Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  “What now?”

  “I’ll talk to her TA tomorrow, Ethan Wolfe, the one she seemed . . . close to.” Jerry picked up another fry. He was choosing his words carefully. “He might know something. And Torrance ran her credit cards when he was investigating—I have a contact who can do it again for me. If she’s used them in the last couple of days, we can track her that way.”

  Morris didn’t reply, and they finished their food in silence. When they were done, Jerry paid the check.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Morris said as they walked out.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see it expensed in my invoice.”

  Morris chuckled, though he doubted Jerry was joking. “What are you doing now? Maybe we should talk to Ethan Wolfe tonight.”

  “Nah, I’ll catch him first thing in the morning,” Jerry said. “I don’t want you there, anyway. I’ll call you if I learn anything interesting. For now, go home and rest. Enough excitement for one day.”

  Morris stopped when they reached their cars. “What if she’s dead?” he said quietly. The wind was chilly and he shivered under the pale light of the parking-lot lamppost. “What if she had some kind of blackout or breakdown and she’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere?”

  “Don’t think that.” Jerry looked at Morris sharply. “You keep that shit out of your head. It won’t help you, trust me. Right now the best thing you can do is stay positive. Remember, Torrance might still be right. In which case, we’ll find her, and you can ask her yourself what the hell she was thinking.” Jerry clapped Morris on the shoulder, then climbed into his Honda and slammed the door shut.

  “I don’t know if I want to know,” Morris said after the PI drove away.

  CHAPTER : 30

  Jerry sat in the parking lot of the university’s psychology building. The interior of his Honda Accord still smelled like cigarette smoke from the guy he’d bought it off last year, and Jerry’s wife refused to ride in it. Which was fine, since he only used the ten-year-old car for work, anyway. Jerry’s real car, a Nissan Infinity G37 coupe in titanium gray, was sitting in the garage at home, pristine. Annie said the coupe was an extension of his penis and a pathetic attempt to hold on to his youth, and she was right.

  His cell phone rang. It was Dennis Fisher, calling to follow up.

  “You said to phone if I learned anything new.” Fisher’s voice was tentative.

  Jerry had his notebook ready and his pen poised. “Definitely. You never know what might help.” He looked out the window at a pretty coed strolling by wearing jeans so tight he could see the outline of her crotch. What did Annie call that? Cameltoe? Damn, these girls today.

  “I talked to a few members last night after the meeting, the ones who are on a friendly basis with Stella—sorry, Sheila—and some of them remembered seeing her talking with that new guy I told you about.” Fisher cleared his throat. “His name was definitely James. A couple of the female members described him as good-looking.”

  Jerry smirked. Apparently not even sex addiction therapy could turn off your radar. He scribbled in his notebook.

  Fisher continued. “Also, James left in an SUV. Another member saw him in the parking lot getting into something big and black. American-made, he thought. Washington State plates. Didn’t get the plate number, though.”

  “Good observational skills.”

  “That’s Kenneth,” Fisher said. “He notices everything. He said for you to give him a call, but I pressed him and there’s nothing else he knows.”

  “Give me his number just in case.” Jerry jotted it down. “That it?”

  “Yeah. Hope it helps. And listen, I’m sorry about that comment—”

  “Forget about it.” Jerry thanked him and hung up.

  He looked up through the windshield at the old building in front of him. The George Herbert Mead Department of Psychology. Jerry had long forgotten what kind of psychologist George Herbert Mead was, but the man must have made a significant contribution to the field if they’d named a whole university department after him.

  In light of her sudden absence, the three courses Sheila was teaching this semester had been divided among her colleagues—none of whom, according to the secretary whose voice had dramatically dropped to a whisper, had been happy about the increased course load. But the teaching assistants for each class were still the same.

  Ethan Wolfe kept office hours on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Jerry was interested to find out exactly what the graduate student might know. The TA’s e-mails were more suggestive than he’d told Morris, and considering his client’s reaction at the restaurant the other day, that was probably a good call. Pulling his lanky frame out of his small car, Jerry headed inside.

  The smell of the psychology building instantly brought him back to the four years he’d spent in night school studying to get his bachelor’s degree. That would have been ten years ago now. Pine floor-cleaner and slightly stale air, shiny hallways with thickly painted brick walls. Nothing had changed. The two main lecture halls were in the center with several smaller classrooms dotting the first and second floors. Administrative offices were on the third floor, and the top three floors were reserved for teaching staff.

  Jerry rode up the elevator in silence beside a girl with glossy brown hair who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her jeans were tight, too, and her sweater hugged breasts so high and firm they seemed to defy gravity. Did any of these girls wear baggy clothes anymore? How did the male professors resist temptation? It would be so easy to slip. He wondered if that was what happened with Sheila.

  Jerry remembered Morris Gardener’s fiancée well. She was attractive and confident with a healthy sense of humor that kept her lectures fresh. She had the ability to remember almost every student’s name, and those damned sexy red lips—it hadn’t taken long for Jerry to form a little crush on her, another tiny detail he’d refrained from mentioning to Morris. Jerry rather liked his face and didn’t want Morris’s ham fist breaking it.

  Had Sheila Tao been a sex addict back then? It was hard to picture, but it just proved that people were almost never who they seemed. Everybody had secrets.

  Ethan Wolfe’s office was at the end of the hall. Jerry hadn’t called in advance to let the TA know he was coming. People’s reactions after the initial surprise were always telling.

  The door was open and Jerry paused in the doorway. Wolfe was at his desk, typing studiously on his keyboard, eyes focused on the computer monitor in front of him. The office was nothing to write home about. A desk, a computer, two chairs, and a bookshelf stuffed with textbooks. Beige paint on the walls, a plastic plant in one corner. A Seahawks bobblehead sat on the desk beside the computer, nodding at nothing.

  Jerry stood for a moment to observe the younger man, who didn’t appear to notice he was being watched. Wolfe didn’t look like a particularly small guy, but Morris had to outweigh him by at least seventy pounds. Not a smart move on the kid’s part, getting involved with Sheila.

  Jerry cleared his throat.

  Wolfe, without looking up, said, “Be right with you.” The student’s fingers continued to type out words Jerry couldn’t see from where he was standing. It seemed everyone under thirty could type nowadays, Jerry thought, noting Wolfe’s perfect hand position at the keyboard. In his day, only secretaries could type.

  The bobblehead nodded in rhythm to Wolfe’s movements, and the spring in its neck produced a squeaking sound that didn’t take long to get on Jerry’s nerves. He resisted the urge to reach out and make it still. Not that he was easily distracted, but damned if that bouncing head wasn’t annoying as hell.

  Standing politely in the doorway, he waited for Wolfe to finish. Finally the younger man looked up. His handsome face displayed genuine surprise to see the tall black man watching him.

  “Can I help you?” Wolfe asked, standing up. Jerry noticed that his eyes, a striking pale gray, were rimmed with red. Fatigue, or staring at the computer screen too long? Or something else? His face had a holl
ow look, but since Jerry had never met this kid before, he couldn’t tell if this was normal or not.

  “Jerry Isaac.” He eased into the little office and slid a business card across the desk. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m here to ask you some questions about Dr. Sheila Tao.”

  Wolfe shook his hand. “I didn’t think you looked like a student, but you never know, do you? I’m Ethan Wolfe, but you look like you already know that.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Please.” Wolfe looked over Jerry’s card. “Private investigator, huh? The police were just here last week. Kind of freaked everybody out. We thought Dr. Tao left for personal reasons, but they made it sound like something bad happened. Are you working with them, or did the family hire you?”

  Jerry smiled. “Yes to both,” he replied, the answer rolling smoothly off his tongue. “I’m just here to follow up.”

  “But I thought the police weren’t concerned about Dr. Tao.” Wolfe seemed confused. “We called them for an update a couple of days ago and they told us they’d closed the investigation. Confirmed that she’d left of her own accord.”

  “That’s why the family hired me. To look into it a bit further. Police investigations aren’t always as thorough as my clients would like. Thank God for that, or I’d be out of business.” Jerry chuckled. “I understand you’ve been working with the professor for about a year now.”

  “This is—was—my third semester with her, yeah.”

  “Anything you can tell me about her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Does her sudden disappearance surprise you?”

  “Disappearance?” Wolfe repeated. He rocked back in his chair and appraised the private investigator coolly. “They’re no longer calling it an absence?”

  Jerry waved a hand. “Just words. Does her absence strike you as weird?”

  “Totally. She’s not the kind of person to just take off. She was very organized, very meticulous about her schedule.”

  “Rigid.”

  Wolfe looked thoughtful. “No, not rigid. She would make time for anybody. She’d often meet with students outside her regular office hours, and I don’t know many professors who did that. But she was very particular about getting things done, very committed to her work. So, yeah, I’d say it’s surprising for her to just up and leave.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you that might have hinted this was coming?”

  “No. Why would she tell me?”

  Jerry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Why do you think she left?”

  “I have no idea. I couldn’t say.”

  “If you could speculate . . .”

  “I don’t speculate.”

  Jerry chuckled again. “So you’re telling me that you guys—you and the other TAs—haven’t sat around talking about why you think she’s gone? Come on now, Mr. Wolfe. You’re a psychologist in training. Isn’t that just human nature?”

  “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated here?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you? Is there something you’re feeling guilty about?”

  Wolfe’s gaze remained cool. “Okay, you want my professional opinion? Maybe she’s having a midlife crisis. She’s at the right age. She’s about to get married; her taking off could be a stress reaction to making a commitment. She was single for a long time. It can be hard to change your ways, settle down, when you’ve been on your own for so long.”

  “From what I know of women, they usually like being in relationships.”

  Wolfe shrugged. “It’s a theory. You asked me to speculate.”

  “Was she pretty open about her personal life?”

  “With me?”

  “With anyone. Including you.”

  “Sometimes. We’ve worked together for a while now. It’s natural that personal stuff would come up.”

  “And how would you characterize your relationship?”

  Wolfe shrugged again. “Employer, employee. Professor, student.”

  “You weren’t friends?”

  “We were friendly.”

  “How friendly?”

  “We had a great working relationship,” Wolfe said with a smile.

  “But you were more than just colleagues.” Jerry stated this as fact.

  “Were we?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “So you never socialized outside the university?”

  “Define socialized.”

  “Did you two have something going on?” There. A direct question. Jerry watched Wolfe’s reaction closely.

  The TA’s face registered surprise. “You’re kidding, right? You know how old she is?”

  “What does age matter?” Jerry cracked his knuckles. “She’s a pretty lady.”

  Wolfe laughed. “It matters to me. Besides, my girlfriend wouldn’t be too impressed.”

  “No, I’d guess not,” Jerry agreed good-naturedly. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

  “Which was?”

  “Were you fucking your professor or not?”

  Wolfe stiffened.

  “I’ll close the door so you can speak openly.” Jerry stood, his chair scraping the shiny floors of the office.

  “No.” The sudden urgency in the graduate student’s voice caused Jerry to turn back in surprise. “The door stays open.”

  Jerry stared at him and sat back down. “Your call.” He pulled his chair closer to the desk. “I’m waiting for an answer, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Wolfe snapped, clearly unnerved. “No, we weren’t getting it on.”

  “Funny.” Jerry picked at a loose thread on his khaki slacks. “That’s not what your e-mails would suggest.”

  “What e-mails?”

  “The e-mails you’ve exchanged with Dr. Tao over the past few months. Three months, to be exact. Isn’t that how long the affair lasted?”

  Wolfe stiffened. “It’s illegal for you to break into her e-mail. I could have your license yanked.”

  Jerry smiled easily. “Who says I broke in? Her fiancé knew her password and gave it to me. But thanks for the law lesson.”

  “This is bullshit. You’ve totally misinterpreted.”

  “Come on, man.” Jerry sighed. “You were having sex with her. Admit it.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Wolfe’s face scrunched up to demonstrate just how disagreeable it was. “She’s sixteen years older than I am.”

  “But she had good genes. Looked younger.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  “You didn’t find her attractive?”

  “Not compared to my girlfriend.”

  “Who initiated it?”

  “There was nothing to initiate.”

  “I heard she was a flirt,” Jerry said.

  The teaching assistant hesitated. “Well, yeah. But that was just her way of flattering you. Of making you feel good about yourself. It was all in good fun.”

  “And you never flirted back?”

  “I already said. Never. And I’d really like to know who said we were hitting it, because I can confirm that we most definitely were not.”

  Jerry grinned. “You’re right, I guess I misinterpreted. What do I know, I’m an old dog. In my day, there was no such thing as e-mail. What I might think is sexual innuendo could just be . . . friendly conversation.”

  Wolfe didn’t respond. The two of them sat staring at each other.

  A discreet clearing of the throat distracted both men, and Wolfe’s eyes flickered past Jerry to the doorway behind him. A petite blonde was standing there, laptop case slung over one shoulder and a bag full of textbooks thrown over the other. She looked nineteen.

  She smiled self-consciously, looking past Jerry. “Hi, Ethan. I think I’m a bit early.”

  “Hi, Suzanne,” Wolfe said. If he was relieved to be interrupted, he didn’t show it. “Can you give me five minutes? We’re nearly done here.”

  “Sure.” Her
eyes skimmed over Jerry. “I’ll grab a coffee. Want anything?”

  “Coffee would be great. Cream and sugar. Need change?”

  She shook her head, closing the door behind her firmly.

  Before Jerry had a chance to react, Wolfe was up and out of his seat, maneuvering his lean body toward the door. Flinging it open, he practically fell into the hallway, his breathing heavy. Jerry saw that beads of sweat had formed at the younger man’s temples.

  Strange.

  “Are we done here?” Wolfe was still in the hallway, struggling to compose himself. “As you can see, I have a student waiting.”

  “I guess we are.” Jerry stood up, looking at him closely as he ambled out into the hallway. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Wolfe. You have my card. Let me know if you think of anything that might be helpful.”

  Wolfe raised an eyebrow. “You know, that’s the exact same thing the police said. Who am I supposed to call—them or you?”

  “Me,” Jerry said cheerfully. “Definitely me.”

  Detective Mike Torrance met Jerry at the Golden Monkey a few hours later. Jerry could easily eat here five days a week. They had the best dim sum in Seattle. Morris hadn’t seemed too impressed, but Jerry was convinced.

  “I think something’s definitely up with this Ethan Wolfe guy,” Jerry said, peeling the paper off his char siu bao, a wonderful doughy delight that opened to reveal tasty barbecued pork inside. The steam poured out and he let it breathe on his plate so he wouldn’t burn his tongue. “He rubs me the wrong way. Something about him is off. You know the type?”

  “I am the type,” Torrance said, spearing a siu mai with his fork. Torrance couldn’t use chopsticks to save his life. “So he lied about the affair? Did he not think there’d be evidence somewhere? Not that I blame him. He admits they’re fucking, it looks bad if she turns up dead. But it is sort of hard to picture. He’s a good-looking guy, young, and she’s what, thirty-nine? Not your average hookup.”

  “But she’s attractive,” Jerry said. “You wouldn’t think it was so far-fetched if you’d met her. There really is something about her. She’s got a certain je ne sais quoi.”