took another sip of wine.

  The phone rang and both of us jumped. But it wasn’t for Joe. It was Bridget Thomas for me. No greeting, but a sense of urgency in her voice. “Red, have you looked at your email?”

  “No. I just got home.”

  “Well, you’d better see what our idiot chairman, Bud Chekovski, has to say in addition to tomorrow’s meeting time and place.”

  “Bad?”

  “Troubling. I think the provost may have gotten to him after our last meeting. He seems to want us to tread more than cautiously.”

  “About assault? I’ve got a missing female student, Bridget. Cautious is not what I’m feeling right now.”

  I walked over to my computer and brought up my email. There it was, just as Bridget described. “Why is he putting this in an email instead of bringing it up tomorrow at the meeting?”

  “I’m not sure, Red. But my hunch is he’s been told to frame the discussion the way Ezra wants it, not the way we might want it.”

  “Damn. I’m not willing to assume that a young woman would arbitrarily accuse a guy of assault. Most of the women students I know are not that vicious. The hell with McCready’s caution.”

  That night sleep did not come easily. Joe had left after dinner to go to the police station to see if any of the checks on the man in the muddy boots had panned out. My mind went back and forth between my worries about Jamie Congers and my concerns that, in the sexual assault policy meetings, I was going to run head on into Ezra McCready’s opinions about the reliability of survivor testimony.

  And I was personally conflicted. Sooner or later I would have to figure out how to contend with an ugly memory from my own college days. My roommate’s boyfriend had come into my room when I was wretchedly ill with flu, pulled off my pajamas and did what he damn pleased. I’d never told anyone.

  For years, I’d suppressed the memory because it sickened me. And whom would I have told, even if I had been willing to talk? In those days, the prevailing view of some college administrators was discouraging. And even though the new provost reminded me of that time, was I really willing to do battle with the man who would have the final say on whether or not I would be appointed Dean of Journalism? No matter how the search committee voted, Ezra McCready’s view would rule.

  So I knew I would be of two minds throughout the discussions of the committee. For one thing, we lacked a clear definition of sexual assault. Did it mean rape, or did it include unwanted kissing and groping? To complicate matters, legal scholars differed as much on definitions as did various college policies.

  I tried to brush my concerns away but only found that, when I did, my thoughts switched back to my missing student.

  Jamie

  She sat on her bed, hands folded in her lap, waiting to hear his footsteps coming up the stairs to release her for her evening chores. She heard the lock click. He opened the door to her room and stared at the lock for a moment. Did he just realize he had forgotten the deadbolt? He looked up at her. He was carrying a bag and a book in his hand. He measured her with his eyes. “Have a good day?”

  “Boring day,” she said, looking up at him. She knew she had thoroughly cleaned up the closet downstairs, then washed the skillet and spoon carefully so not a trace of plaster or dust remained. But she couldn’t lock the deadbolt on the door to her room without his key, and she feared he would notice.

  He didn’t seem to notice. He put the book on the bed next to her. “Something new to read,” he said. A trace of a smile appeared, almost as if the book was a present he had brought for her.

  The bag was labeled “Macy’s.” Odd, she thought, he didn’t look like a Macy’s customer. And there was no Macy’s in Landry. He would have had to go all the way to Reno.

  “Put on these new clothes and then come down to supper.” He left and closed the door behind him. This time, he’d decided not to watch her dress.

  She pulled at the tissue paper in the bag. A shirt and a pair of khaki pants came out and fell on the blanket, followed by more underwear. Two more bras, two more pair of cotton underpants. Plain cotton pants, not bikini style. At the bottom, a pair of white sneakers and two pairs of thin white socks.

  Again, the bra was the right size, as was the shirt. The pants were a bit loose around the hips and waist. The sneakers fit. She wished he’d bought warmer socks.

  As she gathered up the bag and tissue, she spotted the book on the blanket. It was a leather journal, small and worn. She opened to find the first page missing.

  She was not to know the owner’s name.

  As she flipped through the first few handwritten pages, she saw the dates had been blacked out with what seemed to be a wide felt-tipped pen. She was not to know when, only what the writer had written.

  The handwriting was clear and delicate, probably feminine. It was also familiar and she knew this was the hand that had created the framed documents downstairs. Her heart sank as she read the first two sentences.

  This is a happy day. This is the first day of my marriage.

  An hour later, Jamie stood at the sink washing the supper dishes. The man was seated at the table drinking coffee, watching her. She’d resolved to say something, although she’d remained silent all through dinner. She turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” She twisted the towel in her hands and stepped closer to the table. “Then why are you keeping me a prisoner here?”

  He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup. “Because I don’t want you to run away. And I can’t trust you to stay. Not yet.”

  “Trust me to stay for what?”

  “Stay and achieve my objective.”

  �
�And what’s your objective?” She feared the answer.

  “Someday, I hope you will want to be the woman who lives in this house.”

  “Your wife?” She almost screamed, but kept her voice even. This was more response to her questions than she had ever gotten out of him before.

  He looked up at her. His eyes were dark and dead. “I don’t believe I said anything about marriage,” he said.

  “Live in this house as what, then? Your whore?”

  He pushed his chair back and stood. He came to her and took the dishtowel and ripped it out of her hands and threw it in the sink. It hit with enough force to rattle a remaining saucer.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, his grip so strong she flinched with the pain. “I’ve no intention of hurting you. Nothing will happen against your will.”

  She clenched her teeth and looked into his cold eyes. “I’m here in this kitchen against my will,” she said. “And you’re hurting me now.”

  He released her. “Give it time. Someday you will be glad I brought you here. Now go to bed, and stop asking questions.”

  Chapter 15

  I might have known that in the midst of my worries about Jamie and my job, my journalism faculty colleagues would come up with a new way to bedevil me. Larry Coleman, recently tenured associate professor of new media writing, was waiting in my office. I’d fought hard for his tenure last year over the objections of three senior professors who had wanted him fired. We’d prevailed, but Larry still seemed tense and unhappy. I wondered what was bothering him this time.

  “No rest for the wicked,” Larry said as I settled into the chair behind my desk. The morning was bright and sunny, and the leaves of the giant trees that lined the quad outside my window rustled in the constant northern Nevada wind.

  “Me wicked or you wicked?”

  Nell came in with some files I’d requested and two small bottles of water balanced in her hand. She smiled at me. My, she was looking pretty these days. I knew from her personnel record she was close to sixty, but her face was as smooth as porcelain.

  Larry nodded at Nell and took the water. I thanked her for both of us.

  “Neither one of us wicked,” he said. “Weinstein is wicked and up to his old tricks.”

  My stomach turned. I’d hoped George Weinstein and Larry would get along this semester and get past their old bitterness toward each other. Dream on. Egotistical hardly described either of them. George and Larry had each come to live in a state of permanent outrage.

  “What now?” I dreaded hearing about another fight between the two men. Both of them hit below the belt whenever possible.

  “I’m slated to give a paper at an online conference in San Francisco in December. The chair of the panel I’m on knows George, and in a friendly chat yesterday, she asked George what he thought about my paper.”

  “And?”

  “And George gave my paper what she called ‘a lukewarm review.’”

  “How did George even know what your paper is about?”

  Larry chuckled, but there was no amusement in his face. “Oh, George doesn’t know a damned thing about my paper. He just ventured an opinion anyway.”

  “And you found out how?”

  “The event chair called me. You know how some people love to spread negative gossip. She thought to give me a heads up about George, as if I needed any warning about that asshole.”

  “You reassured her, I hope.”

  “I reassured her about my paper, but I told her what I thought of George, too.”

  “Great. If she went back to him, George will be in a snit.”

  Larry stood up and put his water bottle on my desk.

  Outside, the sun had gone behind a cloud and the wind had picked up. The rustle of leaves made the trees sound as irritated as I was.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would talk to George. I know you want us to have a cordial faculty relationship, but Weinstein makes it impossible for me. He never lets up. The man’s behavior is monstrous.”

  “I’ll talk to him. But meanwhile, please don’t escalate this matter. The last thing I need right now is another faculty fight.”

  “I’ll be good. I know we all have to behave while you’re going through the dean search. And, honestly, we all want you to win this job.”

  “That’s good to know. Thank you.”

  Larry tugged at his mustache. Then he said, “I am trying to get on with George, I’m trying to be cordial to all the faculty. But George…George’s treatment of me constitutes legal harassment. I’m sure I could win a grievance against him because it never stops. It just never stops.” He turned abruptly and left.

  Please don’t file a grievance, I said silently to his back. A grievance garners all the bad publicity of a gang war and would really screw up my chances for the dean’s job.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Nell, standing in my doorway. “If those two start up again, I’ll put poison in their coffee.”

  I patted her shoulder as I walked out. “We’re not at poison stage yet, Nell. But maybe some antidepressants might help.”

  If there was one thing I’d learned from last year’s faculty quarrel it was that, if the animus gets vicious enough, everyone gets hurt. No matter what the issue, once a quarrel reaches the point where bullying and hateful insults become part of the weaponry, no one escapes the consequences. People who don’t want to take sides end up taking sides. Even those who try desperately to remain neutral are drawn into a toxic whirl of accusation and recrimination. I was determined not to let that happen to my school again.

  I was also at a complete loss as to what I could do to prevent the next battle. George and Larry were increasingly bitter and trouble seemed inevitable. Wouldn’t Mark Froman have a good time watching my failure to prevent another scandal?

  The meeting with the policy committee was set for ten a.m. sharp, and Bud Chekovski had scheduled it in a conference room clear across campus from the journalism school. I walked quickly to make up for the time I had been delayed by Larry. I hardly noticed the blue of the bright, cloudless sky or the tall trees that occasionally shaded my path. The Mountain West campus was one of the most beautiful in the country. Defying the high desert that surrounded it, the grounds were green with grass and trees. And all about was a changing array of flowers that bloomed from March until the middle of November. I was so preoccupied I walked past a spectacular stand of purple asters without even seeing it.

  I also failed to see Joe and Wynan coming toward me.

  “Good morning, Red,” said Wynan. Joe grinned, glad we were all finally on a first-name basis.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Any news?”

  “Joe’s team found a witness who saw the man who matches our guy’s description outside of Jamie’s apartment house.” Wynan’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

  “And the witness got a partial license plate off the gray Ford van our man drove away in,” Joe added. “We’re heading to university parking services to see if the plate belongs to anyone on campus. Meanwhile my guys are checking the Nevada DMV for more.”

  “So we may be making progress.” Wynan almost smiled.

  “Could the witness add anything more about what the guy looks like?”

  “Tall and white, which we knew. Muscular arms. Overalls and muddy boots. Sunglasses and a cap covering the eyes and hair.”

  “Good hunting,” I said, feeling a slight lift in my mood. Maybe we could find Jamie. And maybe we could find her in time.

  I continued on toward the other end of campus, wishing I could have stayed with Joe and Wynan and avoided the next hour of discussion.

  I spied Bridget and Karen ahead of me as I neared the building.

  We walked in together. “A united front,” said Bridget, opening the conference room door.

  Bud Chekovski was seated at the end of the table. T
he athletic director and the football coach sat on either side.

  Bud looked up. “Morning, ladies.” The coach and the athletic director nodded.

  Bridget sat down next to the coach and addressed the chairman. “Some of us were wondering why you felt it necessary to send us that quote about dangerous statistics.” Bridget didn’t start with small talk.

  “Just underscoring the point,” said Bud, amiable as usual. “We really should focus on this campus and what we know about this campus. Not on some national figures that may or may not be accurate.”

  “Often what happens to our students doesn’t occur on this campus. It occurs off-campus,” said Karen.

  “What do we know about off-campus assaults?” Howard had come into the room.

  Karen paused, waiting for the rest of the committee members to file in and find seats.

  “Here’s what we know,” she said, her voice steady and authoritative. “The Cleary Act requires us to keep records of on-campus incidents. We know that only a few assaults have occurred on the Mountain West campus during the last two years. And only three were reported to my office.”

  “Only three,” repeated the coach.

  “Yes, but in the same time period, the Landry police have received dozens of reports from off-campus locations. That’s where the parties are, since this campus is officially dry. Most of the incidents the police know about occurred in apartments and houses nearby, but off-campus.”

  “I know the police chief. I’ve never heard him say anything about this,” said Bud.

  “The chief’s not the expert,” said Karen. “The Victim Services people are. They are the ones who know what’s going on. If a student is assaulted and wants to report it, the student goes to them.”

  “And then when do you hear about it?” This from the university attorney.

  “The police are good about keeping me informed,” said Karen, sadness in her voice. “When the victim wants to talk to me, or get counseling from us, I see her, or him. When the police tell the survivor that the description given to them isn’t enough to identify, or isn’t enough to formally charge someone with a crime, then they tell the survivor to come to me.”